Warm air and blooming trees have stirred something within me, making my lonliness terribly apparent. At the same time, I am so content being alone. I don't know what I'm waiting for, and I wonder if I'm deluding myself by waiting at all. Waiting to meet someone, that is. It's been said that you find what you're looking for when you stop looking, but waiting only makes the fact that you're not getting anywhere more obvious. I'm in the same spot I was two years ago. And two years before that.

I keep telling myself that love is as perennial as the grass. I think in the higher altitudes, the grass grows slower.

This morning, in the shower, I remembered writing my first journal entry sometime in 1991. I was 12, and wrote about a trip to the swimming pool on the air force base with some friends. The sun simmered us to golden browns like our beer-battered onion rings. Green grass between our toes. Strawberry Mentos and the smell of chlorine.

Perhaps it was the water cascading down my face, or the fumes that fill my room from paint and glue, that brought back the memory. Writing in that moss-green book was what started this. It's funny to think I dug it out of a dumpster on base, exploring with my little brother; we were always into scavaging old office materials from the various military bureaus.

He's still a pack-rat, but somewhere along the way I lost the hoarding instinct. I'll throw things out left and right. The surprising thing is, I haven't regretted any of it. Perhaps it's not really throwing anything away. I suppose somewhere in the recesses of my mind, I hold a faint belief that somewhere, there is a kid digging through a dumpster, looking for treasure. I picture a kid that looks kind of like me.

Maybe it's a way of keeping in touch with my past. I've been trying to recapture that thrill of delight that comes with discovery, the delicious flavor of owning newness. Tossing things into the garbage is almost like giving back to myself. Maybe throwing something away is the only way to keep it forever.

I took Sumo to be groomed, today, while Ricky and I went to the school's gay and lesbian group meeting. It was nice not having to worry about Sumo for a few hours. Nothing too exciting took place at the meeting. Stan read over some updates and we pigged out on brownies, Fritos, and bean dip. I'm working on setting up an event next week with Campus Activities for a lecture at the school. Besides that, however, my involvement in the group has been limited to cameos only.

I remember at one point, when I was in Denver looking forward to my future life once I would return home, I said to myself, "I am going to join the student group, become an activist, and turn that close-minded community upside-down." The whole idea of moving to a small town with virtually no gay community just scared the bejesus out of me. My way of compensating for it was to think of myself as bringing a piece of the gay scene in Denver to the closeted gays down here. "I'm an upstanding citizen. Successful. Well-mannered. Pretty. They will like me and I'll change their notion of gays being gross, leather-daddies and nightmarish drag queens." (Which was, and still is, the extent of the public gay population down here).

Unfortunately, as soon as I moved back in with my parents, the high-school closet mentality quickly set in. I got a job at Applebee's waiting tables that summer, and even though I came out to a few of the girls there, I was nervous at the thought of other people finding out. It was like taking fifteen steps backwards. I've made slow progress towards being fully comfortable with my sexuality in a straight city, but it is still nothing like my year in Denver.

I've been considering buying real estate north of the city in a small town. Part of me cringes at even the consideration of the idea, but the practical side of me is loving every minute of it. I knew I should have gotten out of this city for good when I had the chance. Again, here is the internal conflict of comfort versus adventure. Sometimes I hate my parents for being so damned practical. I envision myself on my deathbed at the hospital here in town and cursing my father with my last breath for instilling such a deadening sense of level-headedness within me; cursing him for leaving me with this legacy of such a dreadfully mundane life.

No. I can't complain. My father has given up so much for my brother and me. We've travelled to exotic places, had the best of everything, received so many opportunities. It's just that now I'm expected to stay put for two more years to finish additional schooling that is above and beyond my degree, when I could be out fulfilling my dream of exploring life. My dad sees it as only two more years, but two years to a 60 year-old man is nothing. It's easy coming from his perspective, but for me, I will never have my early twenties again. It's a once in a lifetime event. Hell, life is a onetime event. His usual response to this argument is "What's the difference between leaving when you're 23 and leaving when you're 25?" I simply shake my head and walk away.

