Well, I guess there IS that Stone Cold guy...
Exchange on the street, on my walk to work:
Man walking towards me: "SIR! DO YOU LIKE WWF WRESTLING??"
Me: "Um, no."
Man: "WHAT??"
Me: "NO."
Man: "WHAT??"
Hedwig has been on repeat on my CD player at work (quietly) since I bought it this week on payday. (I know I am seriously behind on this phenomenon, forgive me.) I'm almost afraid to shut it off or change it, like something terrible would happen if I did. I bet she'd like that.
A lawyer working (volunteering?) on behalf of the National Gay and Lesbian Task Force emailed me with some suggestions of people/groups to contact regarding the discrimination against my mother's partner. I'll just take each step carefully, and see where it leads me.
Cute bodybuilder boy has been fielding each of my fly balls as I try to figure out ways NOT to get naked with him (am I a twisted soul, or what?) My latest attempt was to inform him of my HIV status. He wrote back, "We talked about that before I think, I am + too. ;)" Silly me. It seems I have a date tomorrow night. I need a haircut and a new body by tomorrow. Any suggestions?
Coincidentally, a package arrived from Lee yesterday. A framed photo of my mother, her dog and her cat under each arm, smiling so wide. The same photo that was on the alter during her service, the one I couldn't look at for very long. In her card, Lee writes that she's received well over 150 cards from friends, strangers, co-workers, etc, expressing their sympathy. The fact that so many people thought so highly of her makes me proud, makes me want to emulate her, makes me angry that she's just...gone.
I had worried that without my mother as the glue holding our odd little family together, my brother and I would drift away from Lee and her kids. But as we talked on the phone yesterday, I sensed a connection that was new, that was raw. She said the hardest days came after the house emptied of family and friends and she was there, alone. I told her about me crying as I watched the Olympics, which made her cry. Right or wrong, our new connection is the bitter, sharp-edged absence of my mother.
12:33 PM | link
Wednesday, February 27, 2002
Oh God how could you NOT blog it?
4:09 PM | link
Adrenalin
This guy makes me laugh out loud (in an entirely good way). This guy is too good to me. I guess men ain't all bad.
I woke this morning at six, quite suddenly. Something about the night of my mother's death, something I've only mentioned once, in passing, hooked into my bloodstream, churning out adrenalin and pushing me out of bed.
My mother and her partner were together for nearly 20 years, following my parent's divorce. Lee and my mother stuck together through times I thought would surely tear them away from each other; they raised four children from elementary school through college, they traveled the world together and ran marathons and volunteered and created a home that's still the envy of us kids. They stuck it through when my mother began to exhibit signs of a serious neurological problem, stuck it through when such symptoms were not yet classifiable, when my mother was fired because her work had deteriorated (keep writing, Michael) and when for several months they thought it might be Parkinson's. They stuck it through when the diagnosis was conclusively ALS, a much more serious and cruel disease. And they stuck it through as my mom's body began to shut down, as the muscles that controlled her swallowing and speaking failed, taking away her voice and her ability to eat. They stuck it through as my mom had two surgeries; one for a stomach tube and the other for a tracheostomy. They stuck it through as her legs gave out, necessitating a walker then a manual wheelchair and then an electric wheelchair. They stuck it through as all her muscles gradually stopped working and my mother was confined most days to the bed they had moved downstairs from their bedroom. They stuck it through until the very last second, when my mother's lungs could no longer sustain her, and she died, surrounded by friends.
Enter the Hennepin County (MN) coroner, who came to the house, filled out his paperwork, and then refused to release my mother's body to her partner of nearly 20 years because she was not considered "next of kin". He left only because I was on my way from the airport, and only after posting a cop car outside the house.
I know the coroner was not to blame. I know there are laws, and he was following the law. I know there are many hurdles facing any opponent to these laws. I woke this morning wanting, somehow, to fight. I don't know how to do this, but I will find out. If you have some advice, let me know.
12:53 PM | link
Tuesday, February 26, 2002
I never wanted to be part of your stupid group anyway...
Then again, at least I'm not a teenage girl.
2:39 PM | link
Men
I woke and stumbled around the house feeling scattered, wandering into rooms forgetting things, my head about five seconds behind my body. I walked out of the house with Louie and realized I left the leash inside, etc. We walked to work in the warm sunlight and I tried to shake off this sense of dread I've had, recurrently, since my mother's health first went south. I'm feeling behind on life and frankly, tired of trying to meet it half-way. I simply want to retreat, escape, slip away in a puff of smoke.
I'm realizing that the cute bodybuilder boy's invitation to get naked sometime has me nervous because it's an invitation to a performance, one that's been out of my repertoire for awhile. I'm flattered and interested and yet scared to go there, scared because I don't want a performance; I want a union of sorts. I'm scared that the minute someone touches me with something resembling compassion, I'll break down and never return. I guess I'm more scared of engaging in something that's purely physical, without the compassion; something I've never particularly desired.
Okay, isn't that enough information? Shouldn't I just stop analyzing and just live for a few minutes? Hah! As if.
I realized I lied a little when I wrote awhile back that Ski was the only man I had wanted to date over the last year. I failed to mention that I had also cultivated a crush on my other best friend, the Tattooed Monk. Sobriety has changed me, changed the way I've grown into relationships. I used to see guys a little more black and white: if I thought you were hot, I'd do my best to seduce you, quickly. Becoming friends wasn't a comfortable option, therefore if I couldn't seduce you, I avoided you. My friends were not people I wanted to sleep with.
