Chris,

Thanks so much for your interest in the [our publishing company], After reviewing your sample chapters I find that our only option would be to publish your book through our co-op publishing program. Chris although quite heartfelt your novel is definite that of a first time author. That said, not to discourage but in the hope that you will continue to improve your gift. Chris co-op publishing is designed to help young authors get their material out and also our editors would help you take what you have and make it more marketable. I am including the program and a contract for your review, if you intend to pursue this avenue please get in touch and we will walk you through and help you grow.

Warm regards,
Paul
Director of Marketing/Sales

posted Wednesday, February 5, 2003

This Is Me

A fog of snow descended, enclosing the mile between my apartment and work inside of an almost dreamlike sphere hemmed in on all sides by light trapped in the suspended powder. And as spectacular as it was, I suddenly realize that I wrote about snow yesterday. Ten years from now I'm not going to be interested in weather patterns. The thing to notice, however, is my tendency to write about the weather when I'm trying to avoid something.

And I am avoiding many things that I should be writing about, issues that need sorthing through, problems that have whispered to one another behind corners and through walls, walls that have appeared overnight or in the absence of a glance. They remain in the dark because I am afraid of exposure. I feel so intensely — and, yes, perhaps unjustifiably — vulnerable by laying the words down, by merely placing the letters in order on the screen.

But then, I realize it's okay because I've been there before, the words have already been written. Over the past few years maintaining this site, I've had some surprising insights from strangers whom I've never met, yet who know my deepest thoughts simply from having read through my journal. So, tonight, I decided it was time to do a little digging myself. And I've discovered that I'm still alive, that I've had these issues and problems and thoughts and whispers before. But what do I do with these memories and how can I learn from them to improve, advance, better-faster-stronger?

posted Tuesday, February 4, 2003

Ego

Days like this bring clarity with the cold, the sun greeting me without its usually warm hands and the wind sleeping behind the mountains, fists curled loosely by its face. Despite clear skies and brisk winter air, all I can do is look down as my steps fall between sporadic patches of snow and raise clouds of dust from the parched ground, for sometimes clarity only makes you aware of other problems and in the end you’re left again in the blizzards of obscurity.

(Although I write to save bits and random scraps from my life, I have noticed this site turning into more of an outlet for my ego. It’s making me rather sick of myself, sick of listening to myself talk, sick of hearing the words typed and retyped in my head until they reach a raw intensity that blazes out of my fingers and onto the page and the writing doesn’t stop there. Ideas sear themselves in circular patterns on the walls of my mind, spiraling, repeating until I release them, only then given relief in the form of another smoldering, echoing whisper.)

Sometimes, I ask myself how problems would change when ego is removed from the picture.

posted Monday, February 3, 2003

Patiently Evaluating

It snowed last night and stuck, remaining throughout the day as a gritty, white reminder that we've gotten away with such mild weather this winter. And it is winter, despite the tepid, indecisive Colorado fronts that tell me to wear sweaters in the morning and t-shirts during the day. It's all about layering but I'm getting tired of being mistaken for a bloated walrus. Swearing it's the clothes only incriminates me more, strengthening my resolve to move south someday very soon.

Dad and I went to dinner at Boulder-based Noodles & Co., one of my only favorite/tolerated fast food restaurants and talked about dating and women (who I seem to understand better than him, surprise surprise) and how I had discussed a similar issue on dating with Cale earlier in the day about not necessarily playing hard-to-get or relinquishing yourself to games of feigned disinterest, instead focusing on simple patience, which he seemed to understand and accept. And then later discussing the need for patience, especially in relationships among older people, as I would imagine the urge fairly strong to rush that initial getting-to-know-you phase to get on with your life, to do the things you've been dreaming of doing with this fantasy person, because it seems as though time is running out. And you simply can't rush these kinds of things.

Then I went to the library, only to be greeted by a dismal selection, followed by the gym where I found a slightly-improved-but-nevertheless-equally-disheartening selection as well. Then again, life isn't always about options. I'm re-evaluating my current inventory.

posted Friday, January 31, 2003

Ripped

I've spent the better part of the week dedicated to a new workout routine as indited by trainers-on-paper Villepigue and Rivera, honing my armamentarium of curls and lifts and pulls and rows, and complementing my wonted weights with an additional early morning run and ab jellification routine. Of course, the plan looks prettier in theory than in practice. Each morning has found me in bed ten, fiften, even thirty minutes later than the previous, despite my attempts at turning in at a reasonable — and by reasonable I mean ungodly — hour, taking naps when appropriate, eliminating caffeine from my diet, and sacrificing virgins to Hypnos. But overlooking lack of sleep and motivation, I'm feeling ripped-the-fuck-up.

And just in time, too. (That is, if you can handle a little competition.)

posted Wednesday, January 29, 2003

Discrete Thoughts

I slipped on my Merrells for the first time in a long time this morning. They are soft and fit sock-snug. If I had $2,700,000,000, I would buy a pair to match every outfit I own, which is simultaneously the most gay and most definitely-not-gay idea I've had in a while.

On broken hardware, I empathize. Some time has passed without me mentioning it, but the digital camera I bought five months ago is now out of commission after taking a hard landing on a tile floor in my Cancun hotel room, victim of careless manhandling as I, hungover, reached for the previous night's jeans, quiet resting place of the ill-fated camera that -- unbeknownst to me -- was safely inside the pocket, the device flung forcefully, tragically, towards its demise, a resounding crack as it struck the cold, unmerciful surface, and the subsequent fury and scattering of camera bits as they hurled themselves across the room. I was able to resurrect a few pictures from the flash card, but alas, the camera itself is awaiting a better day. It could be said for many of us.

In an email conversation with Aaron, I mentioned the idea that our lives are not a continuous stream, but rather a collection of discrete moments in which we experience the profound, the extreme, linked together by a tether of everyday life. While most sites cannot boast a fecundity of profundity, Aaron has attempted to compile moments that strike him, placing the consequential concentrate in Your Words for Your Enjoyment.

posted Tuesday, January 28, 2003

Adventures in Migraineland

They seem to have started again. I had two episodes yesterday. The ribbons of static that flutter through my vision like silver flags are called migraine auras. Apparently, this symptom is theorised to have inspired Lewis Carrol's descriptions of "Alice's Adventures in Wonderland." Interestingly enough, I'm also the seventh search result on Google for this topic. Fortunately, they seem to be harmless.

posted Wednesday, January 22, 2003

Bowling for Columbine

The air quietly congealed around us throughout the afternoon to form distinct spheres of existence: the area in which you directly occupied and spheres of light that would float in the thick, viscous night that ultimately settled. Everything in-between dissolved in the fog or perhaps froze into a solid blackness, and the accompanying chill that has descended is forbidding. Fortunately, I've thought ahead and prepared a pot roast that will stand and defend my apartment from frigid intrusion as it cooks, putting my crock pot -- a Christmas gift from my mom -- to use for the first time.

Despite the inhospitable weather, Leif and I braved the low-visibility and chill to see and 8 o'clock showing of Bowling for Columbine at the Peak. I enjoyed it immensely. Was anyone else won over by Marilyn Mason? I could not have expected his wit, his dead-on antics, nor his sympathetic wisdom, and my opinion of him has made a 90-degree turn-about (never being that opposed to him, rather more ambivalent towards his noteworthiness, which has now been replaced with something close to admiration).

And while appreciating the message Michael Moore was trying to make, I felt it was a little unfair the way celebrity spokespersons -- such as Dick Clark and Charlton Heston -- were scapegoated for problems that no one can shoulder responsbility for, their silence or unwillingness to talk held against them as though it were indicative of a much larger picture. In these circumstances, I don't think there is much one can say about such weight and speculation.

posted Tuesday, January 21, 2003

Possible Introduction to Future Biography or Self Improvement Series

I smell the coffee and hear the brewer quietly chattering to itself in the kitchen, but it is the sunlight streaming through the blinds that wakes me first, and I rouse, rested, stretch, and pull myself out of bed, pull myself to life. I live in Miami and the humidity loves me (it is so nice not having to moisturize twice a day).

I run my own business, and so I wake with the sun, the first few hours dedicated to evaluating the day's schedule in my underwear with a cup of dark brew. Everything looks in order. I down a few glasses of water and throw on my jogging shorts to get in a half-an-hour of running on the sandy stretch behind my condo that backs to the Atlantic, white surf the first to greet me with a salty kiss.

I've dreamt of this for so long, dreamt in bold, vibrant color, stealing the green-blue of the ocean, the searing yellow of the sun, silver sand, color that afterburns its compositions into the retina of memory as though your proximity to the source of life is directly correlated to color's intensity. I return and shower away the salt of the ocean, the salt of sweat, and dress to meet my first few clients of the day at the gym. I teach them form and function, help them understand their movements, guide them towards better results, better health, and better living.

Later, I meet my three coworkers for lunch. We are the sole employees of the business I've created, a software firm that develops training and personal fitness software for gyms, professional sports teams, and the self-motivated. The comraderie between us is palpable. Having just landed a large, nation-wide client, I buy everyone lunch and give them the day off. We toast margaritas to our success, salt falling on the table, green lime's sour song echoing our thrill.

Our office is small, smartly furnished, clean and cool. I return to finish the day's tasks, children to me, requiring care and tenderness and patience and that sometimes disappoint but spring an eternal source of pride and satisfaction. There are accounts to monitor, bills to disburse, project and work requests to review, new clients to contact, and inquiries to answer. There is so much to do, but so much possibility; it fills me to the brim.

My body draws me to the gym in the late afternoon and I join in a game of basketball, lift and commune with friends, and meet for a while with the general manager who has some new clients in need of some personal training. I take their numbers and will call them in the morning to explore their needs, chart maps and talk of potential because that is all I am these days: potential that flies in every direction at once like sparks from a firecracker.

My days are full and I pull forward, my life evolving, constantly cycling like the tide and, returning home, orbit complete, I make something small to eat that will keep me until the morning. One of my favorite activities is still nesting between the sheets with a book; sleep, a silent hunter, capturing me with the powerful heartbeat of surf that is felt through the open window by my bed.

Do you want it?
And if you had it, would you flaunt it?
Well it's yours.

posted Monday, January 20, 2003

Sea Shells

When I was in Mexico, I purchased a necklace -- two, to be exact -- at a souvenier shop along the highway near the Mayan ruins of Coba, a black cord that ties together through the largest spiral of a conch shell that has been sliced horizontally to boast the beautiful, flesh-colored inside and the delicate arch that developed as the shell grew around itself. As I approached the display, which contained many such shell necklaces, traditional hemp necklaces, and conch shells in other arrangements, my eyes were drawn instantly to this intriguing spiral. Is this attraction to the Golden Ratio truly innate?

posted Thursday, January 16, 2003

Infectuous

Is it worth it? Let me work it. I put my thing down, flip it and reverse it. Managing to incorporate Missy's latest lyrics in practically every conversation today, her ba-bump ba-bump-bump invading every corner of my head until my ass go boom, spreading like a computer virus or meme (thanks to you and you), infectuous, curable only through repeated plays throughout the day. Work it.

And just when I'd believed my fears unfounded and the spread of infection limited to music, my body tells me otherwise, internal furnace on overload, my neck aching and my gut twisting. I put the song on repeat, down a glass a wat-ah, and sit down with a book or two or three and a cupa-cupa of tea. Sushi for dinner with Leif, after the help of my trusty friend Advil, of course.

Last year, I read The Healthy High Tech Body, by Oz Garcia, which is sparse on practical solutions but abounds in rich analysis, history and unusual, amazingly tasty recipes, including oatmeal-barley cakes, lentil salads, and pork tenderloin with grapes and vidalia onions. Tonight, I'm making some basic marinara. Tomorrow, roast plum tomatoes. (Flavor enhancers, in case you're wondering, not actual meals). I felt a lot healthier at this point, last year, too -- eating smarter, working out religiously -- and yet I still managed to catch the occasional cold. While some things are more fun to catch than others, I'm hoping that some of my resolutions this year will keep me healthier, if not challenged at the very least.

posted Wednesday, January 15, 2003

Colored

The mountain air welcomed me home with a cool, dry, enveloping embrace, pulling the remaining humidity that clung to my clothes and hair and skin with a motherly punctilio. Returns home are always bittersweet.

The short time spent in balmy weather further cemented my decision to move to the southern coast when my life will permit it, where the seasons merge into an inifinite flow of time, inspire music made of movement through the thick air and call down gifts of fire from Olympus. I forgot about green, it's vibrancy, it's compliment of red blood, singing life! and stretching towards the light. And then there's the blue that in retrospect draws the long bow, appears as hyperbole. I deplane and the colors disperse into the pale landscape, gas molecules in a vacuum.

And things have been cleared up on the homefront, leaving email and laundry and books and Centipede to be dealt with. I feel the potential stream through my pores like so much green and blue life.

posted Tuesday, January 7, 2003

Game Faces

Tonight's Avalanche game sucked. Despite the shoddy playing, the half-filled stadium, the lethargic crowd, and my own ambivalent mood, I couldn't help but catch M's contagious smile and feel overwhelmingly satisfied with my position at the moment. His part was a little more vocal as he coached the team from our top balcony seats and spread the nervous frustration of the audience. We had fun playing a game in the foyer (we won free candy), trash-talking Skoula, and remembering the cheer leader that couldn't throw t-shirts through the safety net.

In other news, can you believe Mr. Darcy proposed to Elizabeth?

posted Monday, January 6, 2003

Roar to Life

The new year has floated in effortlessly, gliding as though on ice, wheels locked in a silent skid forward. The image is less menacing in my mind where the ice stretches towards the horizon and I know that I'll continue to coast if I choose to do so, yet I hold the key in my hand, numb with cold, and I squint through white-vapor'd breath to watch it turn. The engine rolls like a taffy pull.

I called today to check on a few part-time job possibilities, but no one needs help. I feel like one of the families in that episode of the Twilight Zone that forgot to build a bomb shelter. Everyone huddles into their jobs, "Sorry, no room." I have a secure job and can make do with what I have. Really, isn't that the point? As Sheryl Crow croons, "It's not having what you want, it's wanting what you've got."

My problem is slightly different. It's not a matter of wanting what I've got — which I do — rather, what I've got wants more from me. It has frozen the path in front of me with an infinite stretch of icy debt. There's dry ground on either side, however. All I have to do is turn the wheel and get movin'. I flip off the radio and turn the key. The engine roars to life.

posted Friday, January 3, 2003

Breakfast Date

It's sweet, almost sickly so, this smell that clings to the apartment nearly a week to-date of that fateful morning when I decided to go balls-out, making breakfast extraordinaire consisting of hashed browns, french toast, fried eggs, and -- to my ultimate horror -- maple-and-honey-flavored bacon. A word to the wise, unless you currently use a syrup-scented airfreshener, do not under any circumstances consume this scourge in your own home. At the very least do it in someone else's. Leaving the windows open for days upon end has had no effect, as has multiple applications of Lysol, PlugIn's and incessant incense burning.

The only solution: have it for breakfast again this weekend.

posted Thursday, January 2, 2003

The Nineties

Pecs aching from a spontaneous midweek lift session, I drop to the floor in my underwear with a tub of Dreyer's-brand Twix-flavored ice cream to hit that calorie mark for the day and read about black holes while listening to 90's flashback with the Foo Fighters and Folk Implosion. Amazing how the term "the nineties" can now be as loaded and superciliously spat as the terms, "the eighties" or "the seventies." I wonder what nifty catch phrase they'll coin for this decade in ten years.

I went to the optometrist today, just another example of how I am all growed up now. Not only did I schedule the appointment on my own volition, I was able to march proudly to the counter afterwards and exclaim, "My insurance will be covering that thankyouverymuch." I hope I can find this much satisfaction in such routine ten years from now.

On a completely unrelated note, a site discovered today paying homage to the greatest sketch comedy show ever made. Ever.

Now I know what you're thinkin': Barry and Lavone, where did you get two hundred and forty dollars? Shhh... Don't worry your pretty little head about it.

posted Wednesday, January 1, 2003

Two-Thousand-Three

A date that looks rather strange on the front page of the newspaper this morning, even though it shouldn't stand out as we've been faced with "2002" for a year now, but "2003" simply looks odd. Well, it is odd. It's also a prime number.

A relaxing evening spent in with M, my hand on the impossible length of his torso, his head on my chest while we watched cartoons and played NFL 2002 on the Playstation. It snowed overnight and when we woke up, it blanketed our cars and our minds alike as we groggily greeted the new year. Fortunately, I make some damn good coffee.

And then there's that tug as everyone checks in -- my parents, my little bro, the friends I haven't spoken to in weeks -- the distance seeming so apparent, like miles and miles of snow-covered valleys. There's a need to prepare, to patch up communication blips before hanging new calendars. I wish I could be everywhere at once.