• My best friend, Ricky, had a fight with his parents and stayed at my place for the weekend.
• I made a major breakthrough on my compiler project.
• I started up at the gym again.
• I've been getting enough sleep.
• I've eaten three healthy meals since yesterday.
• I was cruised at the local grocery store by a really cute guy.
• I got a beautiful, handwritten letter from Brent.
• The weather has turned from cold and wet to beautifully sunny.
• I paid all my bills for the next month.
• I bought life insurance.
• I opened two more mutual fund accounts.
• I got Sumo groomed for the first time.
• Stan found some potential properties to look at up north, and I'm excited to move.

All in all, it's been a good few days. Although my internet connection has been down, I wrote a few entries which I'll post on Wednesday.

I trip a memory almost every day. The combination of humidity and cologne that sends me to Berlin all over again. The smell of Scott's hair, evoking memories of lazy weekend mornings in his bed, the summer air filtering in with the sunlight. Hearing Dave's laugh and being 19 again, on the way to class in his car. The headache that took me back to the front steps of my highschool, where I walked away and never looked back.

Invariably, the moments stand out as pristine and airbrushed. That's one of the beautiful things about memories: there's enough truth to satisfy, but just enough omission to entertain.

"Chris?"

I looked up. "What?" I didn't recognize him at first, and stood back to squint better. It was definitely Scott, although he was obviously drunk or stoned. Something terrible had happened to his hair, also.

"Oh my god, hey Scott," I exclaimed, truly surprised. "Wow, fancy meeting you here."

"I totally didn't think I'd ever see you again," he slurred. "How've you been?" I grimaced at how he looked ? how I looked conversing with him ? and held him out at arms length to give him the once-over-again.

"Good, good." I said, distractedly, and ran my fingers through the tangled mess on his head. He rolled his eyes and said something about getting it cut but not liking it.

"So, what's been up with you? What have you been doing?" he asked.

"Oh, this and that. I graduate in four weeks."

"That's cool," he replied, distractedly. "Hey, I've wanted to call you to talk to you. I mean, I've really tried getting ahold of you."

Yeah, whatever, I thought. I knew he had run into my friend, Dave, several times and had ample opportunity to get my number, but never asked. Dave said he was always asking about me, though.

"Right on," I said, instead. "Yeah, I moved about a year ago, so all my numbers have changed." He nodded. "I was in your neighborhood a few weeks ago and thought about stopping to say hi, but it didn't look like you were home."

"I got a loft downtown," he said, proudly.

"Cool," I said, mimicing his disinterest.

"There's so much I want to talk to you about." His words came out slowly. "I mean, last time we talked..." he trailed off, putting his palms together, and splitting his hands apart, outwards in a slow gesture. I got his drift.

"Right, right," I said. "We should talk."

"I mean, everything was just so fucked up..."

"Yeah, it was." I looked behind me and Matt was waiting on the outskirts of the dancefloor. We had been readying ourselves to leave, until this distraction. "Hey, listen. Let me give you my new number. Will you call me?"

"Yeah."

"Okay, follow me." I walked away without looking back. When I got to the bar, I grabbed a pencil and matchbook, and proceeded to write my cell number on the back. He landed next to me, back to the bar.

"I promise I'll call you," he said. "We'll talk this out."

"Okay, yeah, just give me a call anytime," I said, knowing he would never call. Normally, if he had been someone I was interested in, I would have gotten his number, instead. I knew if he had given me his number, though, I would have called it. That's the last thing I need. I do not need to get involved with him again.

With a hug and a solid pat on the back shoulder, I turned around and found my friends. Heading out, I couldn't think of anything else but Scott. Damn him for being a weed my brain. I know I can't really blame him for my wanting him. I mean, if anything, that haircut should have been enough to repel me. Somehow, though, I don't think I'll ever be over him, no matter how disgusting or how much a social disgrace he becomes. I fear that type of self-destructive attraction will be my downfall.