So sobriety comes along and everything changes; I become friends with the two men I most desire, hoping something will develop but not pushing it (much), trying to accept with each day the growth of a friendship. In each case the attraction was mutual, making it more confounding and yet more beautiful, in a way. Beautiful that I could become a friend to each, confounding because I was finally attracted to two amazing, humble, compassionate men with big hearts and yet in each circumstance, when I finally said I wanted more, I was let down. Gently enough, I guess; not a hard rejection, just a not-right-now rejection.
In the months since each rejection I've become closer to both. I didn't run away or avoid either; I just tried to show up for each one as the friend I assured them they had. With Ski I guess I haven't given up hope that something else would develop. With the Monk, we were becoming such good friends that I've tried to accept him as is. During this time he's done a lot of soul-searching and has decided to return to a monastic way of life (I mean that literally, not figuratively) and so has become celibate in the process.
Last night the Monk and I grabbed some take-out and went back to his place. It was hot and stuffy in there, and as he has done several times before, asked me if I minded if he stripped to his t-shirt and boxers. I say "no" if only because I can't say "yes, I do mind". As he undresses he says "I probably shouldn't say this because I'm celibate now and it could seem like I'm teasing you, but there have been times I've thought about seducing you."
Hmm. Men. I just don't know how to win.
(authors note: if you liked this entry, you'll love queerscribe's today, too. Funny world.)
1:38 PM | link
Monday, February 25, 2002
The Glory of Technology
Well I'm off to therapy now, my first session in literally a month due to my trip home and the various Monday holidays we've had. Surprised I could make it this far without therapy? So am I. It should be interesting, giving him the update over the past month. I leave you with this, in case you were wondering what happens when old powerbooks die. (Hint: They don't go to heaven)
7:00 PM | link
The birds ate my bread crumbs
Funny, the Tattooed Monk and I discussed yesterday my desire to seek out a mentor (or plural) now that I am writing again; I mentioned going for an MFA and he suggested going directly to an author instead, offering some payment for creative guidance. I don't really know where I am going or what I want, it's all still hiking without a compass.
4:22 PM | link
When Reptiles Attack
I know you're not particularly keen on hearing about my general sense of malaise today, my feeling that I'm still playing catch-up with life and failing since Mom died, nor about my sudden paralysis in the face of a possible sexual encounter with a cute bodybuilder boy. Instead, I have a feeling you'd rather hear about an iguana used as a projectile weapon.
4:06 PM | link
Sunday, February 24, 2002
Kiteless, content
Today was a spectacular day in San Francisco; tall cloudless blue skies, warm bright sun, a clear view across the bay, people spilling out of buildings and cars, bears standing three deep outside Starbucks, people's third-hand copies of porn videos selling five for a buck at corner rummage sales, boys sipping wine out of plastic glasses on Kite Hill, where I wandered with the Tattooed Monk now that he's returned from a week-long retreat at a Trappist monastary. It's good to have him back. I told him about the Campfire, for some reason I've been so reluctant to tell my "real-life" friends of this effort, but I worried more that he would find out some indirect way, and considering the fact that I discuss him, even with only an initial, it was important to me to make sure he was okay with it all. And he was, happy for me that I am writing again, trusting enough of me to say that he knows I speak of him well, in all circumstances, but especially in writing. We sat on a bench overlooking the City and beyond to Oakland and farther, the ground below the bench eroded away so our grown legs dangled like children's over the grass.
On our walk back down the hill we stopped and walked through an apartment for rent and open for viewing; the rooms bright and airy. We talked about moving in together, as he plans on staying in the City for another year before he joins a monastary, and he called the landlord and discussed the particulars. The rent was a bit steep but "manageable" (which means if you don't live in SF, don't ask me how much it was, because I don't like it when people faint around me) but they're looking to rent it in a week, and currently I have a crappy credit history as I try valiantly to clean up the wreakage of my past. So it's probably not meant to be, but thus begins my search for a new place; either a studio alone or an apartment with a roommate (like the Monk) whom I like.
We ended up back at his place, with a rented copy of Bully, the disturbing latest output from Larry Clark, who directed Kids. It was not quite the way to end such a beautiful day, but the tragedy of these kids' lives made me appreciate what I got: good friends, a great dog, a heart, a roof over my head, this Campfire, a conscience. What else do you need?
10:59 PM | link
So wrong
Oh it's so inappropriate to post stuff like this, isn't it? But I have to brag a little. Cute bodybuilder boy from last night sent me an email when he got home: "Nice seeing you tonight
1:36 PM | link
We've got a winner...
I substituted for Ski, running an AA meeting at a church referred to in sobriety circles as "Our Lady of Safeway", given it's proximity to the grocery store. It's the only thing he's asked of me since he's been gone, so I gladly stepped in. Though he called this morning from Jersey, he seems to enjoy talking on the phone even less than me, so he almost always cuts our conversations short; not the most promising sign of his inevitable declaration of love to me. Ahem.
