| Journal & Weblog | Write to Save Your Life | August 24, 2003 |
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posted Thursday, September 26, 2002 One for the Trouble, Two for the Time Do you ever notice how most gay dance music revolves around true love—ultimate, pinnacle, "this is it!"—the subsequent loss of that love, and recovery? Many gay men grow up with this experience, coming out to their families, losing love, and rebounding to find it in another man. It's like saying to the world, "You can't deny me this!" On further reflection, though, could this type of message in popular gay music be a reflection of serial monogamy patterns and an inability to maintain long-term relationships? Does it echo the infatuation, the honeymoon, the thrill of new love, and the subsequent subsidal, waning interest, and frequent breakups? Do the messages of our anthems and club hits feed this pattern? I don't personally know any closed, successful, gay, long-term relationships. Besides the obvious safety reasons, I often wonder if gay men should break free of the monogamous cage that our heterosexual counterparts have instituted and cultivated, this concept that the couple-together-forever is paramount. But, damn, it's hard to think of someone I love fucking another guy, even if it is just sex. Maybe I need a few more years under my belt to understand this, to rid myself of the shackles that sixteen years of training for life in the straight world has clamped on my mind. Maybe I just haven't found a deep enough connection with someone that would make sex secondary. Maybe I just grew up in the wrong era. Whatever the case, I'm pissed that this is even an issue. I'd love to bounce along blissfully ignorant of the music and it's message. True love? Cool. I will survive? Awesome. Ideally, I'd like to get to the point where I can love and be loved, freely, without jealousy and preconceptions of what relationships should entail. What are the steps to that and is it even a worth-while goal?
Holding Our Own Listening to Tiefschwarz and trying to get into two books that have been waiting patiently with a few other stacks at the foot of my bed. Pushups and crunches are in order, as usual—strange that working against gravity, against nature, against the flow, makes you stronger. Applicable to many facets of life? Maybe. Then it occurs to me that by simply standing upright we are holding our own against the world.
Tranquility When we are unable to find tranquility within ourselves, it is useless to seek it elsewhere.
A Few Days In Between Gaps between entries can sometimes speak louder than everyday accounts; they tell of long weekends spent out with friends, at parties or bars or Avalanche games, in the park enjoying the fading summer, or lounging in bed reading the newspaper. Sometimes the details aren't important. After keeping sporadic record of the past few years, I've come to discover that the most satisfaction seems to stem from merely knowing your time was well spent, perhaps with someone you care about. I've been doing a lot of digging this weekend, looking for the roots to my feelings and views. Chekhov wrote, “Man will become better when you show him what he is like.” Is it possible to do this yourself, to truly see who you are on your own without getting in your own way? Stan said tonight that we seem to grow the most from intimate relationships with others and it makes sense to me: you see yourself from your partner's point of view. Your strengths suddenly become heroic and beautiful, your faults blatantly obvious. It takes a certain amount of character to deal with these revelations. That's where I am at this point and the past few days' silence reveals more than I can summarize in words in terms of self-discovery and learning to appreciate someone's presence in your life, whether it's long-lived or brief. In either event, it's been a trying time. Then again, sometimes things worth having and things worth achieving take hard work.
Bump Yesterday was one of the longest days I've lived yet. A quick thought that stands out from the blur of confusion and angst: I'm washing my hands, running them under the warm water and thinking how good it feels when the thought occurs to me: "That's it. This happened because he was put off by my cold hands." But he wasn't put off by my cold hands, and later that night they were clasped in his, his nose pressed against the back of my neck, words falling into the chasms of my ears. Trust is a funny issue; it's not something that comes to you by Providence but seems to be more of a decided attitude. And I guess last night, I simply decided to trust him.
Fast Forward, Weekend  Eighteen inches may qualify me as a size queen; that's the visible area on my new LCD monitor, having arrived Thursday. Before you say anything, the box of tissue by my computer is to wipe away the drool every time I sit down in front of it. It's pretty, to say the least.
Day three of bartending classes, hyped up on caffeine after three collective hours of sleep, and I can't get over two songs: Thunderpuss's rendition of Whitney's, "Whatcha Lookin At," and Manny Lehman's remix of Brandy's "Full Moon." Finishing up a paper and final exams for Management of Information Systems, saying goodbye to the warm weather, and looking forward to a weekend where I can actually sleep in. Went to dinner last night with the two queens and M. I'd be lying if I said I didn't enjoy showing off M's arms and letting him have the spotlight for a few hours while they joke about handcuffs and traffic stops. He takes it all in stride. I can't stop smiling as he tosses comebacks, one-for-one, all the while rubbing his leg up against mine under the table.