"It was good," he said, thoughtfully. "I thought the whole friendship aspect was good. They really brought out the point about love between friends and the importance of friendship. I didn't like the fact that the whole movie was centered around romance, though. It seemed that's all they were concerned with." The word "romance" is my dad's way of referring to sex. I agreed with him.

"True, but you have to understand that it's a very real part of gay life." He cocked his eyebrows, questioningly. "I mean, truthfully, that is all gay guys think of. We may be gay, but we're still guys." We picked up dishes as we talked, and headed into the kitchen.

"I liked the main character, what was his name?"

"Dennis."

"Yeah, Dennis. He found that there's more to life than just... just..."

"Casual sex?"

"Yes."

"Drugs?"

"Uh huh."

"Partying?"

"Right."

"I totally agree with you," I said, rinsing dishes in the sink. "It's funny I didn't realize that the first time I watched this movie. It's such a wakeup call to so many clueless fags out there who center their lives around simply being gay, partying, drugs, and sex." And it was true. It was a wakeup call I had had a few years ago, riding the city bus to school one evening.

After moving to Denver to live on my own, I had realized that I needed to get my shit together and focus on something that was going to get me somewhere, make me someone. There are other things in life than simply being gay.

I visit Denver every now and then to see my friends, and since moving away, I sense a gap growing between us. I don't identify with them as much as I used to, although I still have fun and consider them good friends. But I feel more full of life than before. I feel more ? I hate to say it ? well-rounded. I may not be one of the top nellies on the gay social ladder, but I no longer feel the need to climb it, either.

My memory of Berlin is so clean. West Berlin, I should say. I, on the other hand, do not feel clean, despite my morning shower and freshly laundered clothes. Unlike Brent, I haven't felt clean in a very long time. My schedule is tired and begs for spontaneity and newness. I make these small attempts at renewing interests on the side, here and there, but until I truly have time for myself, I won't feel Berlin-clean. I haven't been to the gym in over a month, and my hair is getting shaggy. Physically, mentally, and creatively, I feel soiled.

I'm predicting the breaking point of all this will be my graduation (31 days from today, and counting). I will rejoin the gym, start really working and saving money, travel a bit, and spend more time with my friends. I kick myself, because these are all things I could do right now, but for some reason, I just can't pull it together. No matter what I do, I can't seem to motivate myself. Instead, I sit in this chair and stare at this purple screen and write about it. I paint about it. I casual-sex about it. I promise that if I just make it through these next four weeks, I will start being better to myself.

Refilling my artbox with the right brushes, knives, and mediums has been a tedious task. Finding the right subject matter to paint took a few days as well. After getting everything set, I was suprised that I had any motivation left to continue, and I clumsily began painting. The first strokes that ran across the canvas felt unsteady, as though I were learning to write all over again, except this time with my left hand. After a few hours of laying down some base colors, I stood back and grimaced. I've definitely lost my touch.

Meanwhile, the past few days have been an awakening for me, spiritually. I'm not sure if there is a correlation with the sudden artistic interest, but I've felt closer to myself. I take Sumo out into the wilderness behind my house. There are bluffs there that we climb and we explore the forests. Out there, the noise of media and life cannot reach you. Only the sound of your own footsteps on the rock, the wind through the pine-needles, and the birds have any voice here.

I found a precipice ? a rock hanging out over the end of one of the bluffs behind my house ? that overlooks the west half of the city and the mountains, but drops away on all sides, so that if you sit on the edge, it is like floating above the city. You see nothing but the forest and city below on all 180 degrees. I sat there for a while, just taking it all in. Sumo wandered the bushes behind me before finally walking cautiously up to the edge and sitting down next to me.

My mind drifted with the wind, which couldn't decide if it was coming or going. I thought of nothing and everything. Is it possible to think of nothing? I tried, but gave up in the end, as the setting sun danced across my face and begged me to pay attention to it. It would be a romantic spot. You feel as though you're miles away from the rest of the world, looking down on it. Wrapping my arms around my knees in front of me, I imagined holding someone. I grew wistful, but smiled, thinking that someday I would bring him here, whoever he is.