Later I wander back into the 'stro for the second time today and head over to another sober event; a fundraiser for the annual AA convention here in SF this summer. Drag Bingo, co-hosted by Marlene Manners, one of the Galaxy Girls. And you don't think sober people have fun! She fared well with us, not the easiest crowd. Towards the end, massive battles involving air-borne bingo cards and pull tabs raged on and on, much to the ladies' chagrin. I found myself smiling and upbeat, the first in a long time, though I have to admit it probably had more to do with the fact that I was engaging in some flirting with this cute bodybuilder boy at the next table. I've run into him once online, when he told me he doesn't date guys from AA, though the way he was looking at me tonight, I might get a chance to break some rules with him sometime. Been a long time.
3:35 AM | link
Saturday, February 23, 2002
The Kandinsky. It's painted on two sides.
Took Louie for a good walk, ended up in the 'stro at the deserted dog run behind the Colllingwood rec center where for a short while I watched these two men practice synchronized baton twirling as a John Phillip Sousa march rang out on their boom box. Later I ran into Bearbait and some friends who hadn't seen me since I got back. It was the Studly Couple, giving me bear hugs and kissing me and telling me I looked good. They had both recently buzzed their heads and they make such an adorable couple that I'd probably reconsider my personal rule against having sex with more than one person at a time, but then again, nobody's asked me to.
I return home and catch the last half hour of Six Degrees of Separation, my favorite part where Stockard Channing as Ouisa has her rant and breakthrough at the stuffy Park Avenue dinner party as her husband tries and fails spectacularly at steering the conversation back into safe terrain.
Since I'm out of shape I hit the straight gym (not that you could call any gym in San Francisco straight) for back and biceps and a twenty minute run on the treadmill that I barely complete. I'm back to looking like Frankenstein's monster, lumbering gracelessly along , lungs struggling to sustain me.
Back home with groceries and I rummage through some boxes in the garage to find my copy of Six Degrees, the original play, because what her character says at the end applies so well to blogging (at least for me).
"OUISA: You were attracted to him-
FLAN: Cut me out of that pathology! You're on your own-
OUISA: Attracted by youth and his talent and the embarrassing prospect of being in the movie version of Cats. Did you put that in your Times piece? And we turn him into an anecdote to dine out on. Or dine in on. But it was an experience. I will not turn him into an anecdote. How do we fit what happened to us into life without turning it into an anecdote with no teeth and a punch line you'll mouth over and over years to come. "Tell the story about the imposter who came into our lives-" "That reminds me of the time this boy-". And we become these human juke boxes spilling out these anecdotes. But it was an experience. How do we keep the experience?"
-John Guare, Six Degrees of Separation
I don't know, Ouisa. I keep writing these experiences, I post them here and 99% of the time there's no voice back, no dialogue to sustain. But there are a few exceptions, and I'm beginning to remember what I loved about writing; about the futile, addictive challenge of describing life with only a few words, stringing them together in such a way that it hopefully trandscends the status of clever anecdotes and instead connects with others' experiences.
I want more revelations like yours, a sudden shift in perspective that causes a rippling movement through your entire vision, changing the self you project towards others, opening yourself to things you couldn't possibly see before.
7:13 PM | link
...Must...break...this...cycle...of...isolation
If you have a first-hand knowledge of depression, then you know what I'm talking about. But it looks beautiful out there and I know, if only for the dog's sake, that I need to get outside for a bit. Nevermind the noonday demon, or the growing sense I have that my infatuation isn't recipricol. The world turns, and either you keep moving, or you stay put.
1:50 PM | link
Friday, February 22, 2002
You never promised me a chemically-free rose garden...
The world's got me a little sad today.
Now, I'm not particularly naive. I know every day is like this, and the challenge that faces us all on a daily basis is to continue living in the face of adversity and the things humans do to each other. Some of us have it easier than others, granted. And denial sure helps. I know myself well enough to know that I'm feeling worn down, fed up with work, uninspired by external forces. The recent trips home messed up my gym-going momentum, and my endorphins are probably hibernating by now. So I know. But if you have any stories about grace or kindness, pass em along.
On the lighter side, this guy's analogy of art and kissing is kind of how I feel about writing. At the least, it makes a good visual.
4:29 PM | link
I Claimed Authenticity...
Why did I cry watching the Olympics tonight, good underdog stories notwithstanding? Because whenever I've landed a triple lutz, I've always thought of my mom first.
2:41 AM | link
Thursday, February 21, 2002
The Internet....lacking in content
As if I need more evidence that my current lifestyle ain't so healthy. Maybe some kind benefactor out there could buy me a weekend retreat here. Of course, such a weekend would be more enjoyable interrupted every twenty minutes with hot gay sex, preferably with______ (I was gonna put a link to a pic of actor Jason Stratham (you know, the one in the Guy Ritchie movies) but I couldn't find a half-way decent pic of him. What's the matter with the Internet these days? Where's the Jason Stratham fan club?) but then I wouldn't get any writing done. And I'd miss you more than you'd miss me.
It's been great to hear from some other bloggers out there, thanks for the emails, the praise, and the support. More! Bring it on, baby!
11:18 PM | link
Like Bambi
Last night I was walking down Castro St and coming towards me was this incredibly hot guy, and as we got closer we made eye contact, and I decided to hold it just for the hell of it (because even though I'm not very cruisy, I still like to flirt) and as we passed he pursed his lips and made a kissing noise at me and suddenly I felt like a floozie with large breasts or something walking by a construction site and I couldn't help but laugh. I mean, it was so ridiculous that I immediately lost interest, walking forward, no glances behind me or anything.