Boldness Until one is committed, there is hesitancy, the chance to draw back?Concerning all acts of initiative (and creation), there is one elementary truth that ignorance of which kills countless ideas and splendid plans: that the moment one definitely commits oneself, then Providence moves too. All sorts of things occur to help one that would never otherwise have occurred. A whole stream of events issues from the decision, raising in one's favor all manner of unforeseen incidents and meetings and material assistance, which no man could have dreamed would have come his way. Whatever you can do, or dream you can do, begin it. Boldness has genius, power, and magic in it. Begin it now.
Fear of Driving  The weather has been cooler this week, a nod to the imminent autumn and subsequent cold that I?m strangely anticipating. I took the dismal weather as an opportunity to visit M and grab some dinner, followed by an evening spent in his arms drifting between the waking world and the ethereality of sleep.
Thirty-four miles of asphalt separate us, much of it in despairing disrepair. I?m a relatively safe driver, yet images of mangled steel and rancid, black smoke flash through the back of my mind every time I drive those thirty-four miles, if even momentarily, and I grit my teeth, ease my foot on the gas and try to deepen my breath, glossing over these thoughts with music, landscape observations and meandering thought. The notion occurred to me that we gloss over much of life in this way. We are born into a world that is immediately unfriendly and this is not persistently obvious to me, except for the brief thoughts of car accidents and the hourly reminder of last September 11th. We are raised to believe?and readily accept!?the idea that life is rooting for us, that we are inherently good, and that we deserve this life. The consequence of this belief is a horrified reaction to death, particularly sudden, accidental, or deliberate death. ?How could this happen?? we ask one another. More importantly, how could this happen to good people? The fact that death is an intrinsic part of life in all it?s forms has been glossed over by a belief that experience in this world is paramount, that life should happen a particular way and any deviation from this ideal is wrong. The notion of a mechanical, impersonal mortal coil has faded to the back of our collective mind. We confuse idealism with reality and perhaps that?s what makes us human. Able to build upon the knowledge of countless past generations, we should naturally be able to build upon the experience of an uncaring world to create something ideal, something human: to believe in our goodness and fear death as change, degeneration. I doubt, seriously, that we would have advanced this far as a communal organism had we believed anything else. I want to believe that life is rooting for me, that the universe conspires, but the evidence argues otherwise and the world continues to drive perfunctorily, impersonally. I find that the only practical response is to accept this with as much grace as humanly possible. The images in my mind are from news reports, personal sightings, real life scenes. I must believe that this could be my fate, accept that, and move on; realize that nothing is rooting for my successful survival other than my own ego. I let go of that grip, and suddenly simple existence is beautiful. There?s a sense of sadness as I return to the pavement speeding under my car, as though I?ve lost an intrinsic part of myself?a thumb or an eye?something I?ve relied upon to manipulate the world around me or navigate this life, but I feel stronger for it. Hope and idealism can be crutches, aggravating our disability to see our lives clearly. Only by recognizing these devices for what they really are, can we use them to effectively overcome a fear of death and change as horrible mishaps and learn to live.