"I associate honesty with loss of love. The only people I had known who were honest, beligerent, assertive, undisguised had lost love. I was not going to risk that. There was the fear of the world. I had seen destructive relationships, destructive journalism, destructive critics, destructive wars. I felt the world to be a rather dangerous place. I did not feel ready to confront this. I needed a shelter for my work. The diary was a fine one. A shelter from misunderstanding, from satire, from attack, from judgement."
?Anias Nin

"Ferchrissake. Why don't we just apologize to China, and get this over with?" After a few days of negotiation, our country would not bow down to China's demand for our admission of guilt in the emergency landing of a spy plane on Chinese soil. It seemed to me like both were being bullheaded, like kids arguing on the playground. Just say you're sorry, take your toys to your own part of the playground, and get over it. The implications of an apology didn't strike me as that important. China had custody of 24 people. Just say we're sorry and get them the hell out of there. Apology, D.O.A.

"Don't you understand?" my dad would ask me. "It's not about just saying 'sorry' to get what we want. The repercussions of an apology would have a profound effect on political relations, not only with China, but with the entire world." Yeah, whatever, I'd think. But the more it tumbled around in my head, the more I began to wonder if perhaps I was approaching the whole subject from the wrong angle.

I was suddenly face to face with a glaringly bad habit of mine. Over the years, I had nonchalantly tossed apologies left and right, congratulating myself on my ability to so easily swallow my pride. I'd make a mistake, own up and the misdeed was quickly forgotten. Only, it occurred to me that I was missing the point. Admission of guilt is a mark you make on yourself, as well as a promise not to make the same mistake again. I had been using it as a "Get Out of Jail, Free" card, not as a true sign of repentance.

When evidence surfaced that proved the U.S. was not at fault for the emergency landing, I was thankful that I was not in charge. I would have made a fool out of us all. Looking back, I grimace at how foolish I must have been, cheaply throwing out empty apologies. For my past misdeeds that were forgiven after empty acts of contrition, I feel truly regretful. I will find that heart ? the meaning behind the apology ? still faintly beating, and place it back where it belongs.

One of those new men is Matt, who I've known for the past few years. Meeting at school gathering, we've since run into each other several times on campus, each time saying "Hello," and making small chat. Last weekend was his birthday, and he decided to party it off at the local bar. We ran into each other, quite coincidentally.

"I've been working up the courage to ask you out for the past two years," I said, drink in hand. Looking back, I wonder if I had been slurring. His surprise made me smile, and we set the date for the very next evening. The alcohol had done its job well.

The sun was setting as I drove up to the school library where he was studying, evening rays finding his face through tinted windows as I walked by the front of the building. I waved. We walked down to Poor Richard's and ate -- spinich lasagne for me, ministrone for him. We talked until the cooling night goosebumped us back inside. Matt talks a lot, but is a good conversationalist. He's very interested in eastern philosophy and buddhist meditation, which intrigues me to no end, and I would love to learn more about both. As the week progressed, we met on campus and had lunch and later coffee. He even convinced me to sign up for Outward Bound this summer, a 10-day mountaineering and wilderness course.

As I've gotten to know him, I've questioned the quality of my interest in him. He is a great friend, but we also have a sexual spark that I can't ignore. The problem is I don't see a long-term possibility between us and can't bring myself to push the envelope as far as developing a romantic relationship with him. I know he's interested. That is making me feel a bit stressed, because I don't want to lead him on until I'm more comfortable with my own feelings, but I can sense him probing me for reciprocation. He's very sensitive and sweet, and I don't want to hurt him.

Is it possible to go into a relationship unbiasedly? I try to leave all past experiences at the door (while retaining the lessons), but always end up imagining how the relationship will end. I feel like Gillian Anderson's character in Playing By Heart, believing all relationships will end painfully. I've never been heartbroken, myself, but I've been in enough to know that when it comes to relationships, I'm like a bull in a china shop. I can't bear even the thought of hurting someone's feelings, so I think I've developed this resistance to starting relationships in the first place. Being sensitive and being a guy can be a bad combination.