This year, I resolve to:

• focus on quality, not quantity
• eliminate fear
• eliminate debt
• live better
• write another book
• read five books a month
• eat vegetables every day
• compliment more
• call my mom
• get more comfortable in my own skin

posted Monday, December 30, 2002

Responsibile Writer

For those of you who scour Arts & Letters Daily as frequently as I have the past few weeks, I'd like to apologize up front for the recent deluge of A&L-related links (Hi, my name is Chris. I'm an A&L-coholic.) Philip Pullman discusses writers' responsibilities to their stories, outlining several commitments we should make to ourselves once we volunteer to this service of storytelling -- a service that may not change the world, but that might bring "the sounds and sweet airs, that give delight and hurt not."

My favorite is Pullman's responsibility to the medium:

... those of us who use [language] professionally are responsible for looking after it... That means, for example, making sure of the meaning of words by looking them up in a good dictionary. And not only that: words have a history, a flavour of their origin, as well as a contemporary meaning. We should acquire as many dictionaries as we have space for, out-of-date ones as well as new ones, and make a habit of using them.

When I was in elementary school, I won several spelling bees, thanks in part to my parents' insistence that I always look up questionable words in the dictionary. The dictionary and I became good friends. It was orderly, patient, and a place I could find invariability in difficult times of change. As the years passed, however, those well-worn pages started to reveal their faliability as language mutated and evolved, proof that the medium -- language, grammar, spelling -- is anything but concrete. Rules we've been taught since grade school are merely guidelines, wishes passed down from previous generations like a photo album or heirloom, hopes that we would preserve this for posterity.

(While there is often a technical requirement for standardization in newer media, this desire for preservation is also observable in web standards efforts over the years.)

This responsibility to the medium also ensures that our writing is not only widely accessible, but that older works and those yet to be written will be as well. In his review, Pullman may not have resolved whether literature can better society. By writing responsibly, however, society maintains a thread of consciousness that can be traced throughout the ages, and this alone may be worth the effort, for progress can't be achieved without a starting point or method of tracking advancements. Writing serves this end nicely.

posted Sunday, December 29, 2002

» Happy birthday, baby!

posted Thursday, December 26, 2002

Convicted

With Christmas over, I'm left with a sort of religious aftershock from a bombardment of nativity scenes, Christmas eve services, feast prayers and philosophical conversations with the pops. And yet my stance on religion is still as stubborn as my father’s. We continually reach the same roadblock that atheists and deists have come to for ages, and whether out of frustration or sheer inability to articulate myself, I give up and we agree to disagree. I'm fortunate to have a civil opponent in him, whatever the outcome.

The New York Times published an article on the studies of Dr. David Wilson, who posits religion is an evolutionary device or byproduct thereof, one which engenders its followers with greater cohesion and will to carry on in "the absence of information, evidence or immediate gratification" -- the most lucid definition of "faith" I've come across -- and I take a step back from my religious roots to see the enormity of this behemoth that crawls in pace with humanity.

I've had my own epiphanies about afterlife and greater power, yet as sure as the sun sets, the moment I crest that understanding and reach the surface gasping at air, I'm pulled back under with the tide. I may not maintain my grasp on that understanding but the feeling remains, that certainty with which I surfaced, and perhaps my dad arms himself with the same conviction. The idea of religion as an evolutionary advantage makes me wonder if it would behoove me to participate voluntarily, but I have seen so much bloodshed at the hands of religion.

Dr. Wilson:

Religions and other social organizations may preach kindness and cooperation within the group, but they often say nothing about those outside the group, and may even promote brutality toward those beyond the brotherhood of the hive.

posted Wednesday, December 25, 2002

Christmas, Oh Two

Because it's that time of year again, I've run about madly garnering last minute knick-knacks and gifts for the ensuing festivities, hoping that I don't fail anyone's expectations, praying that I remembered the entire roster of recipients, and keeping a schedule that would make Martha Stewart cry uncle. I'd normally decry the materialistic fervor of the holiday now, but am refraining due to my undeniable, compulsory participation. On top of that, as my parents are divorced and remarried, I've got two Christmases to celebrate, a tempting arrangement for any kid under the age of twelve immediately sensing stacked odds in Santa's sack, but for someone twice that age it seems rather unnecessary and tiresome. Despite my cynicism, utter lack of patience for tradition, and cheek muscles exhausted from a 48-hour period of continual smiling, upholding face and general pleasantries, I'm nonetheless enthused at the prospect of having the entire clan together again for our ease of interaction, comfortability, and feeling that as long as we're together, everything will be alright.

Here's hoping that you find an equal sense of well being and enjoyment in the presence of those you love this holiday. Merry Christmas!

posted Tuesday, December 24, 2002

Ask and You Shall Receive

Simultaneously lauded and shunned by director Steven Spielburg, Max presents us with a question that's been avoided for nearly half a century: How did Hitler become Hitler? And yet there are still people who would ignore this inquiry, preferring to allow "evil" to remain this unspeakable, blindly accepted phenomenon:

"Why the need or desire to make this monster human?" Foxman told the Times. "The judgment of history is that he was evil, that he was responsible for millions of deaths. Why trivialize that judgment of history by focusing on his childhood and adolescence? Have we run out of subjects to focus on?"

While not the root of the world's problems, this sort of avoidance illustrates a disturbing tendency, a knee-jerk reaction that is perpetuated through PC and religion, a defaulting of blame or natural process to an ineffable entity that is used as a scapegoat for too much: "Hitler was evil," "Terrorists are evil," "Homosexuality is evil."

By using evil as an excuse to avoid questions that should be asked, we eschew our devoir as cognizant creatures -- we deny reality -- ignoring the fact that our actions and reactions are simply human -- human responses to a human world.

Max opens on December 27 in New York and Los Angeles.

posted Monday, December 23, 2002

Bloggiquette

Rules of Blogger ettiquette, as observed:

1. Reciprocal links are not guaranteed.
2. If you want me to take the time to read your site, take the time to make it readable.
3. Compliment publicly, criticize privately.
4. If you meet a really sweet, adorable weblogger celebrating his 21st birthday on Friday night at the Wave, and he takes time to write an extensive post on it and even link to you, be sure to provide a link back, if not for the sheer sake of bragging about having had the pleasure of meeting him.

(Ed. note: All 11:11 posts are to be directed to him.)

posted Sunday, December 22, 2002

Designing Weekend

Taking a break from the game to relieve my disappointment, I notice that my boyfriend has taken to weblogging (or online journaling or whatever you want to call it) rather well. In fact, I'm a little envious of how easy he's made it look; it took me two years to get the hang of it and even now I'm still not sure where I stand on the whole issue. It was fun playing around with his design this weekend. Took me back to the days of singledom when I would while away the hours by creating and recreating layouts just to pass the time, only this time I had someone fun to spend them with.

Meg Hourihan has written an article over at O'Reilly discussing the benefits of XML and RSS feeds, something I've considered implementing here off and on over the past year after discovering some really cool RSS readers, if not for the sheer geek factor. Definitely something to check out if design is your baby.

Speaking of new designs: excitedly anticipating Version Four.

posted Wednesday, December 18, 2002

Love My Job

A pre-noon showing of The Two Towers edulcorated my displeasure at having to trudge into work today, my manager buying everyone in our office tickets to see the early bird matinee; just one of the perks of working in software development. It's a good example of how spoiled I am -- fortunate enough to have a job in the first place -- and yet never able to shake the seemingly-inbred disgruntlement that appears to plague so much of working America. Those of you who can appreciate what I'm saying would be well-advised to read these vulgar words of wisdom. Did I mention that my company announced dollar-for-dollar contributions to our 401(k)'s next year? I am so set.

posted Tuesday, December 17, 2002

Mini-Recap

I'd love to be able to do as thorough a weekend recap as some people are, but my memory seems to serve more for storage of trivial information and less as an applicable tool of retrospection. The past four days were filled with a spectrum of activity, a broad range of emotion, and spent in a flash with lots of cooking, sleeping, Av's watching, reading, driving, working out, and shopping. In other news, the boyfriend has his very own website now and I must say he's pulling off this online journal thing better than I have recently. Go say hello!

posted Wednesday, December 11, 2002

Cowboys and Indians

Get ready to slap leather! That loveable red-headed scamp is back! And no one handles a hot rod like the Rawhide Kid!

Here-here for Marvel, comic book pioneer, for their brave venture into the world of gunslingers, gunslingers and Tom of Finland:

Although shy with girls, the original Rawhide Kid was not intended to be gay. The new version uses double entendres and euphemisms to reveal his homosexuality without saying anything explicitly. Based on a blurb on Marvel's Web site, the tone may be campy.

While this isn't their first openly gay character, it's made CNN headlines, the New York Post, and my Christmas wishlist, as it smacks of my favorite Louisiana hangout. Although Neale makes a good point -- "this comic will simply re-enforce all the worst possible stereotypes about gay men to impressionable teenagers" -- I doubt teenagers who end up reading the Rawhide Kid will be any more adversely affected by these themes than teens who are exposed to the over-sexualized men and women in straight counterparts. A great move by Marvel, in my opinion, and one that should not only bring marketability to a character forty years in the dust jacket, but also push Marvel deeper into a niche market that neither it nor any other media outlet has yet to fully penetrate.

How's that for double entendres?

posted Tuesday, December 10, 2002

Forward

And I feel so much potential buzzing around my head, it vibrates through my body like an aftershock only this feeling isn't residual, it's before the big hit -- a beforeshock. I'm paralyzed with the new year's possibilities, the reset calendars, the zeroed YTD's, climbing to the top of this year and gazing into the valleys of the next like a prelaunch paraglider. Sometimes this man-made calendar year feels like a cage, a delimiter to an otherwise endless now that could offer beginning or end depending on your perspective and desires, and other times, such as now, it feels like a limitless tunnel, focused. I am aligned with a greater movement towards a common direction, stretching my arms into a space of possibility.

posted Monday, December 9, 2002

Twenty-Four

The first Monday of my 24th year and I feel a little older, a little more responsible, a little more famous than the year before, and even though I may have found job security, a great new apartment and love in someone's arms, I still don't feel as though I've made the significant strides I'd imagined just a year ago. I have to ask: Without discontentment, would there ever be progression? And do I want to be content for that matter?

To live content with small means, to seek elegance rather than luxury, and refinement rather than fashion, to be worthy, not respectable, and wealthy, not rich, to study hard, think quietly, talk gently, act frankly, to listen to stars and birds, to babes and sages, with open heart, to bear all cheerfully, do all bravely, await occasions, hurry never, in a word to let the spiritual, unbidden and unconscious, grow up through the common, this is to be my symphony

- William Ellery Channing

Beautiful sentiment, contentment as a symphony. Yet, I had always envisioned contentment as a passive, stagnant state, much in the same way passivity is induced by drug use or religion, destructive to both human life and art and there is an underlying fear that contentment often breeds smugness, boredom, arrogance, laziness, apathy, and mediocrity. I want to see myself as part of a larger process than simply a path to good enough, something active, recycling, something always spiraling upwards.

posted Monday, December 9, 2002

Adventures in Second Person

After a satisfying lunch of sushi with your friend Dave, you decide to take a leisurely walk along the Cherry Creek as the weather is beautifully warm and you're feeling gossipy, not wanting to end the afternoon bonding quite yet. The trail is populated with sporadic joggers, transients and bikers. You have walked about a hundred yards along the creek and notice the water level is quite low. What do you want to do?

> look at water_

The water is unsurprisingly low for this time of year and gurgles quietly over a small cascade of river stones. Caught in the stones is a lone red rose, upright and standing easily against the gentle current as though it had been growing there all along. Apparently it has gotten caught and you point it out to Dave who immediately comments on how picturesque the scene is. What do you want to do?

> take rose_

Unfortunately, the rose is too far away to reach from where you are standing. What do you want to do?

> move to water_

You step off the paved walkway and onto the large boulders that border the creek. The smell from the water is stronger now, vegetation and a multitude of unknown pollutants rising with the aerated aqueous, infiltrating your nostrils and making you squint with distaste. What do you want to do?

> take rose_

Laying on the giant, flat boulder beneath you, the rose is just within reach and you pluck it from the water with ease, carefully setting it next to you and standing with a quiet sense of triumph. As you begin to stand, however, your sunglasses suddenly slip from your shirt collar and tumble into the water. The two of you watch helplessly as the glasses meander quietly down the creek and deposit themselves somewhere under the current as it flows beneath the bridge up ahead. What do you want to do?

> give rose to dave_

You hand the rose to Dave who doesn't know whether to be thrilled or disgusted by your gift. Quick thinking lends him to pluck the bud from the gunked stem and toss it in the stream. "That sucks about your glasses. I'll definitely have to keep this now," he says, smiling. What do you want to do?

> move to bridge_

Walking ahead about fifty feet, you find yourselves under a street bridge that spans across the Cherry Creek and echoes the sound of the sleepy stream. Dave points to the water. "Hey, there are your glasses." What do you want to do?

> take glasses_

Your red sunglasses are submerged under three feet of water that is beneath a rather large waterfall, all in a ravine of about five feet under the sidewalk upon which you are currently standing. There is a path of boulders that leads to the bottom of the ravine. A sandbar looks as though it provides access to the water. What do you want to do?

> move to boulders_

You agilely leap down the water-worn rocks to the sandy ravine bottom and walk up to the water's edge. Your glasses are just within reach -- if you want to be knee-high in water, that is. What do you want to do?

> look around_

The sandbar is home to a mass of refuse and dried algae, along with several long branches of willow that have washed upon the shore. Dave watches from above. What do you want to do?

> take branch_

You pick up the longest branch nearest to you and return to the water's edge. What do you want to do?

> take glasses_

Holding the leathery willow branch in one hand, you place your feet on slick, green rocks and carefully step closer to the water. The branch dips easily into the water and, hooking into the nose of the glasses, lifts them out of the water and into the air. Dave cheers behind you and cautions you not to slip as you make your way back to the sandbar. You shake off your glasses, triumphantly thinking that you have beaten the creek's strange sense of karma. What do you want to do?

> time to go home_

posted Thursday, December 5, 2002

Chrismas

Tonight I'm going to see Tori Amos perform at Denver University, the ticket a birthday present from my friend Mason. It's been a while since I've seen anyone in concert and she's been at the top of my list for quite some time now; the excitement is palpable. Taking the afternoon to prep for the rest of the weekend: Avalanche game tomorrow night, Mammoth game after that, partying Saturday night, dinner with the fam on Sunday. Like the season of brAdvent, a full three days dedicated to Chrismas.

posted Wednesday, December 4, 2002

Jenga

So it's been pretty hectic around here with the holidays behind and ahead, birthday around the corner, a whole slew of work related trips and projects, financial hullabaloo, and -- well -- just life. I didn't finish the novel and, although I don't feel too bad about it, I do feel a little ridiculous now for thinking I could pile that on top of everything else I had going on. Live and learn -- there's been a lot of both.

The bit of free time I do get is doled out to M or friends or family or books. I've reacquainted myself with the musty paper smell of the library and it feels good, familiar. Some of the books I've borrowed talk about financial independence or starting your own business, both big topics for me right now -- probably for a lot of people today, for that matter. Re-evaluate, plan, act.

Which brings me to something I've had a difficult time deciding. Come January, which is the month this domain was created, I won't be renewing. This doesn't mean I'll disappear completely, however I'll probably be looking at some alternatives, such as blogspot. If you have any recommendations, please feel free to drop me a line.

posted Monday, December 2, 2002

Ensavor

I zoned the other day at the grocery store, examining the candy rack by the cash register. A highly irregular dietary item, these sort of sweets have always endured my somewhat supercilious downward glances over the years but I found myself surveying the tantilizing array while waiting for cost-per-commodity aggregation. The rack was approximately four-feet high by three-feet wide -- a twelve-square-foot area of brightly-colored wrappers, artificial coloring, chemical flavors, super-refined sugar, and other parental/diabetic/Tappy Tibbons' nightmares. And even though I've consumed probably one of maybe three confectionary delights on the rack in front of me over the past year, I could still ensavor each, imagine its texture on my tongue, differentiate Berry Blasts from Berry Blizts, and the bitter darks from the mellow milks. I scanned each row with the systematic diligence of a computer until a complete mental survey had been conducted. Sweet, psychological succor. Still thankful my imagination's intact.

posted Thursday, November 28, 2002

Self-Conscious

I stood in the long line outside of the club, bundled in a leather jacket and gloves. The night before Thanksgiving is somehow the busiest day of the year here. Our collective breath rose in a grey puff above our heads and disappeared into the black night sky, whispering of fog machines and warmth inside. I tilted my head back and downed the rest of a gummy-bear Red Bull. M was in Kansas and Josh was visiting from NYC, so I had come out alone to meet him, braving the warzone of the interstate, holiday crowds, and the decked out, gussied up chorus line I was now a part of — although it could be said that, despite the weather, the crowd was "gussied down" in sleeveless t-shirts, tank tops, and various slinky outfits as gay men are wont to do, even in sub-freezing temperatures. I pulled my jacket around closer and felt unusually overdressed. Despite my foresight, I was cold nevertheless and rocked back on my heels, buried my nose in my glove, and watched the pavement as the line moved lethargically towards the door.