Design The universe conspires. Of course, I could be delusional believing that certain occurances are part of a larger pattern when, in fact, I am merely predicting where the ball will land after it's been tossed into the air, but an overwhelming number of events have happened that seem strangely off course. Imgaine aiming for a destination but knowing you are facing the opposite direction, walking blindly, never altering your course, and yet somehow opening your eyes to discover you've come to the desired location, regardless your attempts otherwise. I've quietly projected my wants and desires into the ether of existence, without demand or condition or urgency, and have been answered in the most unlikely ways. Further, upon fulfillment, there has been more to my subliminal wishes than I'd expected: hidden meaning that reveals itself like the face of a Four O'clock in the fading afternoon sunlight. // I had been searching for a song recording I heard a little under a year ago with nothing to go on but an indistinguishable, repeating chorus in my mind and a tripped-up house beat, thinking I'd most likely run into it some day. Cleaning out my music files yesterday, I searched for a replacement on my file-sharing network du-jour, and mistakenly downloaded a different song by the artist I had been looking for. I loaded it into my player and exhaled audibly as the familiar words sounded over the beat that would not leave my head for the past ten months. Searching quickly on the internet, I came up with the source: an old Billie Holiday song, the jazz legend crooning over a strange, yet undeniably hooking rhythm. Her words, previously indistinct, were now emblazoned across my computer screen. Them that's got shall get, Alex Gopher - The Child (MP3, 4.16 Mb)
Uncluttering I made two decisions this morning, both to be enforced in full effect upon declaration: I will not wear holey socks, and no shopping list shall go unfulfilled. Both have been lying around the house burning holes in my mind to the point where I've dreamt about both, woken in the middle of the night, rubbing my eyes and scratching my head, trying to figure out what my brain is trying to tell me. Things have piled up around here and my mind is made up to take care of them. Thank a higher power for guests. If it weren't for houseguests, the Windex would sit, unusued, under my sink and the toilet would go uncleaned; dishes would lie, abandoned and soiled in the sink, and my Glade Plug-Ins would crackle and burn in their sockets. Not that I don't respect my living space, but I normally take my time with these things and there is a certain sense of urgency that rises in my throat whenever someone's coming to inspect my apartment.
Less than Enthusiastic The weekend exit and start of the work week were marked by a pretty lousy headcold but I'm feeling halfway human tonight. How did we live before Advil? I'm reading the second volume of Anais Nin's diary on and off this week and have become increasingly disheartened with writing, feeling much like Cale who is depriving posterity by refusing to write for fear of never being good enough. Of course, the goal here isn't to write high-art or literature but when I flip through the pages of her books and read the plethora profound statements, one after the other in unending succession, I look at my own pale reflections on my life with a razor eye and wonder why I'm even bothering. The only consolation is a few-year's worth of pitiful gossip and ramblings I have stored away in old journals that tell me I'm making some improvement, however slight. Is a boycott of profundity by principle in order? Should it be cultivated through rigorous exercise and routine? Or should I stop? The mad mind does not halt. If it halts, it is enlightenment. Who wants enlightenment, anyway?
Sketching Days It was night when I arrived; an evening where all signs pointed towards yes and I was simply the triangle surfacing to proclaim the news. The traffic was light because it was a week night, but the city was awake with a million glittering eyes. I was waiting for Dave and Veronica in their apartment, staring at the tabula rasa walls and unfurnished living room, the unfurnished weekend, slowly savoring the possibilities in my mind. By the unyielding force of fate or Dave's good graces, I was whisked away, sleeveless t-shirt and all, into his car and to a bar that always looks much more colorful from the sidewalk outside than it does standing within its smoky confines. It offered good company and good drinks—and by "good," I mean mixed drinks that aren't really mixed with anything besides ice—and we had our fill of both, perhaps more than our fill. Mike was in Snowmass. By the time he returned on Friday, I was virtually recovered from Wednesday night's escapade. We went to dinner and sat at the bar, eating food that would last us throughout the weekend and ultimately be finished on Monday afternoon before I returned home. His pockets were full of toys, his eyes with stories for me. His presence was inconspicuous but held a quiet that I took comfort in and he later apologized for being boring. Nothing could be further from the truth. I told him that a great majority of life is boring. Perhaps the trick is to find someone you enjoy spending the daily in's and out's with. I slid home easily, uneventfully, the weekend fully furnished and the upcoming week laying itself out in front of me like the blueprint for an important building. I penciled in the details, the company, the food and drinks, schoolwork, and the boring in's and out's. Thinking of routine in the context of cool summer nights or attractive company makes it a bit more appealing.
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One of the queens went to NO for Decadence and I couldn't help but feel a little jealous. The tickets were in my hand. I've no regrets, however. After all, it would have been rather self-defeating to go while attempting to nurture a fledgling relationship, but downing Crown-and-cokes with Jonno and company while watching the debauchery on Bourbon Street sounded mighty tempting. It gives me something to look forward to next year, at any rate.
I bought a wine rack and a small desk for the living room and John-Michael came over to help me put them together. After pizza, we joined Kenneth and Leif at the bar Brandie's been working for some drinks and entertainment (provided mainly by Kenneth, his 24" dreads, and the wave of girls who scattered in his wake). I enjoy running around with the kids from school every now and then, but part of me yearns for warm arms to run home to, as well. I seem to be in that limbo stage between school and a real life. Maybe the decision to throw away my holey socks in a start in the right direction.
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