Although television alone isn?t a great source to base conjectures like this on, it reflects certain aspects of our culture, mindset, and nature. Humans seem to be so driven to conform and be accepted into the masses. Based on religious and philosophical teachings that suggest we suppress base desires, it would be only logical to assume that we suppress this urge as well. Thoughout the ages, many have recognized this and strived for original and creative thought (which, ironically, suggests that these people are conformists as well but I?ll get to that in a minute).

Despite our greatest attempts at creativity and original thought, everything results in rehashed or recombinant versions of past ideas and creation. Take our manner and style of dress for example. Even though many take pride in their wardrobe and believe it demonstrates a level of individualism, aren?t they still conforming in one way or another? Those who claim to be unique individuals are still part of a growing category of even more people claiming to be unique individuals. Resisting conformity is conforming in itself. It seems impossible to to break free of this cycle.

Another example would be writing. It?s simply a matter of combining pre-existing words and fabricating ideas. For all you know, that exact combination of words could have been used somewhere else, at another point in time, for exactly the same purpose. If the combination of words isn?t replicated exactly, most likely the idea has been expressed by someone, somewhere. Hell, this entry may be repeating a thousand other writers, right now. In its purest, physical sense, nothing in this existence is original because a million years ago, it was something else, yet everything is original as nothing has been created nor destroyed since the beginning of time. The word can have several meanings, all dependent on the context.

Before I talk myself into a downward spiral, let me just say that I do believe in the ability to be and create that which is truly unique. I think the only way to acknowledge this is to ignore the meaning of "originality," altogether. It?s impossible to be truly original in the purest sense of the word.

Like nature which creates new species and genetic traits through recombinant DNA and sexual reproduction, humans are able to concoct new ideas and new stories though the similar technique of recombination. Eventually, through building on past constructions and ideas, we can reach a state that can be considered relatively new. This is the core of human progress, after all. It?s funny, because through all this typing, I?ve suddenly realized that the act of creation is not discrete, but rather a continuum, building upon previous versions of itself. It is existence refining existence.

So, in the end, I?m left facing a television broadcast of Family Feud. I turn it off. Instead of airing shows that feed our desire to think like everyone else, we should be promoting game shows that reward the original thinker, the new idea, the unconventional approach. Changing TV programming isn?t a cureall approach, but it?s a start. By encouraging this type of thinking, perhaps someday, people will accept and love those that aren?t a variant of the norm. Perhaps we can destroy stereotypes that plague us today. Perhaps I?m being overlyzealous and idealistic. That?s a topic for another entry.

To say I?ve been "making an effort" to fit into this corporate sea I?ve thrown myself into would be an understatement. I?ve toiled laborously to adopt an image appropriate for this job. The car, the clothes, the feigned politeness and superfluous interest I?ve taken in my coworkers are all for the image. At some point, my practiced attempt became habit, and a new persona was born. It?s a shoddily crafted mask that almost reminds me of a prop from the Texas Chainsaw Massacre set. Sometimes I feel they can see right through it. I sense it through the gaps in their smiles and in the pauses that follow their questions.

The meeting began as all meetings do: with coffee and doughnuts. We sat around the conference room table, chit-chatted about the weather and weekend events. This morning, my mask was a collection of actions I had observed other coworkers performing. I took a doughnut. Crossed my legs. I ate with a strained look of indifference on my face, and yawned when I was finished. I re-crossed my legs. Sleepily, I gazed out the windows. The sleepiness wasn?t pretend.

Updates and plans for the week oozed by like a river of gravy. In an attempt to keep myself awake, I performed the same routine of memorized actions in random order, inserting nods and thoughtful facial expressions at appropriate times. Before I knew it, an hour had gone by. I was at a point where it would have been safe to declare me medically braindead. Somehow, a few words slipped by my conscious and he masked persona suddenly rared to life.

"Why don?t we just go to the post office and tell them to print us a batch Code-93 labels?"