I had looked up for only a second. A familiar face drifted from the door and eyes that I had seen only in pictures for the past two years met mine. My black gloved hand reached out, blended in with the night as I waved and Josh walked over without pausing, saying my name with that familiar perspicacity, voice loaded with a sly knowing or a childish naivete depending on your mood when you heard it. He was drunk but coherant and explained that he was just leaving to get some sleep. Great, I had gotten there just in time to catch him leave. Programming my number into his phone, he said he'd call me this weekend, although I knew that in his state and with his track record, the next time I'd hear from him would be on some harried night, one, maybe even two, years from now. He looked up at me with those expectant eyes. I opened my mouth slightly, the question on my lips and he answered before I spoke. The rest of my friends were inside, he said, and I nodded to indicate I'd keep my place in line to meet up with them. Leaning in, he kissed me on the lips. I returned to the line and waved, smiling, feeling a little less self-conscious about being overdressed and alone, and headed into the bar to join my friends, much to be thankful for.

posted Wednesday, November 27, 2002

Road Trip

The yucca plants in the Nevada desert grow tall and thick, bow under their own weight in a hasty attempt to reach the sun. They grow like trees, whereas here in Colorado they sprout small and stay small. We used to collect yucca pods on the walk to school when I was a kid. If you pick them at the right time — right after they've ripened and begun to dry — you've got a pretty nifty maraca. Pick them after they've dried and split and classmates beware! A good shake and you're showered with a spray of black seeds.

M and I drove through the desert, through the mountains, cross-country to "the fertile valleys" of Las Vegas, seduced by the warm lights, warm air, and warm possibilities of much, much more than real life — a skin of glitz and glamour that floats atop the pea soup of vice and desperation. More than that, however, we wanted to spend time together. Tim was kind enough to meet us on the strip to show us a few of the more touristy things, the white tigers at the Mirage, the Venetian, the Forum Shops at Caesar's Palace. We gambled at the dollar tables at the Sahara and lost our money at craps on Fremont Street. As Tim quoted, the house always wins. We had a great time, nevertheless.

posted Sunday, November 17, 2002

Fried

Had a craving for fried potatoes this morning. Peeled, sliced, tossed with an onion, crisped to gold in the slick, new, non-stick skillet purchased for very meals. Weekend cravings for fatty dishes, satisfying base, gastrointestinal wishes for carbs and oil and salt, velvet dips into forbidden garners, Or, from the garner-door, on ether borne, / The chaff flies devious from the winnow'd corn. And with those, fried eggs with pepper. Afterwards, hours upon hours of televised football. Indulgent, fat-fried weekend—and a potential contribution to the evolution of our species. Speaking stricty from a scientific perspective, of course.

[I]t is not just changes in diet that have created many of our pervasive health problems but the interaction of shifting diets and changing lifestyles. Too often modern health problems are portrayed as the result of eating "bad" foods that are departures from the natural human diet--an oversimplification embodied by the current debate over the relative merits of a high-protein, high-fat Atkins-type diet or a low-fat one that emphasizes complex carbohydrates. This is a fundamentally flawed approach to assessing human nutritional needs.

And:

Indeed, the hallmarks of human evolution have been the diversity of strategies that we have developed to create diets that meet our distinctive metabolic requirements and the ever increasing efficiency with which we extract energy and nutrients from the environment.

posted Thursday, November 14, 2002

Engagements

I don't remember the first time I felt the thrill of swiping that slick plastic card, that first, quick seduction, or the subsequent spiral that's lead up to today, but the history is spread out before me now, a paper chorus line singing my name. Finally deciding to do something about it, I lined 'em up, took aim and fired.

Don't worry, everything will be alright, "In the future, we will all be married to J.Lo for 15 minutes."

posted Wednesday, November 13, 2002

Tasty

This morning I woke to an empty refridgerator. No orange juice or milk or yogurt, staple breakfast items of mine, and so I baked a loaf of crusty French bread I'd kept in the freezer and topped it off with some Strawberry preserves and butter I'd managed to hold onto. Felt like I was in Germany again. Carrying that memory with me into the day, I convinced my mom to meet me at a local German restaurant where we ate schnitzel and took pictures of her new grandson.

I know, technically that would make him my nephew—or step-nephew, as it were—but I don't feel related to her new family, no matter what the law says, added to the fact that she's already technically my step-mother anyway. Step-this, step-that. Do-see-do. My family is like a square dancing convention or at the very least, a huge, spiraling staircase.

Like my fridge, the week has been sparsely populated leading to tasty, albeit less-than healthy television frivolity. Pizza for Monday Night Football, naturally. Last night, X Files and cook-whatever-you-can-find-in-the-kitchen. Frozen pizza and Cowboy Bebop tonight. I'm set, although you may want to help Jodi decide what to cook tonight.

See you Space Cowboy.

posted Tuesday, November 12, 2002

Loquacious Transubstantiation

Saturday's excursion to the mountains was met by an invasion of enormous, wet clumps of snow, appropriately forbidding as M and I made our way to what would be a Barmecidal timeshare presentation, replete with voluble, smarmy salespeople and ostentatiously decorated rooms. The trip was worth braving weather and salespitches, though, as we left with two tickets to hopefully-sunny, southern California.

Meanwhile, it continued to snow. We were trapped in the stuff, held up for a night in the lodge across the street, making the best of it with a bottle of wine and relentless episodes of Trading Spaces. A weekend snowbound debacle was miraculously avoided by M's meticulous driving and a quick break in the weather, allowing us to arrive and depart with little trouble despite fear-mongering weather reports heard on our return.

My fears of avalanches, snowy asphyxiation, or being stranded in wintry deserts, which would normally seem to serve as the driest kind of creative fodder, made for nothing but an interesting, angst-ridden trip. I made little to no headway on the book. As I started wondering if my priorities are jumbled, my days being doors that hinge on my word count or the latest downloaded dance remix or weekend plans with M or who hooked up with whom at the club this weekend, I realized that even though I may have grown soft on the outside, reliant on social superfluousity, my heart remains strong, tethered to the earth, armored, able to withstand harsh wilderness and grey solitude, the night of failure and the desert heat of truth.

posted Friday, November 8, 2002

Trading Spaces with Ty

Feeling slightly frivolous today as the novel plods along at a little under 3,000 words (last year at this date, 20,526 words). New hairstyle idea, inspired by Ty Pennington: three months of growth, texturize, blowdry, wax. Repeat as necessary.

posted Tuesday, November 5, 2002

Punch it Out

Writing is so much harder when you are content with life. No. Nix that. It should be said that writing is simply easier when the thunderheads of depression fill your skies, when the knives of breakups pierce your throat, or when the pull of life's undertows suck the words out of you, through you. Caffeine and music are medicines, but a well-rested, happy boy makes a difficult artist.

posted Thursday, October 31, 2002

Burnt Pumpkins

The smell is smoky and sweet, not unpleasant at all, unlike the initial whiff of innards that wafts from a freshly opened fruit. Once emptied and carved, candle in place, the aroma that fills the house conjures memories of cold, dark nights. First prize for the contest is one hundred dollars.

I spent the day in prison clothes, fake tattoos, and a cubicle dressed up like a cell with black ribbons of crepe paper, and INMATE emblazoned in large letters across my back, which could be read by anyone looking in while I surfed through Textism and Metafilter. Abstracted, the truth is often scarier than fiction, although I don't feel imprisoned exactly, just limited to what I have. And, in all honesty, that isn't so bad I suppose.

Truly scary this Halloween: the persecution of athiest boyscouts, the rise in syphilis, Focus on the Family, and learning there are not enough fish in the sea.

posted Wednesday, October 30, 2002

Cultural Apocalypse

Robert Brustein talks at the Partisan Review of the Four Horsemen of the Anti-Culture—moral, political, aesthetic, and fiscal correctness—and how they threaten to lay siege to the arts by homoginizing cultural attitudes and awareness. To illustrate that arts have been sabotaged by financial limitations, Brustein makes the argument:

When American children think of music, they think of rock. When they think of poetry, they think of hip-hop. When they think of art, they think of graffiti. We are no longer developing audiences for the serious arts.

While I can substantiate his argument on many levels and even agree that these forms of art aren't "serious," dedicated practices that remain true to traditional forms of artistic expression, this argument merely exemplifies the fact that aesthetic correctness has tainted our approach, "demanding that the arts conform to traditional, often conventional rules of creative procedure."

posted Wednesday, October 30, 2002

Hooked on Books

I've been going to the same used bookstore for ten years now and the same tall woman with dark hair and a friendly, contagious smile works behind the desk. She waved when I entered the store today. Apparently a manager now, she let me pick up a handsome new copy of Faulkner's Absalom, Absalom! on store credit that I'd accumulated over the years of trading books, adding that "it's good credit, too." It's all about connections.

posted Wednesday, October 30, 2002

Enter Winter

Snow! Not the first snow of the year, but it stuck to the ground, the cars, branches, my mind, filtered the light flooding my room white. A cup of tea melting away the cold around my hands, I stand by the windows awaiting caffeination initiation. M is on the other side of those mountains playing detective until this afternoon and images of him drift softly in my head, dust the floors, cling to the branches, bury me in sweet, wistful winter.

posted Monday, October 28, 2002

Spaces

I want to buy a home for the obvious reasons—equity, tax breaks, pride in ownership—but the big one that's standing out in my mind right now is Ty Pennington and affording a future locale for an episode of Trading Spaces. M got me hooked on the show when, upon waking late on Sunday mornings, we'd drift into the living room with coffee and watch Ty buzz-saw away a permanent place in our hearts.

The idea has been on my mind lately and it hasn't been a new one but living in a rental again has brought about the routine, apartment-life complaints, most of which involve neighbors, directly or not: noisy neighbors, messy neighbors, neighbors who are just plain weird. M and I talked about his previous experience with a live-in boyfriend. I'm not sure if I'd want to give up my personal space and time alone, but there are certainly a lot of benefits to living with one another.

It helps to have two people for the show, anyway.

posted Friday, October 25, 2002

Eleven Days Left

I spent the better part of the morning canvassing for the Libertarian candidates in my area, walking door-to-door, my body being torn between the heat of the Indian summer sun and the chill of the brisk, mountain air, finally deciding that it was just right. Hiking through the hills of the surrounding neighborhoods seems to have beaten down my head cold for the moment, also.

Your vote's important, but really, it's not enough and I think that's a big reason why a lot of younger voters are being turned off to politics. We have enough to deal with while we struggle to survive in today's economy, and I know I wouldn't be able to devote every weekend to this sort of volunteer work. The more cynical part of me says that younger voters don't do more because we're so used to the immediacy of the point-click-result culture. Ballot voting is seen as slow and archaic, statistically our votes have little clout, and we don't get that instant poll results screen after punching out chads.

posted Thursday, October 24, 2002

Nesting

I rented the Metropolis remake tonight, along with Welcome to the Dollhouse and Presque Rien ("Come Undone") (praise be to Netflix) and designated it a nesting night while I recouperate. God, I'm getting old. You know you're not a kid anymore when you have to take care of yourself when you're sick. No more parents to bring you blankets, or soup and crackers, or big, iced glasses of 7-up. And man, have I gotten crotchety: I just yelled at the hoarde of 13-year-old girls who have been screaming up and down the apartment stairs all night. I suppose I deserve it after hampering many nights of peaceful slumber to be had by my neighbors when my brother and I were kids. I suppose we all have it coming at some point or another.

posted Thursday, October 24, 2002

Free Politics

When I was in 9th grade, we were required to take a Civics class that taught us the workings and proceedures of the U.S. government. At one point, we held a mock congress and the class divi'ed up into two groups: the Republicans and the Democrats. I didn't know much about political parties at the time, but I'm a little frustrated looking back, knowing that we are taught nothing of independent or third party politics and that in order to participate in the system, you must identify with only either Tweedle-Dee or Tweedle-Dum.

Last night I went to a Green Party meeting, and tomorrow I'll meet with the Libertarian candidate running for my district representative. I'm hoping to gain a little more insight into our political system by educating myself on third-party platforms and putting my efforts into these smaller endeavors, maybe prove to myself in the end that our system works, that our votes can have an impact, and that the long-held reign of Republicrats can be challenged. I want to see, firsthand, that we have more than two options and that our choice of those options has real weight.

I've had a lot of time to reflect on the consequences of voting since my first elections in 2000. Those were exciting days, coming of age to participate in this huge machine, reading up on the issues and chosing a presidential candidate I most identified with. But the more I analyzed the political climate, the more I began to second guess myself and, ultimately, I chose a candidate based on practicality rather than who I wanted to represent me.

Neither candidate won. The subsequent frustration was tangible: I had given up my values and ideals to add my voice to a campaign that not only did not represent me, but ultimately failed. Vowing never to vote based on practicality again, I decided to vote for who and what I believe in, regardless political strategizing. And really, wasn't that the intended purpose of allowing people to vote in the first place?

posted Wednesday, October 23, 2002

Winnings

M and I went to the Avalanche game last night and managed to get picked for the inter-period audience competition: a pseudo-sumo wrestling match on the ice. Strapping us into enormous, padded suits, the stadium coordinators led us onto the rink, set four of us in the center circle and yelled at us to knock each other down. I won after M and I were the last two left standing and M decided to take a hit and fall down. The trappings: a year's supply of Coors Light, an Av's shirt, and a baseball cap with an Avalance logo embroidered on the front.

In other news, a good friend from school, Lindsay, is engaged to be married. And no good news would be complete without its bad-news counterpart: I'm getting sick.

posted Thursday, October 17, 2002

Tan Lines

I went to the tanning salon this afternoon with three free passes that I won at a pool party this summer. It was a clean, cozy little shop, and the owner gave me a tour including a run down on all of the beds, their wattage and UV-B percentages. I didn't really want to know the science behind it all, I said. I just want a porno tan line.

I've always been pretty comfortable with my body, but recently I've noticed myself day-dreaming about bulking up, tanning, and getting a body wax. Not that I'm particularly ectomorphic or hirsute, but I wonder if exposure to hundreds of Falcon videos is finally taking its toll on my psyche, not to mention my boyfriend's well-muscled bod is ideally hairless in all the right places.

Walking down Royal Street into the French Quarter not quite two years ago, I idly mentioned the idea of shaving my chest to Jonno, who quickly persuaded me not to, saying, "Are you kidding? An asian guy with a hairy chest is fucking hot!" Well, half-asian anyway (thus the hair). I've definitely noticed it getting a little heavier over the years, so who knows, babe, maybe I'll be joining you at the Rawhide more often in the future.

On a completely unrelated note, I just discovered that you can skip over words in a line while editing by pressing Ctrl and the Left arrow at the same time. It's a good day.

posted Wednesday, October 16, 2002

Caution

And I stepped over the popcorn that (g)littered the hallway, yellow sunbursts against a red checked background, my eyes dialated and the light filtered in but there was no assimilation, no intake or consumption. Everything is already inside. Here, recepies of words that are constructed—or better yet, reassembled—in the garages of your mind, explosive ideas built using your own previous experiences as ingredients. Boom!

posted Tuesday, October 15, 2002

Too Much With Me

Alan Lightman discusses some of the less agreeable symptoms of our Wired World—a world driven by technological progress as an end in itself instead of a means for improvement of the human condition—in his lecture The World is Too Much With Me (from Caterina):

1. An obsession with speed and an accompanying impatience for all that does not move faster and faster.
2. A sense of overload with information and other stimulation.
3. A mounting obsession with consumption and material wealth.
4. Accommodation to the virtual world.
5. Loss of silence.
6. Loss of privacy.

Even though it utilizes the very technological ties that Lightman points to—the Internet, electronic connectedness, as a spoke in the hamster wheel of "production, demand, consumption, and work"—keeping a record on this website has helped me maintain a sense of inner self. It's not nearly as anonymous as it was when I started a few years ago but, when I sit down to type out my thoughts, I'm alone in front of a machine that facilitates my contemplations. If anything, technology has enabled me to develop my writing skills and practice creating and sustaining a private life that is separate from the rest of the world I experience daily.

Granted, the majority of people in our Wired World do not use the Internet to develop personal spaces. It is a justifiable fear of Lightman's that this loss of a private, inner self may lead to a world that we really don't want to live in, and he poses the questions:

Sometimes, I picture America as a person and think that, like a person, our entire nation has an inner self. If so, does our nation recognize that it has an inner self, nourish that inner self, listen to its breathing in order to know who America is and what it believes in and where it is going? If citizens of that nation, like me, have lost something of our inner selves, then what of the nation as a whole? If our nation cannot listen to its inner self, how can it listen to others? If our nation cannot grant itself true inner freedom, then how can it allow freedom for others? How can it bring itself into a respectful understanding and harmonious co-existence with other nations and cultures, so that we might truly contribute to peace in the world?

posted Sunday, October 13, 2002

Preoccupied With...