I remember standing in a club in Tampa, of all places, when I was 20 or something, and this hot boy was cruising me but I was getting irritated because he was looking at me like he wanted to kill me; a prey-drive sort of scowl that I see guys do when they are cruising that just doesn't work for me. I don't know, call me crazy, but to me the sexiest thing a guy can do when we're noticing each other is to just smile, maybe laugh to acknowledge the silliness of it all. I can't take the game too seriously, otherwise it's like we're acting out scenarios we've picked up from porn movies (not that I've seen any).
It's been almost a year since the end of my relationship, and I've been out on maybe three dates. It worries me a bit, wondering if I go too long I won't know how to do it anymore, but I acknowledge that it's been a pretty crazy year and I've had other, more pressing matters to confront. Lest you think I'm like, desperate or something.
1:01 PM | link
Wednesday, February 20, 2002
Ohmigod, I'm like rilly rilly thrilled
My site is finally the first listed for "Dogpoet" on Google. You wouldn't think that would be hard, but then you'd be surprised.
7:24 PM | link
Any resemblance...
hmmm...it's striking me, looking back at the last few entries, that the manner in which I've discussed Ski seems to imply a relationship that doesn't exist. We're friends, despite the context and weight of my words, nothing more. Yeah, I'm infatuated, yeah, it could be limerence, but it seems unfair to the truth to conjure romanticism out of a friendship. If authenticity is my aim, this should be clear. Having only begun the Campfire in December, I've yet to face the inevitable conflicts that can arise when some "real life" people begin to read these words (not that you aren't real, darling) and I truly have no idea how that will affect me. Anyway, qualification seemed necessary.
6:17 PM | link
Devil Children
The funny thing about working for a dog behavior department in an animal shelter is that I am surrounded by trainers who understand best how to rehabilitate problem dogs, yet have the most ill-behaved dogs in the world because they are drawn to the sad cases, adopt them, and then are too busy training other dogs to work on their own. Which means that I am left for hours at a time in an office filled with trainers' dogs who misbehave, bark at every sound, pee on the floor, howl from separation anxiety, surf the desks and counters for food, and generally cause headaches with each passing minute. There are good dogs, but because like mine they curl up quietly under the desk, you don't notice them. Only the devil children. There is one next to me now making a noise through her throat that sounds like a cross between a pigeon and a velociraptor, pining away despite my comforting presence. The sad irony is that I've become a little callous towards dogs, spoiled by my own quiet, well-mannered companion. I'm like the crotchety school teacher who thought she loved kids but over the years has suffered their torments too poorly to continue with grace. Then again, I'm writing this from work, and I get to bring Louie everyday, I wear jeans, I have health insurance and a regular paycheck.
Ski's father's funeral was today and he called me a little while ago to update me. He sounds sad and tired, trapped in his mother's house in Jersey which is like everything you might imagine; crammed full of loud, drunk relatives reminiscing, shouting, crying, and getting lost on their way to the bathroom. As we talked, someone picked up the extension and starting hitting the digits until Ski yelled, then a gruff voice says, "Ski, is that you? Get off the phone, we have an emergency." Who knows what that could be, but when he asked me to help him cover a commitment back here, I welcomed the opportunity to do something.
The day of my mother's service was the hardest, if only because the presence of all those people coming together to share memories made it impossible to deny that she was gone. The pictures of her up at the alter, holding her dog and cat and smiling so wide, ah it was cruel.
I've been so caught up in the craziness at work since I got back that I haven't had much time to think about her. Which is not to say I feel the need to be busy, nor to wallow. I 'd rather have some more time off, but I'll plan that out. Authentic would be the word I'd choose; I want to remember her authentically.
5:03 PM | link
I bet they all don't know the side I got to see last night...
When I came home tonight, the door was wide open. Loud music (somebody covering Cher, covering someone else, I believe) blared from within, and every light in the place was on. A bluish cigarette haze hung in the air, cutting in half the forms of dozens and dozens of unfamiliar partygoers moshing in the living room. Michelle Kwan spun in an endless loop on the television, my dog was eating chicken wings off paper plates left all over the floor. The toilet had flooded, spilling out into the hall and soaking the Art Deco rug that had been a gift from a cherished friend. Cigarette butts littered the entire house, bottles of cheap beer balancing precariously on the edges of tables and counters, and in every bed a collection of naked and tattooed bodies writhed about, lubricated with bottles of olive oil leaving wet sticky circles on the nightstands. I stood in shock, surveying the mayhem. "Who are these people?" I wondered. Then it hit me. They're all your friends. Well, er, welcome.
1:13 AM | link
Tuesday, February 19, 2002
And then you are someone you are not
Our conversation last night about limerence has me thinking about some of the boys I've carried torches for over the years. I think the first, years before I was able to admit my sexuality, was Alfredo.
I was 14 when I joined nineteen other high schoolers for a cultural exchange project to Nicaragua. This was in 1985, smack in the middle of the Contra War. We stayed in Leon, the second largest city in Nicaragua, far south of the battles and relatively safe. The project organizers had set us up with families in a small villa outside of downtown; a neighborhood that was benefiting from the project's donations of supplies and labor. Dirt floors, occasional electricity, cold water, chickens in the courtyard. Toilet paper was a luxury and as such, we brought our own, along with t-shirts and other gifts. It's hard to articulate how welcomed we were made to feel. The contras were not an army acting for the benefit of the people; quite the opposite. Nicaraguans loved us; the liberal peace-loving Americans who visited their country, but they hated our government. Go back and ask them to stop, they'd say. Every family had sons drafted into the war against the Contras, everyone knew someone killed. The family I stayed with gave me the largest room with the softest bed, fed me, played me music, answered all my near-illegible questions with good humor and kindness.