I blinked. Did those words just come out of my mouth? A sudden swell of laughter erupted about the room, loud and spontaneous. It continued, too, as though I had just uttered the epitome of hilarity. I quickly decided they weren?t laughing at me, but rather at what I said, and yet I couldn?t figure out why it was so funny. Was my corporate personality trying to be funny, or was it an honest question? I didn?t know.

The remarkable part of the event wasn?t the reflex response, or the immaculate timing; it was the strange swell of energy I suddenly experienced. It poured from their laughing mouthes into my head and filled my sinuses, gushed down into my chest and torso. It wasn?t a swell of pride or satisfaction, as you might theorize, for I had no expectations or plans to be proud or satisfied of. It was a completely random remark that brought the entire room?s attention on me ? something that would normally freak the hell out of me ? and the experience left me breathless.

I have often thought back to my reading of The Celestine Prophecy, back in high school. It was a book that I always discounted as bizarre and rather silly. However, to my suprise, I started to consider the ideas it presented. Before my quip, I was drained, mentally and physically, trying to focus my attention on everyone else in the room. As soon as the attention shifted, I felt a physical surge of alertness and energy.

To many, this may seem like another fantastic daydream of mine. But what if believing in such fantastic ideas is what helps us through difficult times? The stories of religion and children?s fairy tales come to mind. Perhaps the reason my mind is even considering a supernatural explanation is because it needs fodder to survive in this creatively desolate place. In any case, the event made me rethink my plans to scrap the corporate path. I might just be able to do this. Granted, I don?t like the idea of putting on face to succeed, but if I remain objective, perhaps I can learn a few things from this new persona.

The weather outside is beautiful, and the sky is scattered with cartoon clouds. I?ve been taking Sumo with me everywhere this weekend and while walking him today, I saw many people doing yardwork and housework. I was slightly jealous. This is the kind of weather that makes those activities enticing and I can?t wait to get a house of my own. I?ve actually been looking quite a bit lately, and even received counseling on a mortgage. It seems to be the wisest investment at this point, considering I?m going to be staying here a few more years for grad school.

Despite being on a good track, though, why does it feel like something?s missing in my life? I sense that something I had before is now gone, and I still can?t pinpoint it. Perhaps it?s the lack of true friends in my life, although I don?t really make time for the friends I have now. Maybe it?s a longing for a close relationship, although I really love being single. I?ve also worried that I?ve been slipping into a corporate rut that I may not be able to get out of, and that I?m losing my freedom. It could be all of these things combined.

That?s one thing I?ve realized, is that most problems aren?t due to one overwhelming factor, but are a composite of many, irritating, smaller problems. I?m the lease likely person to sweat small stuff; most of the time I?ll let just about anything slide off my back. But I?m starting to wonder if the devil really is in the details -- the little things that make up the big, important ones.

He turned at his name. Well, actually, his upper body turned as he pivoted from the waistline, leaning back sorta to look at me. He was gorgeous -- blond hair, chiseled face, rock-solid body -- a complete antithesis of my ideal, who would look nothing like this circuit boy archetype. I flashed back to the first time I saw him on the street in New Orleans. He was shirtless and decked with beads. I wondered if he even owned a shirt. He narrowed his eyes as he tried to make out my face in the club lighting.

"Hey... you?re..."

"Chris, we met in New Orleans," I said, as he left his friends to face me. He nodded.

"Yeah, I know," he smiled, sounding surprised. "What are you doing down here?" He motioned to the club, but I knew he meant Houston.

"Partying. Having a good time." I smiled back. It was strange to think that I had never seen this man out of a party setting. I had no idea what he did for work. I had no idea how old he was. I knew he grew up in Nebraska, but that was the extent of it. Most of the time we spent in New Orleans was the non-speaking kind ? liplocked in what I remember as the most incredible makeout session of my life.

"Yeah, right on. You look great."

"Thanks, so do you." I placed my hand on his waist, palm on the oblique; a spot that never fails to turn me on. "From what I recall, the last time we were together, we left a certain job unfinished."

"You?re right. We certainly did." He took my hand and led me into the crowd, lights dancing across my face, bass pounding its way into my skin.

Older Entries