• Marinated tri-tip steak sandwiches at the Red Umbrella
• M in flannel pajama bottoms
• One-point losses by both the Broncos and the Chiefs on the same day
• "...a certain stranger in a naughty French maid uniform, a blond wig, and holding a pack of beer when you come home tonight."
• Grilled cheese, Hamburger Helper, and margaritas
• Up, up, down, down, left, right, left, right, B, A, start

posted Friday, October 11, 2002

Come and Go

Friday morning spent sleeping in, dreaming of bigger muscles, cleaning house, playing Diablo, doing laundry, and waiting for tonight. Dave came up from Trinidad to stay over for his GRE's this morning and we watched the last episode of QAF, season 1. Season 2 is definitely on my shopping list. Also, Andrea is in town from a summer spent in Portland. People coming and going, it's going to be a busy weekend.

posted Thursday, October 10, 2002

Game Number One

The Avalanche tied the Dallas Stars in last night's game that turned out to be hair-raisingly exciting at parts and fist-clenchingly disappointing in others. Regardless the outcome, I kept feeling overwhelmingly grateful to M sitting next to me, leaning forward intently, cheering and cursing with me, cracking jokes about the fat kid sitting in front of us who had to leave every ten minutes to buy something to eat. We received silver pom-poms and a magnetic game schedule to take home.

posted Wednesday, October 9, 2002

Pool Boy, Part 2

Our room at the B&B was scented with lavender and the air conditioner hummed resolutely above the bed where I reclined, attempting to relax. It was mid-afternoon. J had just left, the sound of the closing door resounding in my head, and he had taken the scooter down the strip to kill some time. Half an hour, he'd said. I let my eyes fall shut and tried to sleep.

The pool boy from the day before surfaced in my mind and I remembered what he had asked me. I opened my eyes and glanced at the Speedos drying on the towel rack in the bathroom. I wondered how long J would be gone. A familiarly sour warmth spread through my stomach—the same anxiousness that I had experienced as a 16-year-old sneaking out through my bedroom window—knowing I was thinking about something that wouldn't be approved of, wondering if I would get caught.

J and I had agreed to break up the week before, but I knew he wanted something else. I didn't want to hurt his feelings. Nevertheless, I couldn't keep my mind from wandering over the pool boy's body as he pulled himself out of the water. Mechanically, I rose from the bed, felt the cool air from the window unit ruffle my hair, and walked over to the towel rack to pull down the slightly-damp swimwear. Besides, I asked myself, when would I get another chance to come down to Key West?

The hot, humid air greeted me with a shove in the face. I glanced down the street, but our purple rental scooter was no where to be seen. Neither was J. Stepping out into the sun, I made my way around the corner, walking quickly, avoiding eye contact with the masses of shoppers even though none of them would know either of us, and as I hiked up the steps to the pool, I saw him.

He was seated at the bar in a pair of green swim trunks, and I immediately looked at the ground as I rounded the corner and slipped into the bathroom. I latched the door. Sounds from the pool calmed my nerves and I looked in the mirror to check my face and hair. What was I doing? What would I tell J if he came back to the room and found me gone? Adrenaline spread through my system. I tiptoed up to peer through an opening over the door and saw the pool boy with his back to the restroom, seated between two older men, obviously on break and entertaining as he threw back a swig from a beer bottle. Well, I’m here, I thought. I might as well do it.

"Can I get a Bud Light?"

I motioned to the bartender and she nodded as I slipped between the pool boy and the man on his right. He looked over, mouth slightly open, and spread a smile.

"Hey there." A clap on my bare shoulder, and I nodded shyly in return. "How’s it going?"

"Not too bad, a little hot. You?" I took a swig from the newly opened beer as he nodded in agreement, and laid a few dollar bills on the bar. The man to my right had left. Glancing nervously towards the entrance of the pool, I took a seat.

"No Speedo today, huh?" he asked. We both glanced down at my surfer shorts, and I pulled back the waistband. He laughed.

"Going undercover."

His name was Scott. Between my anxiety and desire to pull him into the bathroom, I had a hard time concentrating on what we were talking about but the chat continued until the subject finally came up about the guy I had been with at the pool the day before. Explanations sort of spilled out of my mouth rather ridiculously, but he took it all with a patience that drew me in even more.

We talked for another half hour as drinks were served around us at the bar and patrons came and went. When I finally glanced down at my watch it had passed by the half-hour mark and I bid a reluctant farewell. Hands were grasped and hopes exchanged that our paths might cross again, although we both knew this was a last goodbye. I closed the door behind me and fell into an empty bed under the air conditioner, exhaling anxiety, regret, and desire.

posted Tuesday, October 8, 2002

Pool Boy

J had bought us matching speedos earlier in the day to parade at the clothing-optional Atlantic Shores pool, a small gay hotel at the end of the strip in Key West that butted right up to the cloudy waters along the so-called beach. We found it the day before, situated around the corner from the B&B we had shacked up in. J, being more than a little of an exhibitionist, couldn't pass up swimming in front of 20-or-so, older, gay men in a speedo so I humored him to avoid having to deal with the passive-aggressive backlash later.

I wasn't too keen on flaunting our relationship status with identical swimwear. After all, we had broken up the weekend before and as far as I was concerned, that was the way it was going to stay. Even together, I had a better time flirting and innocently exploring potential options while we were out than I did announcing to everyone that I was taken. I did have to admit though, the speedos looked good and J wasn't exactly chopped liver so we managed to accrue quite a bit of attention regardless.

The parking lot was full at 3pm. J got out of the car, quickly stripped and threw a towel around his shoulders, while I reluctantly peeled off my clothes, throwing glances towards the sounds of bass and conversation drifting off of the pool. It was a boiler of activity. Plodding behind J in identical dark blue lycra, I verdantly glanced between the resort's leathery patrons and the leathery planks of the sunbleached wood veranda as we approached two pool chairs and stowed our belongings.

A splash sounded behind me as J dove into the pool, now freely mingling with other swimmers. Looking up, I greeted the sun, the heat pushing me forcibly back into the chair and I closed my eyes. The pool drifted in and out of my perception, pool sounds mingling with crashing waves below, and I could be anywhere—Southbeach, Los Angeles, the pool on Peterson. I'm 12 and the smells from the grill remind me of lazy summer days, grass between my toes, and strawberry Mentos.

There's a squeal of metal as a pool chair is extended next to me. Blue light filters through my squinted eyelids, and I hold a hand up to shade my eyes as I work to make out who's sitting next to me. A sarong-clad boy of about 25 or so, is watching me as he straightens the back of the chair and smiles. I can't really do anything but smile back, although I wonder if it merely looks like a squint.

"Nice speedos," he says, and motions to an older man in glasses, holding a large, paper-parasoled drink. The man starts with a jump and heads over. I thank him with a squinty smile and he asks if I want anything to drink. Sure, Bud Light. His bronzed muscles ripple in his lower back as he walks briskly towards the bar, and I admire how his short-cropped blond hair is lighter than his skin. He's also obviously not wearing anything under his sarong. I glance over at J who's propped against the pool edge, talking to a threesome of muscleboys.

Later, J has dripped back from the pool and stretched himself out next to me. We talk about leaving, but I respond quietly, my eyes assidiously following the pool boy as he pulls his sarong off, tosses it nonchalantly across a stack of pool chairs, and dives into the now-vacant water. It's clear he's practiced this routine for quite some time now, flexing his body like a dolphin, moving through the water effortlessly, silently. He turns his body upward and surfaces, all eyes light soundlessly on the pool.

J is gathering our things and the pool boy pulls himself out of the water and begins toweling off. Let's go, J says. I follow him to the front, and right as we reach the entrance, a hand catches the crook of my elbow. I turn and feel a smile spread across my face.

"Will you wear those for me tomorrow?" he asks, nodding at my speedos. I wink and turn to catch up with J.

To be continued...

posted Monday, October 7, 2002

The Policy of Honesty

Trust seems to be the issue on more than one mind lately—mine especially considering the events of the past few weeks—and I was discussing the topic with a friend, explaining some of the conclusions I've come to, when I realized that I had really made some significant strides in gaining some insight to my feelings and motives these past two weeks.

The problems I've had trusting M seem mostly to stem from my own dishonesty in past relationships—not saying what I meant, deceiving to keep the peace, and simply not being trustworthy with my feelings—and it has been coloring the way I've received M's words, precluding sensible courses of action when encountered with superficially troubling news.

I didn't trust him to come right out and say how he was feeling or what he really meant, or even act in a way that appropriately reflected his motives. I expected him to be somewhat dishonest in order to be polite, and took it upon myself to read into his words and actions so that I could discover the "real truth". I pictured myself in his shoes, asking, "What would I really mean if I had said this to him?" and "If I acted the way he's acting now, what would I really be trying to tell him?"

It's taken me a while to understand that he might have simply been honest with me because I was always raised to subtly hint at things if I found them unpleasant or unacceptable so as not to seem impolite. If someone wanted to accompany me somewhere and I preferred to go alone, I'd say something like, "It would be boring." If I was doing something I didn't like, I'd grin and bear it. I've even said, "I love you," to get someone off my back.

It's hard not to transfer your motives onto someone else's actions. It's hard not to judge. And it's hard to break habits that you've lived with for so long that they've become a part of who you are. It's worth working on to make something good succeed, though. And I'm definitely working on it.

posted Monday, October 7, 2002

Back to Class

I'm heading off to the first day of class with that familiarly dreadful sense of apathy and tiredness when I suddenly wonder what happened to the thrill of adventure that always accompanied new activities. I miss that sense of anticipation and excitement that came so easily being a kid. There should be a class on rekindling that.

posted Tuesday, October 1, 2002

Drift

Røyksopp's "In Space" a perfect fit for today's mood: pensive, wistful. The evening called me out of my low-blood-sugar-level-slump and I threw my jacket on—the blue one with the two white stripes on the biceps—and I headed over to the library to find a few books and get outside for a while.

On my way over, I drove by Salazar's house and gave him a call. It's been a few months so we planned dinner at my place tomorrow night, 6:30. The book search was futile, but I floated along the current that lead me downtown to a few stores, in the path of tempting smells from hole-in-the-wall Chinese restaraunts wafting across the sidewalks, running into Tateum and then Dustin near my old high school coffee shop hangout.

Afterwards, I followed my instincts up the interstate to a few larger bookstores where I finally found what I had been looking for along with a few bound, blank, 400-page journals on sale for $7.99. I made it home minutes before M's evening call.

I wandered out because I was feeling a little lonely and wanted some company, and no sooner had I asked with my actions than I was answered with a few coincidental meetings. Returning home, however, the evening's events served only to remind me that it's just me. I make plans, but they aren't plans with the person I want to be with. The comforting presence of friends only goes so far, their stories only distract you for so long, and anyone can say the words, "I love you."

I'm happy being alone, and I love being with other people, but I feel as though I'm in limbo, drifting through a fog of potential friendships and loves and not really realizing, materializing any of it. Give it time, I suppose. Time fixes everything.

posted Monday, September 30, 2002

Full Circle

I can't get over the fact that it's absolutely beautiful outside and I'm stuck behind beige walls, under flourescant lighting, and exposing myself to the radiation from my computer monitor rather than the tan-inducing radiation of the sun. I mean, if you're gonna get cancer, you might as well look good doing it.

Driving along the interstate over my lunch break to grab the next two discs in my latest addiction — QAF, Season 1 — I lowered the driver-side window to soak up the intoxicating fall air, Rauhofer's Live at Roxy pushing bass into the rushing landscape. Good weather, like good health, is always bittersweet, the knowledge that it will end ever at the forefront of thought, but the almost-circadian pattern of moods, weather, and health reassure me that this enjoyment is as perennial as the grass.

M came over last night after some deliberation. Our relationship has been rocky, to say the least, but seems to have made a full circle as well. Dinner, some playful banter, a silent ride home, and we smoothed things over by quietly discussing everything that had happened over the past two weeks. There's not much to say about it, other than I feel great that things have been patched up, that we've somehow conquered this together.

And then that bittersweet feeling resurfaces, but it's easier to bat it down, knowing that it's simply part of a larger picture with in's and out's, up's and down's.

I relinquished the opportunity to travel south in December for a business trip, knowing that I'll want to be here for my birthday and that the fam is planning a trip for Christmas anyway, and it all seems to be part of a larger trend at work lately where I've started pitching into the department PowerBall pool, getting approval to telecommute, and generally looking for ways out of and away from work.

The weather certainly isn't helping any.

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?

posted Monday, September 23, 2002

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.

posted Sunday, September 22, 2002

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.

posted Wednesday, September 18, 2002

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.

posted Saturday, September 14, 2002

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.

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.

posted Wednesday, September 11, 2002

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.

posted Monday, September 9, 2002

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,
Them that's not shall lose.

Alex Gopher - The Child (MP3, 4.16 Mb)

posted Thursday, September 5, 2002

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.

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.

posted Wednesday, September 4, 2002

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.

—Zen saying

Who wants enlightenment, anyway?

posted Tuesday, September 3, 2002

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.

posted Tuesday, August 27, 2002

100 Things

1. I have one dimple in my right cheek
2. I was born in Germany
3. I have a 1st-degree black belt in Taekwondo
4. I've met Claire Daines
5. Guilty pleasure: any remix by Manny Lehman
6. I researched a cure for upper respiratory tract infections in desert tortoises when I was 17
7. I prefer salty snacks over sweet treats
8. I own 12 sleeve-less t-shirts
9. I drink about 6 litres of water a day
10. My favorite food is Japanese
11. I've lived on three different continents
12. I cook everything with butter
13. I read the dictionary
14. I always arrange silverware correctly when eating at restaraunts
15. I never arrange silverware correctly at home
16. I'm addicted to cashews, pistachios, and Doritos
17. My family is from Chicago
18. I've been published in the Journal of the American Medical Association
19. I love to sleep
20. I read AdBusters diligently
21. I've written a book
22. I want to visit New Zealand and China
23. My mother died when I was 3
24. I own 19 tank-tops
25. I lost my virginity when I was 16
26. I won a talent contest in high school by wearing a mini skirt and a fur coat and walking across the stage
27. I bite my nails
28. I've climbed three 14,000-foot mountains
29. I was a wide receiver and defensive end on my high school football team
30. I saw a psychiatrist for anger management issues when I was 4 years old
31. I've hiked 45 miles with a 65-pound pack... without showering for ten days
32. I won't drink soda, alcohol, or coffee if I'm alone
33. I've played soccer on a gay men's soccer team
34. My favorite author is Anais Nin
35. My favorite director is Darren Aronofsky
36. I'm not easily angered
37. I can play Devil's Dream on the violin
38. I can play Up On the Rooftop on the accordian
39. I can play The Entertainer on the piano
40. I can play pitcher or catcher
41. I've had a warrant out for my arrest
42. I'm a Sagittarius and born in the year of the Horse
43. I don't have cable television
44. I'm not religious
45. I spent a weekend with Jason Cornwell from Real World: Boston
46. I've had my tongue and both ears pierced, but no longer wear jewelry
47. I've never broken a bone or had surgery
48. I slept at the home of blogger-celebrities Jonno and Richard
49. I've never had a cavity
50. I love lists
51. My dad found out I was gay on accident
52. My step-mom found out I was gay during an argument
53. I don't wear cologne
54. I like to watch Trading Spaces
55. I've partied in two cities with Chris
56. I love whole milk
57. My favorite porn stars are Lee Rider, Steve Kelso, Aiden Shaw, and Tristan Paris
58. I collect airline safety information cards
59. I speak German
60. My step-mom slapped me when I was 7 and knocked my front tooth out
61. I've met Jakob Dylan
62. My favorite city is Berlin
63. I don't believe in heaven or hell
64. I've had a turtle, a hamster, and a dog as pets
65. I'm the oldest child
66. I've stolen used underwear before
67. I've tried virtually every illicit drug, once
68. I'm not a very good painter
69. I practice yoga regularly
70. I will play Dance, Dance Revolution every time I come in contact with it
71. I wear briefs
72. I remember my dreams
73. The first concert I ever attended was Queensryche
74. My first CD was Stone Temple Pilot's "Core"
75. I'm studying to get my MBA
76. I've built a computer operating system by hand
77. My middle name is Michael
78. I have four scars above my eyes
79. I was a boyscout
80. Had I been a girl, my name would have been Alison
81. I wear Campers (does that qualify me, Jer?)
82. Almost everything I wear is either brown or blue, and I usually wear them together
83. I've driven to Key West to save a failing relationship
84. I drink beer when I go out clubbing
85. I'm a registered republican
86. I use a pen to do crossword puzzles
87. I worked at REI
88. I was madly in love with my best friend in high school
89. I snuck into my best friend's house when I was 16 to see if he had written anything about me in his journal
90. I am a systems programmer
91. I met Young Bradford on the PlanetOut personal ads over a year ago
92. I have stripped in a bar before
93. I overanalyze everything
94. I waited tables for five years
95. I have snowboarded for eight years
96. I shave three times a week
97. I sing in the car
98. I have met John, Jessie, Reese, and Matteo
99. My favorite color is blue
100. I'm in love

posted Monday, August 26, 2002

Thank You

Thank you for the impressionable weekend, for the tasty things to eat, the avacados, artichokes, pistachios, and meals cooked on the grill. Thank you for holding my hand six miles. Thank you for holding me. Thank you for the laughter and the jokes, but thank you also for the serious conversations, the probing questions, and what-ifs. Thank you for making me feel included, and for taking the initiative to gain my trust. Thank you for throwing the frisbee in the park. Thank you for making plans with me. Thank you for being a friend and a lover. Thank you.

posted Wednesday, August 21, 2002

Raining Minutes

You can smell the rain inside the office. It's a reminder that we are not as isolated from the outside world as many of us would like to believe and that the natural world is everywhere, touching everything, despite our efforts to sterilize, organize, and level. I keep thinking about this too, how time became too precious living in the clean worlds of office space and automobile and home. I forget what rain feels like on my face.

posted Wednesday, August 21, 2002

Elements of Style

But we are all writers and readers as well as communicators, with the need at times to please and satisfy ourselves (as E.B. White put it) with the clear and almost perfect thought.