There were three daughters in the household. No boys. However, I would sit out at night in front of the house and the neighborhood boys would come by to ask questions, play me more music, impress me with karate kicks to each other's heads. That kind of thing. Late one night a boy named Alfredo, a couple of years older than me, seemed to take a certain shine to me. Given my remedial Spanish, he took it upon himself to act out stories for me (few people spoke English). His stories usually depicted brave acts involving angry rushing bulls or the possibility of fighting the Contras when he turned 17. At certain points he would stop and repeat certain words in Spanish for me so I could understand more. I was sitting in front of him and he would lean over with his hands on my knees and his face near mine; his teeth bright, his eyes shining. I will never forget that; it was the first physical contact I had with a boy whom I found attractive. The cultural differences our countries had about physical space and proximity, him being that close to me, intensified that attraction.
We spent several more nights hanging out like that on the steps out front of our houses; the warm dark air, palm trees rustling above, the radio music drifting from down the block. Nothing more than that. No sex, no kissing, just friendly affection that to a scared fourteen-year old meant the world to me.
I cried when I left. He saw me off with the others, waving energetically and jumping up and down, "Bye, My-kol." As friends will attest, I was not the same when I came back. The shock of re-entering a world filled with everything, combined with the distance from my first infatuation, left me sad and wistful. In some ways I had felt more welcomed, more treasured, than I did in my own family. I talked constantly about going back, and I began to save my money. I wrote a whole notebook full of poetry about my trip. I was arrested for the first and only time at a demonstration in downtown Minneapolis against the U.S Intervention in Central America. I wrote letters to my exchange family and to Alfredo, and they wrote back. I think my friends had a hard time understanding the intensity of my feelings for Nicaragua, probably because I could not yet articulate the passion I felt; the passion for another boy.
A year passed, I had some money saved and was negotiating with the project organizers a solo return trip. One day a letter arrived for me, the air mail envelope a small kick in my heart, my name drawn in cursive on the front. It was from my exchange family. My Spanish had improved over the year, and I began to decipher the formal greetings and news within. Which is to say that it took me a few moments and several re-readings, to understand that Alfredo had been drafted, and in a truck heading for the war zone, was ambushed by the Contras and killed.
In retrospect I can see that there was something about my inexpressible sexuality and the warm, immediate intimacy I had felt in Nicaragua that combined and intensified every moment of those ten days I spent in Leon. Which is ironic, given that homosexuality is not particularly accepted there. Alfredo most certainly would not have welcomed the true extent of my feelings for him. At the time, however, I would not have been able to articulate such feelings. I just wanted more, I wanted it again. Another boy's hands, gripping my knees. It was enough.
4:33 PM | link
Monday, February 18, 2002
There's Nothing You Can Find That Cannot Be Found
Woke late from a dream this morning that Ski had come home and we hugged, and it lingered, and eventually our clothes just...disappeared and he was showing me two tiny new tattoos he had done, one being a ridiculous little flower on his neck, like something a ten-year old girl would draw, and it made me laugh and I told him it was beautiful and I did all this while never letting go, even when other people came in upon us, I kept my arms wrapped tight around him until I woke up.
I'd like to think that I am pretty content figuring out how to be single again, but then at times I get like Hedwig, reflected in the magnified side of a vanity mirror, whispering it's clear I must find my other half...
But let's take it down a little ladies and gentlemen, dim the lights, sit on the edge of the stage and keep it real for the moment. This ain't love, folks, it's limerence.
4:37 PM | link
Sunday, February 17, 2002
Scratch my name on your arm with a fountain pen...
After I wrote yesterday, Ski called me from his parents' house in Jersey and told me that his father had died while Ski was on the plane. The similarity of our circumstances was hard to ignore, I tried to offer whatever paltry condolences I could, telling myself not to get worked up and make these occurrences mean something more than they do. That's all beyond my control, and rather than make the loss of a parent the basis of a relationship, it's probably more appropriate to just assure him he has a friend. (in opposition to this is the other voice in my head, fed up with being appropriate, throwing dishes and lip-synching to Morrissey please please please let me get what I want this time)
2:54 PM | link
Saturday, February 16, 2002
Twitch
The work week ended with me emotionally drained and my head so overstimulated from poor event planning, misbehaving dogs, and ignored grief, that I came home and played video games until midnight.
Whereupon I woke this morning to the sound of my own dog throwing up in the corner, and unsuccessfully tried to will myself back to sleep. I stumbled in a foul mood to the kitchen for paper towells and coffee, only to find the thermos empty. I opened the freezer for my secret stash of bad canned espresso and discovered that my roommates not only emptied the can, but put it back in the freezer as some sort of loser fuckhead stupid joke.
So feeling grimy and unsocial, I walked with Louie several blocks to the closest coffee shop that serves decent cofffee, and though I once before talked with romanticism about this neighborhood joint, this morning the ten-minute long line full of hipsters ordering macchiatos and breakfast bagels just made me boil.