?Roger Angell, The Elements of Style

Thanks, Kian.

posted Monday, August 19, 2002

Parts of Me

Gay pride celebrations in the birthplace of Amendment Two should probably expect a protestor or two, yet the past few years have seen a decline in protestors, while the parade and ensuing festivities enjoyed a burgeoning attendance, indicating to me that perhaps this city was lightening up a bit, maybe re-evaluating its original beliefs. Despite the past dwindling, a few protestors hit the street corners with renewed fervor this year and, given the incredibly tacky ensemble of those celebrating their pride in the park, I'm not completely sure they didn't deserve to be protested. Regardless, Carl and Aaron and I played their presence up as much as possible with a few prime photo ops.

The weekend played out rather smoothly in some aspects and like a bad episode of Frasier in others. "Poor situational comedy," I should say, surrounding the misadventures of Dave, who I'd sworn to protect at some point back when we were still fresh from high school. Perhaps deep down I want to protect that innocent, optimistic part of me that I still associate with him. On the other hand, I'd like to take the irresponsibility of that age?of this age, too, apparently?and wrap it up in ball like so much masking tape and toss it away for good. Somehow it seems as though escaping that should be so much easier than it is. There is still time for me to grow up.

Mike, you've stolen my heart. Then again, it's not really stealing if I want you to have it, is it?

posted Friday, August 16, 2002

Grandiose Week

This week has been grand (apologies to Mr. Caufield for use of the word, but it's so appropriate): good food, better company, great discourse. Need I mention reality-altering sex? A week full of heady laughter and heavy emotions and come today I'm filled to the brim with life and love for life and love for those who inhabit my days. When it comes down to it, is there really any difference between love and living?no, I mean really living?

Bulging at the seams I sail through easily and without strife, confident that my fuel tank is full enough to last me throughout the year (and the next, and the next) whatever may come.

posted Wednesday, August 14, 2002

Full Day

Today, we renounced the air-conditioned confines of our cubes for a 26-mile bike ride to benefit some local charities. After the two-hour ride and four hours of volleyball in the midday mountain sun, I'm beat, although mustering enough energy to hit the pool to see shirtless, muscled boys in orange shorts. In lieu of reflective introspection and a seriously written entry, a song recommendation will have to do: Phats & Small's "Change."

posted Monday, August 12, 2002

Censor

There are several things I've wanted to write about lately, but this Internal Censor keeps me from laying it out in black and white. Although it's understandable, since afterall this journal is available to the public, this self-imposed censorship has kept me from getting to the core of what's going on in my head even when writing in traditional, paper-bound journals. Virgina Woolf encountered this, personifying the Internal Censor in her essay, "Professions for Women":

She was intensely sympathetic. She was immensely charming. She was utterly unselfish. She excelled in the difficult arts of family life. If there was a chicken, she took the leg; if there was a draft, she sat in it. In short she was so constituted that she never had a mind or a wish of her own, but preferred to sympathize with the minds and wishes of others. Above all, I need not say it ? she was pure.... And when I came to write, her wings fell on my page: I heard the rustling of her skirts in the room.... She slipped behind me and whispered.... Be sympathetic; be tender; flatter; deceive... Never let any one guess you have a mind of your own. Above all ? be pure. And she made as if to guide my pen. I now record the one act for which I take some credit to myself.... I turned upon her and caught her by the throat. I did my best to kill her. My excuse, if I were to be had up in a court of law, would be that I acted in self-defense. Had I not killed her, she would have killed me.

It causes me a certain amount of angst to sense many of the same qualities of the Internal Censor within myself. Could it be that I've become my own blockade? I wonder if deciding to share my writings with an audience has calloused me into writing less-than-full-life entries and capturing "safe" moments. I wonder if I have it in me to lay it all out like it is.

posted Sunday, August 11, 2002

Progression

Again, I can't stress enough how monumental small gestures mean to me. An email, a phone call, a wave, or a smile can all mean the difference between a good day and a great day. It was another extended weekend spent in the big city with Mike—another weekend filled with many such aforementioned gestures—and I parlayed the time into an opportunity to see friends and get out a little as well.

Of note, Mike and I attended a major league soccer game on Saturday, courtesy Dave and Ramon. Held at the new stadium, the event was a shiny new coin found unexpectedly and we quickly snatched up the opportunity to see the new complex, drink beer, and watch tightly-uniformed young men kick a ball around in the early-evening summer heat. It was nice to spend some time with Dave as well, who I was concerned about after his roommate and best friend, Scott, left for NYC. He seems to be doing just fine.

Now that I have the new camera, I'm hoping to incorporate some photos here on a semi-regular basis in order to take advantage of this amazingly versatile medium, one that allows such additions without the need for glues or scissors or film development. Audio would be the next, logical progression, but it will be a while before I dig out my microphone again.

posted Thursday, August 8, 2002

Bad Food, Good Times

The week has been spent finishing color-block canvases (a la Trading Spaces, per the photo to the left), eating Hershey's Kisses by the handfull, bike-riding, beer-drinking, sexual frustration, and babysitting an ever-present sense of waiting—waiting for something better, something bigger, an important event or milestone. No more waiting, I say.

Last night, I met up with John-Michael for dinner at La Casa Fiesta after an eleven-mile ride. Beer, tortilla-chips, and salsa. Who needs PowerBars? We discussed more sex — after an extensive phone conversation earlier in the week that followed his thesis interview — and I tried not to show my embarassment over being so loud (JM: "I want to be fucked, really hard, in a leather sling."), but our fellow diners seemed not to notice.

Dad invited me over for beer and barbeque this weekend, giving me the oriental rug we used to have in the living room of the old house as I was leaving. I hadn't seen it in about six years since moving to college, the divorce, the move, and it brought back memories of coming home from high school to do homework on the floor while watching Star Trek or Jerry Springer. I think there are still a few faded pizza stains on it. I keep having to do a double-take whenever I walk into my apartment now.

My new digital camera came in the mail today. I have to keep reminding myself not to fall into the materialist bliss of consumerism, that this new toy should not bring me as much joy as it does. I should be Catholic. I unpacked the box's contents and gingerly laid out a chorus line of plastic-smelling pieces and manuals, making sure not to miss any bit that might detract from my new-technology experience. The battery is now contentedly charging on my desktop. The thrill of potential photos hangs in the air.

posted Saturday, August 3, 2002

Moment

A genuine moment of happiness: I had been cleaning house, paying bills, watching television, surfing the web, and otherwise conducting menial tasks around the apartment this afternoon as M went to finish up some last minute business at work?even though it was a Saturday?and it was starting to get late so I had pulled into a semi-disappointed parking space and sat there while waiting for my cell to ring, reading a book, turning lights on and off, opening windows, looking outside for a maroon Intrepid, and being generally restless, but just when I had considered leaving to meet a friend for drinks or simply hit the sack, the phone rings and I can feel my heart pounding its way into my throat as I catch his name on the caller ID and hear his voice on the other line, his subsequent and repeated apologies, his wish that we see one another tonight, and hurried responses fall from my lips like rocks from a cliff, pulled by gravity or a force I cannot see, and as I press the red button on my phone to hang up, I feel beams of light streaming from my face and rush to capture the moment that will no doubt fade with the relentless current of time, elated at the idea that right now, at this very moment, I am happy.

posted Wednesday, July 31, 2002

Work the Room

I was driving to work when I spotted a dark-haired woman on the dirt trail that runs along the fields bordering our office building in all directions. She was wearing a yellow short-sleeve shirt and khakis, typical attire for an office worker taking a midday stroll, and her dedicated gait reminded me of warm fall days last year when I would venture out onto the trails that vein through the waist-high grass and yucca and prickly pear to get away from the boxed-in feel of my cubicle.

The summer is here and I haven't done nearly as much hiking and biking as I've wanted to. My lack of outdoor activity is due to having so much going on otherwise, such as weekday trips to the city to visit friends, last-minute concerts, lunches, weekend drives to the mountains, clubbing, and Mike. I'm not disappointed to see my outdoor meditation adventures slip to the side. I've let my social life slack for a long time and at one point Scott turned and said to me, "You know, developing your social life is just as important as improving your professional life." I hadn't ever thought about it, but I think he's right.

The weekends pass in blurs of color and smells and tastes and sounds, and I have to pause for a moment whenever anyone invites me to some omnium-gatherum or bedizened soirée, running through the calendar in my head to ensure I don't have any prior plans. It's fun, yet exhausting, this life-scaled room-working. And I can work a room, let me tell you. But part of me longs for those quiet evenings in the warm fields of solitude and I have to look no further than this journal to realize that life is a cycle and I will doubtless be there again. The key is to enjoy what moment you're being offered now.

posted Monday, July 29, 2002

Estes Park

Mike is sitting about fifty feet away from me next to the waterfall, the white current pushing over copper-colored boulders the size of automobiles under his sandaled feet. His heather tank-top reads: Catch a Wave 2 Paradise. I hunker under a rocky outcropping that's shaded from the sun, the cool stone presses against my neck, and I wonder how long I can sit here before he notices I'm not next to him. Mike looks over his well-muscled shoulder and sticks out his tongue.

posted Wednesday, July 24, 2002

Decisive Wandering

Gravity seems stronger lately. Is that possible? I feel heavier, pulled towards the ground, the looseness in my face feels weighted downwards and I stumble home for lunch only to fall onto the couch or the bed or my chair in an exhausted heap. I can only attribute the recent tiredness to working out or my recent coffee intake... that's probably what it is. In fact, I can almost be sure of it, since I only started drinking coffee again since buying my coffee maker last week. Now, the choice is to give up coffee again or wait it out and see if I get used to the morning caffeination ritual.

Rick came over for lunch this afternoon and I made noodles. He's trapped in a marriage with children and has only recently come to terms with being gay. All I can do is be there as an understanding ear. I could never be empathetic because I can't can't imagine myself in his situation, but part of me wonders if it's because I don't want to imagine it. Am I simply afraid to deal with it? His face is like an open floodgate and it's hard to believe that he could manage any sort of bold-faced lie without the truth flooding through his water-blue eyes. His story makes me feel fortunate to be where I am.

I have to work the part-time job tonight and I'm dreading it. This frustration always wells up when I realize my evening hours have been sequestered, although it quickly vanishes once I actually get there. The job isn't difficult, and I do enjoy interacting with the people. Had my evening been planned like any other free evening this week, I'd most likely be spending it by going home and putzing around anyway, so the key is to suck it up and get it over with.

No situation is purely good?beneficial, convenient, what you want?or purely bad?harmful, self-defeating, pointless. Whenever I couldn't make up my mind regarding a difficult decision, my dad would sit me down with a piece of paper and a Bic pen. "Draw a line down the middle," he'd say, and on each side of the paper, I'd scribble out the "pro's" and "con's" in my awkward, childish script. While the column with the most didn't necessarily always win out, it taught me utilitarianism in a way that has seeped under my skin and affected my very ability to let things take their course. Could this be the source of my overanalytic nature that seeks to always find the path towards the greatest good?

posted Tuesday, July 23, 2002

Journalistic Origami

In a Chinese shop I bought a Japanese paper parasol which I wear in my hair. So delicately made, with colored paper and fragile bamboo structure. It tore. I repaired it with tape.
      When Samuel Goldberg took us to Chinatown for dinner I went into a shop to ask for parasols. The woman who received me was very agitated: "No, of course I don't carry those. They are Japanese. You bought them in a Chinese shop? Well, that may be, but they're Japanese just the same. Tear it up and throw it away."
      I looked at the parasol in my hand, innocent and delicate, made in a moment of peace, outside of love and hatred, made by some skilled workman like a flower. I could not bring myself to throw it away. I folded it quietly, protectively. I folded up delicacy, peace, skill, humble work, I folded tender gardens, the fragile structure of human dreams. I folded the dream of peace, the frail paper shelter of peace.

--Anaïs Nin, 1943

posted Tuesday, July 23, 2002

Pen and Paper

I miss the physical connection of my hand to paper and have considered reverting to my books. Those large, bound volumes have sat, unused, for a few years now and I miss the rough grain against the heel of my palm, the quiet interiors of paper, and the weight each holds after it has been filled with ink. I may take a break from the world of internet journaling for a while to explore this urge.

posted Sunday, July 21, 2002

Exit Weekend

Mike flashes a smile from the driver's seat of his 4-Runner as I take off in the opposite direction and I wave goodbye, biting my lower lip as I smile to myself. Such a little thing, but when you've dated people who show less acknowledgement or less attention to your presence, the little gestures such as a smile or a wave become monumental.

The weekend was warm and mellow, spotted with a few nights of frenzied activity, running from party to party—two each night, to be exact, and that's not counting the one's I had to decline. It's been a while since I'd socialized that much and I awkwardly dredged up my dusty etiquette hat to meet the occasion suitably dressed. At the end of each night, Mike was next to me and we unwound in each other's arms, a forgotten comfort now deliciously new.

I had thought about cutting things off with him. Ending things with Steve was easy since, after all, he stopped calling after I explained that I wanted something more serious and was going to look elsewhere if he wasn't interested. I worried about their friendship and had decided that the responsible thing would be to end all relations with both, but the tension between Mike and Steve is slowly subsiding and I'm sure they'll reconcile in no time. The connection Mike and I have is also too good to overlook. I want to wait this out and see where things go.

Days of activity seem to flash by, fast-forward, to the moment in which I'm sitting here punching out my thoughts. The afternoon slowed steadily to a trot, and now I look around at the clean apartment, the dishes washing after a dinner with dad, the AC quietly snoring behind the walls, and feel amazingly fulfilled as though everything went as planned. Whether that feeling is due to a physical contentment after a weekend of good food and good sex is still debatable but things certainly feel as though they are falling into place.

posted Friday, July 19, 2002

Livingware

I've come to believe that consumables are a good indicator of one's independence and place in life as I have recently purchased several domestic items never considered before living in my own apartment. Take alcoholic beverages, for instance. The only alcohol I'd bought in my life was for specific occasions however I recently finished the first six-pack of beer I picked up, "just for the hell of it." I also now own a bottle of Crown Royal (thanks going to Jonno for the introduction), that sits in it's purple, velvet bag on top of my refrigerator.

This morning, I brewed my first pot of coffee in my new coffee maker and toasted a bagel in my new toaster, both appliances recently purchased on a side trip to the Farberware store while visiting Mike on Wednesday. All of these extraneous appliances that seem to have root in so many lives are pervading my space, appearing as if by magic instead of planning on my part. I own a coffee maker and a toaster oven. I am joining the ranks of my middle-class colleagues.

When I lived at home, I never imagined buying stuff like this?appliances, air fresheners, cleaning supplies, alcohol, window treatments?and, although I'm not one to advocate consumerism as a means to attain any sort of status, it certainly seems to be a barometer of one's living situation. Now, the only isles in the grocery store I have left to explore are feminine hygiene and baby care. Let's hope I don't have to venture into either anytime in the near future.

posted Tuesday, July 16, 2002

Survival Skills

We hiked Mount Elbert on Sunday?"we" being Will and I, along with his friend, Mike?and I'm still nursing the blisters and sore muscles from the climb that turned out to be much more difficult than I was expecting. It's been a little over a year since I hiked Mount Harvard. It only seemed natural that my boots would have been well worn in by now, but my feet have softened and my legs have been lacking any recent, decent, endurance exercise.

You can't get the sort of escapism in a day-trip that comes from spending extended periods in the wilderness, the kind of release from life that drops you closer to the earth. What I'd like to discover is some simplified way of returning to that root self where all you need is food, water, and air. The irony is that the simpler you try to make things the more complex they become.

In an attempt at simplicity?no, in an attempt to save face?I've considered cutting myself loose from the sinking triad that has formed between Steve and Mike and I. It's turned into a chess game that I want nothing more than to be free of; free of the heat generated from this stressing friction between them in battle over checkmating me and free of the constant strategizing. At some point in high school, I had learned this lesson and it seems fate is bringing me up to speed with a little refresher course.