Outside the Tattooed Monk calls me on the cell, wondering why I haven't called yet to make plans for the day, and it's all I can do to plead a severe case of isolationism, and retreat to my little room for more video games.
Now it's late afternoon, I'm over-caffeinated, underfed, I have twenty dollars for the next five days, and my eye has been twitching all day.
This year just has to get better. There's nowhere left but up.
But my self-pitying is cut in half when I learn that Ski, my friend and the only man I've wanted to date in the last year, gets a call from New York that his dad has taken a turn for the worse due to the tumor on his brain, and R needs to go home, two weeks after I made my own trip home. I call him and get him at the airport, where his plane ticket and checkbook have been stolen and he is just now, hours later, about to board the plane. Oh sweetie, wouldn't I love to take all that crap away from you now, I've had so much lately that a little more couldn't hurt. You're loved, more than you know, more than I've felt I could say.
7:11 PM | link
Friday, February 15, 2002
Dirty Laundry
We can all breathe now. Then again, maybe we can't.
I read with interest the Tin Man's decision to retire from blogging. And I must say, each reason he listed is something I've questioned, in the short time the Campfire's been burning. I suppose the issues blogging raise aren't too-well formed yet for me, but I can sense their growing forms. The issue of living vs. living-while-continually-thinking-in-the-back-of-your-head-of-how-to-blog-the-events-of-one's-life, for example. Or whether or not blogging can enhance or kill one's other forms of writing. I don't have a fraction of the readers he has garnered since the beginning of his blog, so the issue of airing one's laundry in the eyesight of hundreds of people isn't critical to me yet. However, the question of how much or little to say; which people to mention and which I shouldn't; whether I should or shouldn't talk about being sober, HIV-poz, a freak; whether I should continue being truthful and maybe too sentimental or rather go the way of being glib, clever, and slick; all of these I question daily. But not for too long, because the longer I do, the less I'm inclined to write, and that was the whole idea, to keep writing. And something about putting it up where anyone can see, something about a semi-anonymous audience, something about being a part of an odd little subculture has helped me keep writing, which is the point. For now.
5:08 PM | link
Thursday, February 14, 2002
When You Were Mine
Three days back now and I'm not quite sure what I am one hour to the next. Work still needs working, of course, and I went to my first 12-step meeting since I've been gone last night, and saw friends and acquaintances, some who knew and others who didn't.
I don't know what I expect, from myself and others now. A dark mood carried me for awhile last night and then gradually lifted as I left the meeting and waited for the bus with my sponsor. There's the selfish part that wants everything to stop and mourn with me, and the grown-up part that knows life always goes on, and do you want to join or stay put? I'm questioning my job again, wondering if I'll always be some sort of administrative assistant my whole life as I tinker on the fringes of art-making, or if there's something else I'm supposed to be doing. I've been told that big decisions shouldn't be made following the death of a loved one, and quite honestly I wouldn't know where to go from here. It seems wrong to continue these days working and living as though nothing has happened, yet my mother was not the type to cry in a corner and sleep all day. She kept moving, always, and that intensified as her disease progressed, and I made assumptions about her fear and a need to outrun Death. There has to be a middleground, and so I promise myself not to pretend that I'm happy when I'm not, nor will I retreat from life.
(soundtrack: track 15 of Moby's Play, on repeat)
Valentine's Day and another choice: resent the day and the love others have, or wish them well and throw a coin in the fountain: may that happen to me again, someday.
2:43 PM | link
Wednesday, February 13, 2002
Money Changes Everything
Two years and three months ago, when my mother was first diagnosed with ALS (after several months believing it was Parkinson's), I was busy escaping the emptiness of my life with copious amounts of whiskey and crystal methamphetamine. Her phone call instigated a rather clumsy and painful journey towards sobriety that took nearly a year. Having looked ALS up on the Internet only to see the words "usually fatal within five years of diagnosis", I sat at the computer in a dark silence and suddenly every cliche about terminal illness was true: things would never be the same.
As any practicing drug addict would do, I went through the following days and months making most of it about me. The world owed me, now more than ever, and I quickly decided that every creditor I owed would somehow cut me some slack because now my mom was dying. Needless to say, they didn't, and I have been under an increasing amount of debt ever since that fantasy entered my pretty little head.
I'd like to think that I've made progress in accepting life's harsh realities. I know the world will not wait while you pull your shit together, nor does it care much if you make a few mistakes along the way. Sobriety can be hard if only because of the "wreckage of our past" demands clean-up. Not that I would trade my current clarity for those terrifyingly small and lonesome days. If today carries a generous amount of loss and pain, at least my head is clear, and I have companions beside me.
Working for a non-profit and living in the most expensive city in the country, I have become adjusted, if bitterly, to living hand-to-mouth, focusing my attention each month to the fifth and the twentieth days, parceling out twenties like rations in wartime. Such an income has not helped my debt, nor have the costs of my trips home over the past year. And currently, a week from payday, I am faced with a checking balance in the double digits and several bills laughing openly at me on my desk.
My mother's death means, among other things, that I'll inherit a little bit of money. I'm not sure how much yet, and I'm not sure when, but it would appear that it could at least take care of my debts; an understandably liberating thought. I've worked non-profit jobs most of my adult life, long enough to wonder if I'd ever be able to travel or buy a house. Working for something resembling the Greater Good seems to equate working for nothing but passion. The starving artist is a romantic icon. I have wondered if the possession of money would corrupt or strangle my need to write. I feared the same with sobriety. The artist/writer drowning in a sea of alcohol and drugs is another of society's favorite icons. I still don't really know yet the consequences of sobriety upon my writing/acting. With the Campfire, I am writing again, but it ends here. No poetry, plays, stories or novels have welled up within me. But that may change, and maybe memoir, that currently over-played genre (if you pay attention to critics) will suffice. Time will tell.
Things that I have already bought in my head include:
-A new down comforter
-New running shoes
-New boots
-A car for me and Louie
-My own little studio apartment
-A trip overseas
-A memorial fund in Mom's name for the organization she volunteered for
-Expensive, frivolous groceries
Things I conveniently ignore:
-The actual taxes I would owe on withdrawals from this inheritance
-The cost of car insurance and gasoline
-The stock market's bad mood
-The awkwardness that suddenly having money could produce among equally poor friends and co-workers, and my consequent desire to keep new purchases at home in the closet, where only I could see them, with a flashlight
I've resisted writing about this before, mainly due to the last reason. Let's just say I feel undeserving of this inheritance, and guilty that I may actually have some of the freedom that money buys. But who knows, maybe the stock market wiped it all out, and I'll be just as poor as always. Guess which problem I'd rather have?
3:25 PM | link
Tuesday, February 12, 2002
"Children are playing
at the end of the day
Strangers are singing
on our lawn
It's got to be more
than flesh and bone
All that you've loved
is all you own"
-Tom Waits, "Take It With Me"
9:52 PM | link
Tearjerk
Back in SF and back to work. More craziness here than I need. But due to the fact that I was gone over a week, I feel obliged to return full-force. At least it's good to be back, warmer weather and the ex will drop off Louie tonight, I'll take him out for a walk.
Mom's service was... pretty amazing. Lee did a great job of planning it out, and the speakers captured so many facets of her. What emerged, through their stories and the others I heard from her friends and co-workers who approached me, was that Mom consistently went out of her way for others, supporting them and befriending them, never drawing attention to herself. She once ran a race with a slower friend who was just starting out, keeping her company and encouraging her along the 10K until the very end, where she fell back a bit and let her friend pass the finish line first.
I was a big mess. I suppose I should be grateful that I could cry (a lot) and not be cut off from my feelings, but it took quite a few seconds up at the podium for me to hold onto my voice and even then I lost it. Lee picked out two Broadway tunes for the solo vocalist: "What'll I Do?" and "Somewhere (There's a Place for Us)". Made me cry just hearing the titles.
What can I say? I'm going to miss her so much, and the world has lost such a good soul that it seems it should slow down for a bit and take notice, but it won't. Words fail me. But this is what I said:
Things I Learned from My Mother
Work hard for your dreams.
Stay in school.
Animals are sources of great love and companionship.
The examined life is the best life.
It's never too late to strengthen your bonds with others.
Read books.
Travel the world.
Climb mountains.
Run, farther that you thought you could.
Surround yourself with good friends, the kind that will stick with you through the best and worst of times.
Love can be hard, but it's worth fighting for.
Saying "no" can be hard, especially to telemarketers.
Life isn't fair, but never give up.
Above all, treat others with respect and compassion. When you do, you will be loved, more than you ever imagined.
The following is an excerpt from Manuel Puig's "Kiss of the Spiderwoman"
Following the death of his cellmate, Valentin the revolutionary dreams that he is reunited with his beloved.
"-Yes, this is a dream and we're talking together, so even if you fall asleep you don't have to be afraid, and I think now that nothing is ever going to separate us again, because we've realized the most difficult thing of all.
-What's the most difficult thing of all to realize?
-That I live deep inside your thoughts and so I'll always remain with you, you'll never be alone.
-Of course that's it, that's what I can never let myself forget, if the two of us think the same then we're together, even if I can't see you.
-Yes, that's it.
-So when I wake up on the island you're going to go away with me.
-Don't you want to stay forever in such a beautiful place?
-No, it's been good up to now, but enough resting, once I've eaten everything up and after some sleep I'm going to be strong again, because my comrades are waiting for me to resume the age-old fight.
-That's the only thing I don't ever want to know, the name of your comrades.
-Marta, oh how much I love you! That was the only thing I couldn't tell you, I was so afraid you were going to ask me that and then I was going to lose you forever.
-No, Valentin, beloved, that will never take place, because this dream is short, but this dream is happy."
7:43 PM | link
Friday, February 08, 2002
Midnight Radio
My friend Crowman, whom I'm staying with through tonight, has built a sizeable collection of gay-themed DVD's, so this whole week has provided ample opportunity to escape through film: Three, count 'em, three viewings in two days of Hedwig and the Angry Inch, one of Moulin Rouge, and my second viewing of Trick which I like simply because it captures that giddy sense of infatuation when you first meet someone who might become a part of your life. I remember seeing it awhile back, about the time I was going through my break-up, and feeling kind of...excited, that I might get that chance to feel that way again about someone, to have that initial thrill and goofiness. Despite all my talk, I guess I still want that.