It came to me in a moment of clarity in traffic. You know, one of those moments that seems to slow for an instant, the colors intensified around you, and the world reveals itself in all its complexity through something as simple as a cloud or a stop light or a hand gesture, and the only way to describe the feeling that floods your body is "understanding." It was an understanding that everything would be okay, that survival isn't contingent upon this decision, and that all I really need is food, water and air.

Although complexity often arises from an attempt to simplify things, the opposite is true as well: simplicity often finds you in the midst of weaving tapestries in your head, regardless of whether you're in the concrete jungle or the jungles of South America. The escapism that comes with the wilderness is just a perk.

posted Friday, July 12, 2002

Study

While I've had several noteworthy things happen to me this week, the burden of sifting through the life to find the gold has become too arduous a task and instead, I sit here, pondering:

The world is ruled by letting things take their course. -- Lao-tzu

The week has represented a break from the sifting and sieving. I have retreated, in a way, to allow the world its course and let things pass in their own time. The world is beckoning me to play with it, not analyze it.

posted Monday, July 8, 2002

Love or Something Like It

Finishing the first book of the month is always such a feeling of accomplishment, although this recent read has left me a little raw. Paul Monette's Borrowed Time describes the final 19 months of his AIDS-inflicted lover's life in—literally—painful detail and the idyllic description of his relationship only serves to wrench the heart with a devastating torque. I had hoped there would be a brighter conclusion, but was instead left with:

...I swam back to bed for the end of the night... Putting off as long as I could the desolate waking to life alone—this calamity that is all mine, that will not end till I do.

That sort of dependence upon another person unnerves me and yet another part of me envies and desires that kind of relationship, one that speaks of a higher sense of self, a synergy of two people exploring the world together, learning and experiencing and living together, so much in love they are unable to live without one another. At one point in the book, the author enters the room where his lover is resting and proclaims, "Here I am!" Endearingly, his lover responds: "But we are the same person. When did that happen?"

I had always been under the impression that the ideal relationship would consist of two people who were compatible to the point of sharing a few core interests, yet significantly different as to compliment one another. Happiness is something that is found on your own, not in another person or in a relationship. Monette seems to tragically discount all of this, describing a love that is a necessary, synonymous component to his life, to a man who was "another name for the same person."

Could it be that all of my preconceptions regarding love and commitment between two people are myths collected by my subconscious, designed to make me feel better about my independence (or un-attached-ness)? Perhaps this feeling of need that runs deep to my core is what I should truly be listening to. Hedwig starts up "The Origin of Love" in my head and freshman psych resurfaces with images of Plato's divided souls.

All of this pondering only points in one direction, however: there is no formula for this sort of stuff. As difficult as it has been for me to realize that, considering I'm want to find the easiest solution to any problem, figuring that out has been the easy part. Deciding what actually works for me is another story all together.

posted Monday, July 8, 2002

Hitch Hikers

Barring the typical apprehensions regarding hitchhikers, I'd always wanted to give one a lift whether by motivation for karmic improvement or sheer curiosity and had the opportunity to do so last night for two college kids bound for my hometown.

I had just finished a short visit with Steve, breaking the news that I had gone out with his roommate the previous evening and that there was some mutual interest, dating-wise. He seemed to take it fairly well?a perception later altered when he called to say he was really rather upset. I was my usual, awkward self at dinner and so when I left I was rather angst-ridden and moody.

On the way home I caught sight of the kids at the exit and, without much thinking, pulled over and asked where they were headed. Perhaps some sort of good deed would perk me up, I thought. A quick once-over and I decided they looked safe enough. They piled into the car and after a few introductions it turned out they attend the local rich-white private college in town, which also seemed to ease the unfamiliarity of new acquaintances since?while I'm not exactly white and far from rich?I do drive a nice car, wear second-hand clothing, and was raised in the same area of town, therefore sharing a lot of the same vocabulary and world views, as it soon became apparent.

We chatted for the first half of the ride, and listened to some of my mix CDs for the rest as they complimented me on my music taste and I congratulated myself on my good Samaritanship. Thanking me as they got out of the car, I said not to worry about it, adding that I'm sure I'll need a ride at some point in the future.

It brought me back to the idea that meaning in life is derived from human interaction. Everything else seems sort of extraneous to relations between yourself and other people. Applying that tentative theory to my current situation with Steve, I decided that whatever happens I should act accordingly with my feelings for him. That would be easier if I didn't have to listen to him add that clause at the end of every compliment he gives me ("You're [insert random compliment], but I'm just not in a place where I want to [insert committal activity]").

If I envision myself as a traveler on the speedway of human interaction, it would be easiest to hitchhike and wear my heart on my sleeve or perhaps a sandwich board of allegiances, letting people pick me up, rather than navigating it myself and playing the whole dating strip-tease of getting to know someone. Of course, easy isn't always the best policy. While often I find myself becoming jaded in regards to dating, I remind myself that anything worth having takes hard work.

posted Saturday, July 6, 2002

Traffic Light

There's this kid with buck teeth sitting in the truck bed ahead of me, bobbing his head obliviously to some unheard music while he plays with a wide manner of truck-bed odds-and-ends and I feel somehow kindered, equally awkward, watching him with the sort of interest that kids never fail to evoke. I'm seven again, easily escaping into another world. Reality bends itself willingly to this vision of my surroundings that have been conjured to make sense of a world that is too complexfully simple for any kind of seven-year-old entertainment and I draw a story line, straight and true, stringing along time and space so that they stand in order, at attention. Everything has possibility: landscapes become battle-grounds, strangers become friends and enemies, anything that fits in my hand becomes an ancient device—a divining rod, pointing me towards some ultimate conquest that will complete the tale, make sense of the world. I watch the kid play, and wonder what sort of world he has conjured within the microcosm of his truck bed. Meanwhile, the light turns green.

posted Wednesday, July 3, 2002

Quick Entry

A thousand miles from home, I've discovered a bane for this thunderstorm of depression that has swept through: a few days with a gaggle of 3- and 4-year-olds, and visiting my old dog. He still remembers how to roll over. Although lost in miles and miles of corn that stretch into the haze on the horizon in every direction, I've managed to find myself again.

posted Tuesday, June 25, 2002

Building Nets

Pride weekend passed in a blur of sun, sweat, beer, and pounding music. Dianna flew in for the parties, I drove in for the boys (or at least one boy, in particular), and along with a whole bevy of friends decked out for a weekend of partying, we descended upon an unsuspecting crowd to show our pride in the only way we seem to know: socializing, drinking, and dancing.

Despite hangovers, a lack of sleep, and sunburns—I was fortunate enough to learn my lesson from last year's Pride festival, lathering on the sunscreen well in advance—a good time was had by all. It wasn't as crowded as last year's festival and, since I hadn't ventured into the city more than a few times over the past year, I was meeting a lot of new people, catching up with old friends, and being cruised like nobody's business.

While the cruising was fun, it started to get old really quickly when I was getting more attention from the crowd than from the one boy I wanted it. He's been honest with me. He doesn't want anything serious while he recollects himself from a recent, difficult breakup. And I want to give him space, to be completely understanding and supportive but every time he looks at me, those barbed hooks he's planted in my torso twist, rip the breath away from me, and I wonder how long I can be held at arm's length before I start to come apart.

He's leaving for a ten-day vacation and the extended absence is looking to be more of a godsend than not, as it leaves me time to recollect myself as well. I often ask myself what happened to the person I was, not even a few weeks ago, when I was enthusiastically anticipating single life again. Now I can barely get through an hour without thinking of him.

Things seem to have changed since the weekend's festivities. I feel so different from the person I was last month, who was a completely different person from just a month before that, and I feel as though assuredness and confidence are nothing more than fleeting moments that can be pinned down but for a second, writhing under my thumb, before slipping away into the wet maze of life.

I've unloaded these ideas on my friends, who've been nothing but gratuitously supportive of my neuroses. They've tried to help me build nets to harness this slick, evasive confidence. Can they even be caught or controlled? Or is it something that comes to you with a practiced calm, a submission to life, and an acceptance of things as they are and not as you want them to be? While the answer seems to follow the latter train of thought, I usually find the truth to lie somewhere in the middle and, as such, will continue to build those nets.

Who knows, maybe I'll catch something yet.

posted Thursday, June 20, 2002

Found A Cure

I roused myself from the retreat I had found on the couch, the dull throbbing behind my right eye relentless. I had so much to do and the night was nearly over but my migraine stood before me, a sadistic sentry. I sat up and covered my eyes with a hand. This headache wasn't about to win.

With a hardened determination, I rose, swallowed down a few Advil, and picked up where I had left off on the housework. Before I knew it, I had rid the torpor clouding my aching head with a comforting routine of chores. The pulsing pain wasn't as easily defeated, however.

I stopped cleaning and surveyed my space. The light was streaming in?a class-five rapid cascading down through the cheap Venetian blinds?and I squinted, half-annoyed, as migraines always make me overly sensitive to light. Two words came to mind: window treatments. I took some measurements, noted the color scheme of the room, and with my coat slung over my shoulder, escaped into the evening-dappled city to do some shopping.

The air was thick with the threat of rain and the mountains?burning from the inside?taunted their ephemeral, spectral counterparts in the sky, daring them to do their worst. I drove with the windows rolled down and wished the rain would fall in torrents to extinguish this fire inside my head.

The city was quiet and inviting, the traffic sparse enough to allow me an unfettered path to the store, and I felt a bit of the weight lifting from my brain. Scented candles beckoned as I entered. I browsed through kitchen wares, glass frames, metal wall-hangings, furniture, curtains, and pillows, and by the time I had made a few complete circuits through the shop, the sun had completely disappeared behind the horizon along with the remaining traces of my headache.

I paid for the armload of items I had amassed. Driving home, I noticed that the clouds over the mountains had dissipated. Had the fires been extinguished on the other side of the mountains? Had they also found their cure? While I'm not an advocate for consumerism as an answer to anything substantial, I found comfort in having made the evening productive and conquering the long-forgotten adversary that had returned, an uninvited in-law.

posted Wednesday, June 19, 2002

Migraine

The last time I got a spot in my vision was my senior year in high school, almost six years ago. Back then, it was a fairly standard thing because I'd get these migraines about once a month and I'd be prepared to head home, pop a few Midrin, and fall asleep when that crescent-moon spot would appear out of the corner of my eye.

The spot showed up so suddenly, I thought I had inadvertantly glanced into one of the ceiling lights or looked out of the window and caught the reflection of the sun off a passing car. It vibrates in my field of vision like television static and curls around slowly, usually from right to left, bottom to top.

It's been so long since I've had a migraine, I'm out of Midrin and am trying to figure out what to do. Experience tells me I have at least an hour before the pain sets in, maybe more. I feel as though I'm grasping in the dark for an answer and quiet my worry. As the fires have taught me, I'll deal with it when it comes.

posted Tuesday, June 18, 2002

Lunch Date

How is it possible that one kiss can scatter me like a dropped bag of marbles, send my thoughts on a tailspin into oblivion?

We met for lunch, his face a beacon flashing towards me like a ray of sun at midnight as I walk through the door. I want to throw my arms around him, breathe him in, but my hopes for some sort of physical sign of camaraderie or affection are dashed when we continue to the table without a hug or handshake or kiss. I'm starting to see that it's just his type.

It's hard to pay attention to what he's saying when I can't look directly at him for fear of being blinded by his sun (or being entranced so that I don't see anything but spots when I look away). We talk. I had a cup of coffee this morning to perk myself into conversation mode.

When he's nervous, he talks. When I'm nervous, I'm as silent as death. He talks. I listen.

There's an eyelash on his cheek that I envision myself brushing off with my thumb every time I glance at him. I look around and think he might be embarrassed with the few other couples in the restaurant. I brush it off in my mind, instead. On the way to the car, I envision a thousand different scenarios, each being contained by the wrought-iron gate of civility.

He drives me to my car and I assume he'll be embarrassed to kiss me in public, so I extend my arm to the side and aim my face for the side of his head and move in slightly but before the embrace is tightened, our lips meet. Shit, someone's going to see us! I pull back but he doesn't move and suddenly I'm overwhelmed by this sense of shamed regret as I notice that he was moving in for a kiss.

Everything falls away and I bumble around for something to make it up to him, anything that would show him that I wasn't pulling away as a sign of disinterest or embarrassment on my part. I was trying to respect your space. I grasp in the dark and find nothing, instead patting him on the arm before slipping out the door. Real good.

As I walk to my car, he pulls slowly past. My arm works on it's own accord and waves him down. Someone else has taken over and he walks my body up to Steve's jeep.

"Hey, uh... Do you want to maybe stay the night on Friday?"

"Yeah," he says, beaming a smile at me, "I'd like that."

posted Monday, June 17, 2002

Where There's Smoke

The sky is a muddled puddle of yellow ochre and grey, the smoke from forest fires so thick that you can taste it in the back of your throat and watch thick white flakes of ash flutter to the ground like feathers. I had imagined that the fires were under control by now, but the afternoon proved me wrong as the smoke rolled in: it's getting worse.

I'm a little worried, mainly because I'm having difficulty breathing, but I'm also wondering how close it will burn since I can't see the mountains anymore. Visibility is limited to about a mile in all directions. I went to the doctor for a checkup and later realized I might be feeling under the weather due to a lack of sleep and the smoke that sorta seeps in, unnoticed, until it's grown thick and viscous.

Thankfully, the weekend was clear and we took dad out for Father's Day to a few of his favorite activities: pool, dining out, golf, and the movies. I keep thinking that if this is the end of the world, at least I got to spend some quality time with the family and have a nice big Jamba juice this afternoon before the sun is blocked out by the smoke, the plants die, and we have to survive on MREs.

Despite how it may sound, I'm staying relatively optimistic?for the fires and for life, in general?by keeping myself active lately, both physically and socially. I've stopped looking for signs by which to judge the fires in my life, instead accepting the smoke and realizing that when the fire comes close enough to be an issue, I'll combat it then and there.

posted Sunday, June 16, 2002

Vicarious Video

It was only after three bottles of champagne and eighteen episodes of Sex in the City with Dave, Damen, Pope, and Veronica, that I was able to call it a productive day. Pope had to leave halfway through the viewing, but the rest of us managed to sit through the entire season without stopping, ordering Chinese take-out for dinner and sipping Mimosas. It was the perfect, slow Saturday.

Instead of heading out with the girls for a night at the bars, I took my leave to get a head start on sleep for the big Father's Day plans today. Steve stayed Friday with his 3-year-old Dalmatian and we would be lucky to have gotten two hours of shut-eye. My body is going into automatic pilot every few minutes, indicating its disapproval of my late hours.

Pondering relationships and neuroses over my drive home, a conversation with Cale came to mind in which we discussed video games and how one learns certain techniques, commands, characters, and story lines for a game. Once the game has been finished, everything learned is basically moot.

Looking back on my past relationships, I see certain things I learned for each individual—Jeff's diet requirements, putting a towel in the shower for Chris, "safe" phone lingo with Kurt, sexual idiosyncrasies, etc.—and wonder if that has been equally pointless in the end.

On another note, it is a wonderful feeling to come home to your own place, your own space.

posted Wednesday, June 12, 2002

Blowing Smoke

Jenny came over last night for some vegetarian cuisine and we sat on stools over my breakfast bar sharing glasses of French red wine and discussing everything from family life to computer animation. This is probably the third or fourth time we've had dinner together since meeting at a rock-climbing clinic back in March and she's turned out to be a wonderful dinner companion.

Living alone?being alone?is slowly, surely sinking in and I'm starting to believe it's causing most of my recent angst, bitterness, and restlessness. It's something I'll adapt to eventually and it had seemed as though I was doing a fine job of handling it, but I wonder how deeply it's affecting me without my knowledge. The idea of isolation has always appealed to me in some way but the actual practice?the actual experience?of it is turning out to be somewhat stifling. Oftentimes I wonder if it's like swimming in a mountain lake: you have to plunge in or you'll never acclimate to the temperature.

My mind works by evaluating extremes and tells me that maybe I ought to consider cutting off all ties to the outside world until I'm settled on the inside?to jump right into the cool waters of isolation. Extremes have never really served me that well, but instead of tempering my considerations, I've learned to let that voice talk all it wants and have trained myself to simply ignore it. I may want to consider reneging on that, in light of all the good it's done me.

The forest fires seem to be an ever-ominous presence on the western horizon, marked by a vaguely noticable greying of the sky where smoke has dissipated into the atmosphere over the mountains. You don't notice it when you first look up because morning skies are usually rather blueish-grey but, if you pinpoint the source of the fire, you can trace the smoke along the north and over to where the sun is rising. I hear nothing else on the news lately. People from as far as London are emailing, inquiring about my safety. I'm fine?although 5,000 people have been evacuated from their homes?and, hopefully, the fires will be under control soon.