Mom's service is tomorrow. A snowstorm is expected, but this is Minnesota, and snow never keeps anyone home. Three more days, then I can go home. Just talked to my boss, who says it is clear in my absence the amount of work that I do, and how much I am missed by my co-workers, not only because I make their jobs easier, but apparently they kind of like me....or they don't hate me. Something like that.
Hey, I can talk to Mom again, at least in a somewhat nebulous way. I doubt she surfs the Internet in heaven, but maybe she can hear me, watch over me. Mom, I'm keeping busy, I haven't exactly dwelt on your absence, but that's coming. I hope you are free, and happy, and reunited with your parents and your dog, and I hope you can see me. Unless I'm having sex, then I hope you can't.
11:57 PM | link
Thursday, February 07, 2002
I Love Billy Bob
I think I've finally finished the program layout for Mom's service. There have been so many small, minor changes and numerous people to organize and commit, and it's a delicate operation, but I think it's done and acceptable to Lee and hopefully the minister. Lee has pushed hard to make the service as un-"religious" as possible, while also honoring Mom's spirituality. I think it's a good balance.
My brother flew in tonight, he and Lee's two kids and I went out for pizza and beer (well, I drank soda) at the Leaning Tower, which was smokey but low-key enough. Managed to have a few laughs, mostly about stupid celebrities. Alone, my brother and I didn't talk much, but it was a pretty comfortable silence. I honestly have so little to say now, I mostly just want to be quiet, and be left alone. Four more days here, trying to fulfill responsibilities and see relatives and mourn, somwhere in there. I don't exactly want to head back to work right away but I don't have much of a choice; I've been gone a week already, and the workshops I was coordinating have already had a huge disaster when the keynote speaker got his dates mixed up and failed to show. I'm glad I wasn't there.
Meet with the minister tomorrow a.m., get a haircut, hit Kinko's in there someplace, have dinner with Dad and it sounds like his mother and brother are coming, then try to get squared away to both move over to the motel and do the service on Saturday. I'm broke, I can't afford these plane tickets and motels. Time for bed.
11:40 PM | link
Wednesday, February 06, 2002
The Origin of Love
Why, oh why haven't I seen Hedwig and the Angry Inch until tonight? I've been so out of it for too long. Wow. wow. wow.
Sometimes I wish that I could go back in time and tell the young scared boy who was me that I'll be okay. I've been feeling this new, I don't know, comfort, with who I am, or confidence. It's like stripping away the layers of fear one carries as a kid, through school and adulthood, and finding yourself so right that none of that other shit matters anymore.
12:43 AM | link
Tuesday, February 05, 2002
Domino Dancing
I haven't been updating much. I feel like those natives who viewed cameras with suspicion; I feel like the more I talk (or write), the more my soul is captured, erased, weakened. Being quiet has always been easy for me, and now more than ever I resort to that natural state of silence. Sometimes it is marked by contemplation, other times I escape into crossword puzzles and hand-held Tetris.
This week is a succession of small events falling like dominoes towards Saturday's memorial service (or "Celebration of Life", if you rather). Phone calls to relatives and friends, medical equipment collected and returned, bags of my mother's clothes donated to Goodwill, a life reduced to a $6.80-per-line obituary in the paper, a chapel reserved, a program planned and typed, flowers procured, cars to share, casserole gifts to eat, movies at night, words to write for the service.
I've been unconsciously avoiding calls from friends in SF, reluctant to engage in discussions regarding my emotions or the brighter side of death. Bearbait left a message today telling me that "large numbers of people" are approaching him to say that me and my family are in their prayers and, apparently, how much I mean to them. I can't say it hurts to hear that.
Tomorrow the obituary runs in the paper. It was one thing to see it written up in a notebook, it will be another to see it in the paper.
6:05 PM | link
Saturday, February 02, 2002
Saturday night, Mom's been gone about 24 hours now and I'm tired and not terribly emotional, nor articulate.
She died about an hour and a half before my plane landed, I got the message as I was waiting to get off the plane, not the greatest environment, but I concentrated on getting over to their house, where Lee and a house full of their friends greeted me, and she told me that her body was still there if I cared to see it, and warned me how she might look. Despite that the sight of her body, so pale and lifeless, hit me like rock and I broke down next to her bed. Her hand was still a bit warm so I held it and just cried for a bit while people came in and out offering their condolences.
The Neptune Society came by around midnight and took the body to be cremated today. Apparently Lee ran into a problem with the coroner's office, who would not release the body to her as she was not a recognized "next of kin". Idiots. They had cops wait until I got there, then left us alone. Makes you want to firebomb a Republican's home.
The service will be held in a week, so I have plenty of time now to help out, tie up loose ends, etc. Lee wanted the bed moved back upstairs and I helped move all of Mom's "equipment" (wheelchairs, commode, IV stand, walker, etc) out into the garage. Seemed important to Lee to make the change quickly, and it didn't bother me as I don't really want to remember my Mom as she was when all of that equipment was necessary. Now she's free.
I'm supposed to meet with her minister in the morning, I'm not sure if it's just to talk or to plan the service, but she's been good to me ever since my Mom's diagnosis over two years ago. Other things I need to do this coming week: get a haircut, get my shirt and pants dry cleaned for the service, maybe get a week's pass at a gym so I can get back on the treadmill. And, somewhere in there, let this reality sink in.
11:17 PM | link
Susan McAllister
December 21, 1946- February 1, 2002
2:21 AM | link