It's amazing how I can talk aimlessly about everyday events, personal giants, and environmental occurances, while never once mentioning what is really on my mind.

posted Monday, June 10, 2002

Much Ado

Today is another "Day One." I started the Body-for-LIFE program this afternoon to see if I can overcome the plateau I've reached in my workout routine. Last Monday should have been the official start date but it's been tough regaining my motivation after retreating from the gym a few months ago and I finally pulled myself together this afternoon after tossing about certain factors in my life at the moment, including summer, potential dates, and the need to kick certain, unhealthy party habits.

Mason kicked me in the ass this morning with a much-needed email regarding dating and my tendency to overanalyze, which has always resulted in a death sentence for whatever relationship I may be in at the time. It brings to mind a conversation I've had with Cale several times over the past year about how only stupid people have happy relationships. I have to wonder sometimes if I'd rather be stupid and happy, and sometimes it seems like a great alternative.

An article in Adbuster's last month had an inspiring message regarding antidepressants and how they work wonderfully but result in an entirely illusory feeling of well-being. It makes sense to me now. I'd rather suffer from the frequent bout of depressive, worrisome, angst-ridden cynicism and recognize those sparks of genuine happiness, than be dulled to a warm stupor by drugs or an ignorant outlook.

posted Sunday, June 9, 2002

Date Number One

Hold onto yourself. The thought echoes in my head and seems muffled as though swallowed by a fog of giddiness, spawned by the rush of hormones that flood my body as though I were a 15-year-old kid again. The reason for my elevated mood is sitting across from me in a light-green ribbed t-shirt.

If I haven't learned the lesson from my previous two relationships, I'll be doomed to repeat the same mistake. I have to remind myself to keep from slipping into instant attachment mode, to hold onto myself as an autonomously happy person, and to avoid leaping into the sea with both feet. Somehow the subject comes up in our conversation and we both agree that it's important.

We finish dinner and return to my apartment to take a hike into the valley across the road. An enormous blob of smoke from the forest fire in Deckers floats on the horizon and captures the sun in a red haze. The sun is a drop of blood. Conversation revolves primarily around this peculiar event or around Steve's job and we return home as the blood sets.

I find it difficult to talk with him. My theory suggests I've been conditioned by my father who's idea of a conversation is an interview-style, question-and-answer session, and I'm unable to employ a full conversation with someone unless they are digging for information. Like Holden, in Catcher in the Rye, I picture myself picking up the ball and tossing it back, pretend it is being played back and forth despite the absence of questions.

And maybe that's simply my reaction to silence, since it seems as though the lulls in conversation are because I've asked something and the ball isn't returned. Whatever the case, it's good to note now and good that I'm not overlooking anything. It is entirely possible at this point that I'm overanalyzing everything and just need some sleep. There may be more answers in silence than I'm willing to acknowledge.

posted Saturday, June 8, 2002

Steve

He's a cop. Buzzed, blond hair. A few inches shorter than me. A year older. He has this adorably angelic smile and a shy, yet intense, demeanor. We danced for a while as I tried to sober up enough to seem relatively coherent and as we left the dance floor, my face brushed up against the back of his neck and I planted a peck right on his neckline. He turned around with a slightly surprised, yet expectant, look on his face. I simply smiled and leaned in to kiss him. "Butter" was the only thing that would come to mind.

This feeling is always new, despite experiencing it hundreds of times over with a hundred different men. I knowingly acknowledge those texts that point to the addiction this feeling inspires and wonder if I am addicted to the thrill of courtship as well, serially dating and breaking up only to continue the search again. It seems like a never-ending cycle. It's justified in my head and I don't need a reason or excuse but I feel as though I may be working so fervently to find near-to-perfection that I don't stop to consider if I'm blind to other possibilities.

That would be my wish at this point: to see the alternatives clearly and unbiased. And I do hope that this is the best of all possible worlds.

posted Friday, June 7, 2002

Compromise

I met myself halfway on the connectivity debate, declining to have cable television installed and instead opting for the internet, alone. I have to say I'm really quite impressed with the speed and that's a surprise, since I had a high-speed connection at my previous residence and this is at least twice as fast.

I bought a power drill at the Home Depot yesterday, testosterone pumping through my veins as I proudly lugged the large, plastic carrying case through the entire length of the store at least once to let all of the gorgeous, orange-aproned man-help see that I, too, knew how to wield a power tool. Then I realized I was using it to install track lighting at home and quickly exited the store before anyone asked what I'd be using it for.

Later, after three episodes of OZ, a Tombstone stuffed pizza, and two tracks of lighting had been installed, I ventured out into the field across the street from my apartment that stretches off into the foothills of the blue Rockies. The sun was setting and I ran around the building to catch the last few rays on my face but, instead of stopping, I kept jogging. I passed evening walkers, barbed-wire fences, and enormous anthills built as shrines to the glory of summer, and followed a trail that winds down through thick pine groves and down toward the valley and the interstate.

When I finally stopped, winded, the sun had set behind the mountains, casting everything in a shade of blue. Strangely, it was still warm, so I pulled off my shirt and continued walking down the path until the ground pulled me down and I sat hard on the gravel to watch and listen to the sounds of the field.

I tried silencing everything in my head to meditate but the first few bars of Roy Orbison's "Crying" kept cycling in my head. I concentrated on the quiet whir of the highway and took a deep breath through my mouth, tasting the pine and pollen in the air. At dad's there was this flat rock I used to visit occasionally to sit and meditate on and thought it might be a good idea to find a similar place out here, somewhere undeveloped and wild where I could escape to quiet my head.

I turned back without following the trail to the end so that I'd have more to explore tomorrow.

posted Wednesday, June 5, 2002

Forgo

I kept lighting on that idea to forgo internet and cable installation in my new apartment and finally decided there must be some importance to it so I'm following my gut instinct on this and severing those electronic ties or, at least, preventing them from growing in the first place by cancelling the installation that is planned for Friday.

While I acknowledge the unabashed Panglossian intentions behind this decision and know that it will result in even fewer, less frequent posts here, I want to pursue this end with a scientist's eye. I want to open myself up as widely as possible to other worlds.

In previous apartments, in previous lives, I've managed to keep well-occupied by surrounding myself with a variety of media at the sacrifice of not only my wallet, but of my free time, artistic motivation, and various other pursuits. I've never been without these previously-deemed-essential technologies and might rescind this decision a few months down the road but the main goal here is to experiment, that's all.

posted Monday, June 3, 2002

Fall Into Place

One word?or lack of one, for that matter?can turn a mediocre morning into a boiling barathrum of resigned frustration. My irritability is probably due to a lack of sleep over the weekend, aggrivated by frustration over not being heard, being talked over, and feeling generally devalued, professionally, but instead of placing blame I was content to wallow in my anger for a while and entertain thoughts of running off to Florence or Paris for culinary classes.

Lack of sleep is, of course, never accidental. Friday I met up with Ford at Pikes Perk for some coffee, which is really another way of saying that I drove around downtown for a good hour looking for parking while dodging inebriated military men and their scantily-dressed arm candy. We met up with John-Michael at the bar around eleven to partake in weekend imbibing, ourselves, and once sufficiently cruised and lushed we headed to Stan's for some hot-tubbing.

I had been offhandedly chiding myself over a lack of weekend activity lately. When I finally accepted that and settled into a nesting mode, invitations naturally began to fly. One came for dinner on Saturday night with Ricky and Tom at the Blue Star: pecan-encrusted chicken, garlic mashers, and a waiter resembling Jason Behr offering himself for dessert (yes, please). Again, coffee?this time at Montague's?and another run at the bar with Tom, who's boyfriend was out of town for the weekend.

Tom and I caught each other up on the past six years and drew some closure on those early, high-school dates we had avoided talking about for so long. What makes that sort of retrospective closure so satisfying? We talked well into the sunrise, and although I thought I'd be getting some shut-eye, I was initially angered at an eleven-a.m. wake-up call from Matt to hike William's Canyon. In instances like these, I repeat to myself: Sleep when you're dead.

My hiking boots still look like new. I pulled them out and thought of the 50-odd miles hiked last summer on Outward Bound (1, 2, 3, and 4) while I was re-conforming my feet to the stubborn leather that refuses to be broken in. The day was warm and orange, reddish dust rising from the old mines and washed out road-turned-trail that we followed into the forest. Aspens and elephant-ear lined the trail and the ground gave uneven footing as we slid along talus and newly-laid gravel.

Matt found a smooth, golden rock, which we stopped to examine with a hushed excitement and I suddenly felt like I was twelve years old again, exploring the hills behind my old house. Amusingly enough, the rock turned out to be some sort of animal dropping from an unfortunate creature who had attempted to digest what appeared to be a candy or gum wrapper. The whole discovery seemed somehow analogous to so much of life.

If I release some of the control I believe I have over events in life, things usually seem to somehow fall into place, further confirmed?or at least mocked?by a viewing of the endearingly cheesy Serendipity last night with the pops. He had brought a George Foreman Grill as a housewarming gift. He's always got me covered.

posted Friday, May 31, 2002

Creativity Abounds

In absence of internet and television distractions, I've accelerated an old hobby of mine, reading some of backlogged books that have accumulated in my reading queue and finishing the first in a series of guilty pleasures by Robert Jordan. Cale has managed to cull a bit of guilt from my affection for fantasy epics by equating it to watching television, so I picked up a dusty book I found in Memphis last summer by Eric Booth, The Everyday Work of Art, to find some particularly reassuring passages:

All people have this naturally healthy, joyful, creative instinct beaming in them, even as they try to put together good lives within workaday realities. We all wear the concerned, urgent faces of… parents… and the nervous, earnest face of the incipient artist. We live best when we provide for both sets of needs.

It had been a long-fought war before I finally realized this bit of wisdom for myself, although the conclusion had never been completely, solidly cemented in my head. More:

Fulfillment lies in balance, of course; but many people over-rely on the protectors' priorities. When the vulnerable creative impulse is overlooked, or not guided well, it gets pushed, battered, demanded and twisted into serving a source that depletes it. Sadly, we can end up dancing to every tune except the quiet one that is our own.

I pulled the remaining boxes out of my apartment, unloaded my books, and took out the few garbage bags that had amassed in my dining area and, upon returning, was struck by a novel idea to skip investing in a dining room set and transform it into a mini-studio, noticing it's convenient access to kitchen sink, ventilating front-door, and adjustable track lighting.

Just another advantage to sole occupation of one's living space: creativity is allowed free reign and virtually limitless expression.

posted Thursday, May 30, 2002

Summer Fever

I've decided I want to be a houseboy. No more sitting in front of a computer for eight hours a day, I want to be performing useful chores in as little clothing as possible for an appreciative employer. If you're interested in hiring a hard-working, intelligent, and athletic guy to take care of that housework you've let slack, send me a line.

Until that houseboy proposition comes available, I've been looking for ways to keep myself entertained and content with my current profession by walking to work, taking off early, and getting outside as much as possible for breaks. I've somehow convinced my department that they need to take work off Friday to go see a movie with me. Summer fever is taking over, and no one is immune to its indolence-inducing effects.

Journaling has not slacked, however, and I've kept up over the past few days at home by using a text file that sits on my computer desktop as "Untitled Document"?a serendipitously appropriate title considering life as of late?and carried it with me to work today on a blank disk. Those entries follow.

posted Monday, May 27, 2002

Breaking Point

The big conversation went down something like this: "There's been something on my mind. I'm not sure what it is, but I'm not as sexually driven when I'm around you as I used to be. I don't really know what to do about it." That, of course, came off sounding like: "I'm not attracted to you anymore."

Not really the best of things to have said, but it wasn't exactly a lie. I'm not sure if I could have put it any better. Maybe I was trying to say I wasn't attracted to him anymore, although there is certainly a side of me that continues to try and convice myself that I am. Maybe I am, too. This banter draws me to one conclusion: I simply don't know.

And that's what I told him; I don't know what to do about it. I feel sad about telling him. I called him tonight and told him that we shouldn't see each other for a while, which he seemed to take fairly well at first, but it became quickly obvious that his level-headedness was on a downhill slide as his voice turned shaky and unstable and he fumbled for words.

All I wanted to do was hold him and tell him everything would be okay.

Derek's here at the moment and I'm thankful for his presence, though not necessarily thankful for the reason he's still here. His new car, a 1995 Acura Integra, is not running like it should. In fact, it is not drivable at all, as the clutch seems to have disappeared, turning gear-shifting into an impossible task.

We sit alone in the quiet apartment, one nursing a broken heart, the other, a broken car and dream of better days.

posted Sunday, May 26, 2002

Down

Been workin' at the second job all weekend and finally am home after a 6-hour stretch. Things are slowly coming together.

I feel as though I'm on the brink of something, some sort of decision that needs to be made. I can't tell if it concerns Chris or not, but I think that's part of the puzzle. Most of the wondering stems from all this time alone I've spent at the new place.

Part of me doesn't want it to have anything to do with Chris, because I just don't want to face those feelings that keep resurfacing in the back of my mind... that we are not right for one another (when have I not had this feeling in past relationships?) and that I ought to brake it off now before things become more serious.

That part of me that is resisting those thoughts is also the part that is telling me to keep up with the relationship and force it through?break through this cycle of failed relationships, all of them due to the same reasoning?and to perhaps find some sort of success, relationship-wise.

It's always been known in the back of my mind that committment and a successful relationship is a decision that is made in one's mind. I suppose that the ultimate factor here is whether or not I want to make that decision to commit to Chris at this point, based on what I know of him. He certainly has a lot going for him, and I do like him a lot.

I'm doubtful that this will work out, but also hopeful that something turns things around.

posted Friday, May 24, 2002

Pasta for Company

It's not really the first night in my new place, but it's the first night that I've really had the place to myself.

I've spent a large portion of the time eating and unpacking. It feels really weird, because I had always imagined it would be somewhat similar to staying at home and simply being alone in a separate part of the house, but it's not at all.

It's a stretch finding things to keep me occupied. For one thing, I don't have an internet connection or cable or a telephone (besides my cell) and those are the three things that would normally keep me busy during a typical weeknight at home.

I ate some pasta for dinner, which is really the only thing I have in the apartment at the moment and, most likely, will be the only sustenance available until next Friday, or at least when I get my reimbursement for London.

Time to unpack some more.

posted Monday, May 20, 2002

King of My Castle

I had this crazy idea a few months back to get rid of my computer at home and, while it now requires a bit of straining on my part to understand my mindset at the time, I suppose the reasoning behind the idea wasn't entirely outrageous. I'd like to loosen the strings that tie me to the virtual world.

Regardless, I was on the phone for twenty minutes attempting to set up my internet connection at home and discover that it won't be available for another 7-10 days, leaving me with the trusty pen-and-paper as my only journaling outlet. A sad state of affairs? Perhaps not. Then again, I always have sporadic hours of inactivity at work with which to journal to my heart's content.

I used to hate moving but I'm enjoying this particular relocation, due in large part to the euphoric autonomy that I've been experiencing by finally living on my own. And the place looks great. It's an amazing feeling to be responsible for everything in your living space, to be king of your castle. I can't imagine giving up this independence, not for a boyfriend or an ailing parent or a needy friend. At least, not at the moment.

The couch arrived today: a retro, squarish, slate-colored sofa with chrome legs and a cushy back. None of this whalish, overstuffed crap. Clean and simple... and expensive. Time to go out and find matching furniture. I am currently researching a cure for buyer's remorse.

posted Saturday, May 18, 2002

Moved

The bulk of the move is completed; large boxes, bed, art, telescope all transported to an airy, high-ceiling'd utopia, otherwise known as the new apartment. One last entry before the computer is is anesthetized and carried, comatose, to a new location. And my first Mirror Project submission.

posted Friday, May 17, 2002

Time and Space

What had started out as a nonchalant activity is now a down-to-the-wire race against time as I scramble to pack my remaining belongings before a five o'clock deadline tonight. I'm almost finished and, as such, have afforded myself a moment of reflective repose before taping up the last few boxes and taking a final survey of the move.

I'm sure now that I wouldn't have finished packing, had I not taken the past two days off work, and I don't know how I figured I'd complete this in one night. As I said before, this whole moving thing had started out rather noncommittal and I figured things would get done as needed; then there was the imposed postponement due to the trip to London.

Chris and I are talking once a day—down from twice a day when I was away—and it's patently relieving, especially with this work load but as much as I'd like to say that is by no means related to my feelings toward him, I'm definitely sensing a cooling down on my part. Whether that is because we've been apart for so long or because I'm losing interest is yet to be seen, thus I'm determined to wait and play it by ear. The universe knows nothing of obligation, yet I feel I owe it to both of us to see this develop further. And I like the guy.

I was a razor's distance from a hasty decision last night to quit my second job, what with all the weight of moving and work and relationships. Here's another example of me committing myself to one thing and nurturing the side of my ego that is forever wandering. After a lengthy discussion with Chris, I decided I'll present an ultimatum tonight: meet my requests or I'll have to leave. It forces the decision upon them. And as unreasonable as that unspecific demand might sound, there's really a lot more to the whole situation that I can't divulge due to time and space constraints. Or is that redundant, since time and space are the same thing?

Regardless, the laws of time/space are leaving me with little left to finish this packing and so I must away, but not before leaving one final thought for the day, which also happens to be my personal mantra of late:

Do not travel far to other dusty lands, forsaking your own sitting place; if you cannot find the truth where you are now, you will never find it.

-- Dogen

posted Wednesday, May 15, 2002

My First Threesome

When I sit down to write, I often ask myself what I'd like to read if I were browsing through my archives five or ten years down the road. Invariably, the most interesting journal entries I've read from my past are either personal reflections or gossip about the people in my life at the moment, neither of which speak volumes of my taste in reading topics but certainly attest to the baser predilictions of human nature: self-love and scandal.

Specifics are always preferred. For instance, I'd rather read something along the lines of, "Today, I came out to my coworker, Steve, at lunch and he took it rather well in spite of blowing milk out of his nose," instead of, "Work is good." I've done enough journaling to know that simply saying, "Work is good," will mean absolutely nothing to me ten years down the road, let alone have any particle of entertainment value.

Gossip is always more interesting when it involves nasty rumors or sordid detailings of disreputing engagements. My favor goes to the "I had my first threesome" entry, rather than the one that starts out, "I had my first traffic ticket today." These accounts have a large downside when made publically available, however, as everyone who knows you will ultimately read them. People have a way of finding gossip. Dirty gossip has a way of finding people.

Journaling on a publically available site such as this is restrictive since specifics and gossip are kept to a minimum to maintain both privacy and pride. In a way, I wonder if this self-censorship has a similar effect on the quality of my writing here that restrictions on early 1950's television programming had on the content of shows such as "I Love Lucy." Taboo subjects were addressed via more creative avenues when they were not allowed to be talked about up front, making for some hilariously entertaining situations.

I suppose that if disclosure is the ultimate goal and recording events true to life is the ideal, I should throw pride and privacy to the wind. I'd be free to detail some of the more interesting events and thoughts taking place in my life right now. Not that my life is a fountainhead of drama or I'm continually having to censor myself, but it would be nice to know that, had I been engaging in threeways, I'd be free to talk about it here. You know.

posted Tuesday, May 14, 2002

Homecoming

Slept in my own bed last night for the first time. Drove my own car to work this morning. Ate food out of my refrigirator for once, instead of eating out. I had missed all of these things while travelling on the road and there's this aftertaste from travelling that makes even the simplest activities stand out.

Two weeks in London. Neo-classical architecture. Grey mornings, sunny afternoons. Red, double-decker buses. Cobblestone streets. The din of the city. Hour-long rides into the city via the London Underground. Union Jack. Green trees. Tired, beautiful people. So many men wearing short, mohawk-like hairstyles. Walking. Yellow backpack. Techno everywhere.

A weekend in Miami. Tactile humidity. Sun. Spanish everywhere. Frigidly air-conditioned buildings. Betty and Denise. The smell of Chris' deodorant. Gay beach. The Crowbar. Taxis, three in the back, one in front (usually me). All-dance radio station. Eating cheap American food and enjoying it, after the stay in England.

posted Thursday, May 9, 2002

London, Day 9

Last full day. I fly out of London tomorrow with a bittersweet taste in my head for leaving this great city and not getting a chance to see and do everything here, let alone for abandoning the several great people I've met on my travels in the city. I'm ready to go home, however. A great side effect of travelling for long periods of time is that it cultivates such an immense appreciation for home (I had always said that if I ever open a dance club, I'd call it "Home").

The majority of the week has been spent playing tourist. I haven't needed to work since the software load went so butter smooth and we had so few problems, and my supervisor told me to take the week off. I'm basically on paid vacation at this point and have become close friends with the Picadilly Line in the London Underground (the subway), taking the hour-long trip into Central London at least once a day?sometimes twice?to spend time with Bjorn or Glen, a friend I made on Oxford Street while waiting for one of my co-workers to get a haircut.

Now, everything is coming to a head as I prepare to do some last minute touring, spend time with everyone I've met, pack and get ready to leave tomorrow. It's been a great trip, but I'm ready to be home again. Pictures coming soon.

posted Sunday, May 5, 2002

London, Day 6

Well, forget principle. I suppose I ought to admit to myself that when I don't feel like writing, it simply isn't going to happen unless I'm in front of a computer with nothing better to do which, while the reason for a large quantity of writing on this site, isn't really a reason I'm particularly proud of. A quote by G.K. Chesterton:

There is more simplicity in the man who eats caviar on impulse than in the man who eats grape nuts on principle.

Work has been really light so I've taken it upon myself to tour as much of the city as possible, mainly catching the sights around SoHo and Central London (Picadilly Circus, Trafalgar Square, etc.) and hunting out the gay pubs and areas. I managed to connect with a nice German fellow named Bjørn who was kind enough to take me out; Portabello Street for some antique shopping, bangers and mash (English slang for sausages and mashed potatoes), afternoon tea, miles of city touring, and dinner at Wagamama (Japanese noodle restaraunt). There are so many beautiful people here, it's dizzying.

The culture mix here is really incredible. It's about twice as diverse as any city in the States, with huge Indian, Pakistani, and Middle Eastern populations. In the U.S., it's mainly a conglomeration of black, white, hispanic, and asian but over here, in addition to those, there's a plethora of African ethnicities, South Americans, Europeans, and Middle Easterners thrown into the mix. Much due to the great impact of early English imperialism, but the location of London in relation to everything else in the world might have something to do with it too.

Driving is slowly becoming second nature to me and I'm finally to the point where I can drive on auto-pilot, manoeuvre roundabouts without a pause or second thought, and navigate this web of London. Some interesting things to note about driving in England:

• Traffic lights turn yellow before turning green again. Very handy.
• No left turns on red lights.
• Going "through" a roundabout means to go half-way around it and continue on the same road. Turning right at a roundabout means to go three-quarter's distance around, and left is one-quarter's.
• A crosswalk is denoted by a squiggly line in the road.
• All distances here are in miles, not kilometers.

Big circuit party last night at The Fridge. Great strippers. Lots of friendly people. It's been a while since I've been out clubbing on my own, and to do it in a big city like this felt rather awkward. After a Red Bull and a few long, sultry glances from a variety of shirtless, sweaty guys on the dance floor, however, I was finally able to get into the groove. Met a beautiful guy from South Africa who had short blond hair, brown eyes, and the thickest, sexiest... accent.

On the home front, it's been difficult being away from Chris not only missing him, but also being faced with the multitude of temptation here. I'm generally not very good about holding up under those kinds of conditions, but I'm making my momma proud. Keeping myself busy has probably had a lot to do with that.

posted Saturday, April 27, 2002

Freely Flowing

A particular Zen saying has been on my mind the past few days:

All things flow freely, as the fish swims in the water.

I'm trying to envision myself moving through life with as little friciton as possible, going with the flow, working with what's given to me. The week has flowed quite smoothly, in fact. Getting back on my feet from Monday has been a lot easier than I'd anticipated and now the trip to London looms over me, filling my field of view. Packing for the big move has been put on hold while I pack for the trip and I feel a little anxious, knowing it will be here awaiting my return.

Chris and I spent a few days together this week. In response to TV Turnoff Week, we went to dinner at Sencha and a showing of Annie Get Your Gun on Tuesday that was a riot. Somehow, we also ended up with tickets to I Love You, You're Perfect, Now Change! on Thursday (a fluke of planning, but we weren't complaining). Dinner at Bang! before the show, where one of the gay waiters bought us dessert for "making his night" after he caught me stealing a kiss from Chris across the table. Never knew being gay could be so fun and profitable!

Would it be too early to say I'm in love? It's been almost a month and I'm smitten, for sure. I'm no maven of relationships but I often wonder if I'm falling into my old habit of pushing things too fast. Then again, who's to say what's fast or slow or just the right pace? Here's another example of where I'm working on being a fish in water, allowing all things to flow freely.

posted Wednesday, April 24, 2002

Universal Balance

The days have collected behind me, colliding with one another like a highway pile-up. There's been so much that I've wanted?no, needed?to record that simply hasn't happened due to the unhappy events of Monday that seemed to put everything else on the sidelines. It is becoming clearer, however, that those events are making the recording of my week even more important, in order to point out all the immense good spawned thereof. An unsourcable quote comes to mind: "If it hadn't been for the darkness, I wouldn't have seen the light."

I had an immense outpouring of support during the past few days as a result of the burglary, most from people I didn't know. Like the reaction after the September incident, I am amazed at the level of concern and support people are ready to offer strangers and am warmed thoroughly by the kind words, thoughtful gestures, and sympathy. I only hope my words were enough to express my thanks in return.

Poor times create a vacuum that friends scramble to fill. It finally makes sense to me how so many are attracted to disaster, drama, and chaos in life; not necessarily to attract attention but to build relationships with people because bonds built out of the trials of life form quickly and harden with the steely resolve to overcome.

My relationship with Chris has solidified in such. The weekend was a blur of color and events, parties and downtime, sleeping and waking in each other's arms. He had planned to come down on Tuesday, regardless, but after the bad Monday I sensed that he felt needed more than usual. He brought down roses and a supportive smile. I carried both into the evening that I will continue recording later tonight.

posted Monday, April 22, 2002

Violation

I'm sitting amid dead bodies. Drawers have been pulled out and overturned, their contents spilled like the intestines of an unlucky war victim. Cables dangle like lifeless arms from their shelves where they once connected media equipment. Our house has been burglarized.

Nothing like this has happened to me before. I had always sympathized with those who've gone through this ordeal, nodding my head when they describe the incident as deeply disturbing, knowing that someone has been through your house without your knowledge, going through your things, leaving nothing sacred. Now I empathize fully, knowing that disturbance deep within my own chest like nervousness, seeing everything in the house as tainted by the hands of some unwashed stranger.

I feel violated.

posted Wednesday, April 17, 2002

Spring Therapy

A quick midweek, midday nap. The trees are budding, bidding me to come out and enjoy the sun with them but I ignore them to catch up on the sleep that has eluded me for most of the week. Laundry tumbling, I wake with the buzzer telling me my clothes are done.

Clothes and books and tapes and niknacks in boxes, haphazardly; my apartment is so small, I'll sort it out later. I'm listening to the same few songs over and over again (Flawless by The Ones, Murder on the Dancefloor by Sophie Ellis Baxtor, and Lady by Modjo). Can't stop thinking about Chris who cycles through my head like my limited playlist.

I'm jumping from day to day like the week is a hopscotch field, throwing my dates with Chris in front of me. I can finally smell summer.

In other news, my brother has a website now.

posted Monday, April 15, 2002

Better Than Imagined

It was getting late on Saturday night and I was staying in, imagining Chris out and about with friends, when I got his message on my phone.

"I have a hickey!"

It took me a minute to work this out in my head and I did a few retakes of the message, reading it over and over again, my mind conjuring a million different images of him at the bar with someone all over him. The first question that came to mind was why he was telling me in the first place. Did he feel guilty? Was he preparing me for the next time we'd see each other? Was he trying to hint at something?

I reflected back on yesterday's notes regarding backing off and letting things cool down a bit because we had rushed on rather fiercely and decided I would let this issue slide. After all, why shouldn't we be free to date or spend time with other people? I was the one advocating casual dating. I decided not to be a hypocrite and wrote him back a short note saying it sounded like he was having fun and that I'd talk to him in the morning.

Sleeping on it, however, did not prove a panacea to my reservations and I set off for work with a heavy mind and a twisted, sour feeling in my gut. I really liked Chris, and this seemed to make it pretty clear in my head that he didn't feel the same way or at least not as strongly. I worked through the day in a half-daze, and chatted briefly on the phone with Chris to solidify our rendezvous plans later on that evening.

When we met at the agreed-upon greasy-spoon diner in the northern part of the city, I regarded him cooly although it was difficult to cover up my elation at seeing him again. He was his usual cheerful self and acted no differently than he had been the past week, which I found rather odd considering the events of the past night that I'd been simmering in all day.

He proceeded to detail the night and when he came to the part about his friends asking about the hickey on his neck (which was barely visible, denoted by a definite area of pinkness under his left ear), I listened with a feigned sense of mild amusement and disinterest to indicate my casualness about the situation, but I suddenly grew very nervous. There was something in the way he was telling me about it, however, that confused me. It was almost as though he were bringing up a private joke between us. And that's when it hit me.

The hickey was from me. Shocked by this epiphany, I didn't really know what to say and Chris continued without noticing my expression. When I finally explained what I had been thinking, he apologized profusely and said I must have been thinking he was a total asshole. The cloud over my head dissipated. We shared a few awkward laughs and joked about it for a while, but eventually the converstaion steered back to normal course and that warm affection I had been feeling for him all week returned.

I've been getting in the way of myself lately. I'm glad I didn't react badly to the situation but at the same time I wonder what insecurities and past experiences have led me to this course of thinking. I had always wanted to be the sort of person who can give someone the benefit of the doubt before judging or making rash decisions. I hope that writing it down here is a first step.

posted Saturday, April 13, 2002

Questioning Failure

I was mentally berating myself for taking the second job as I drove down the interstate at 9 a.m. this morning, while Chris lay sleeping some 60 miles away. Dinner at P.F. Chang's, meeting Chris' friends, a birthday party at JR's and the Wave, and an I-said-I-wouldn't-drink-but-what-the-hell evening all made for a good 4 hours of sleep and a long drive to work. The day went fairly quickly, however. It always seems to go faster on caffeine and during periods of high customer traffic, but here I am after what seems like a never-ending, exhausting day.

It was date three and those doubts are creeping into my head, whispering of how long distance relationships don't work and how he's too this or too that or doesn't do this or that right. I should be used to it because it happens to every single guy I date but recently I've started to become pretty convinced that the problem isn't with the guys I'm dating but a problem with me. Perfectionist? Elitist? Whatever. I've pretty much made up my mind to just go with the flow and not let my doubts get in the way of letting the dating play out.

Chris and I talked about some of these things last night and the fact that we'll be separated for over a month while I'm out of the country and he's in another state, but I think we're both in agreement that we'd like to see where things go by giving it a little more time and not making a breaking decision right now.

I had always complained about how gay men have forgotten how to casually date. No commitment, no expectations, just friendly, casual dating. Getting to know one another. And here I am worrying about when I'll get to see him next, telling him it would bother me if we started seeing other people, and really just pushing this beyond a casual dating scenario into a more serious dating relationship despite our brief, three weeks of getting to know one another. I keep thinking I ought to back off a bit, but I'm afraid he'll take that as a sign of waning interest.

Speaking of dating other people, Mike, an acquaintance that I had been interested in for over a year, showed up at the Wave last night and asked if I was single and proceeded to give me his contact information. I told him I was dating someone else at the moment but that he should give it to me anyway and we'd talk. I suppose I did it partially to prove to myself that I need to back off with Chris and feel free to date other people, but another part of me really wanted to contemplate the implications of going on a date with this guy.

Sometimes I wonder if we sometimes set ourselves up for failure despite our best efforts to steer things towards the best possible outcome. In this case, I'd like simply to do nothing about my situation with Chris and with my job and with dating and that way I wouldn't fuck things up, but I know growth or progress would never occur without the occasional failure. Therefore, I suppose I ought to prepare myself for either outcome.

posted Thursday, April 11, 2002

Frazzle Rock

The past twenty-four-odd hours have been a blur of activity. First there was the date yesterday evening, which went better than expected and included a bit of rock climbing at my gym followed by burgers at Red Top and lots of driving around for good conversation. We stopped at the Gold Camp Road overlook and chatted while the city lights winked at us and then continued on home. I had forgotten what a strikingly deep brown his eyes are. Chris has endearing, almost-cartoonish features and the most adorable smile that makes my stomach twist every time he looks at me.

Instead of slowing down with the passage of the night, however, my schedule managed to grow even more raddled. Talking to my manager, I received approval for a two-week business trip to London, contingent upon the timely renewal of my passport that required a stifling, three-hour tarry in a stuffy room and two trips to and from work to the downtown post office. Had this been the sole excitement for the day, I probably would be less frazzled but read on to see the insanity mount.

A visit to my school to drop yesterday's aforementioned class proved my commitment skills to be in extreme want as I proceeded to drop the class only to sign up for another in order to maintain my full-time student status and avoid a hefty fine. (Okay, so not necessarily the most ardent of banes on my ability to effectuate, but it was nonetheless discouraging after having decided, concretely, that I was done, period.) Bills in disarray, schedules in a further muddle, and running out of money, I was forced to make several arrangements to finish this process online and over fax.

I'd continue on about the several problem logs that arose at work afterwards, and how I'm worried about moving and car payments and taxes (who isn't?), and how I'm working fervently to keep myself from feeling depressed and overworked, but I really don't feel like it because I tend to ramble when I do and that simply doesn't make for interesting reading later on down the line. Not that I'm doing this for high interest level but my life really is more interesting than all of the things I write about, I just never seem to be able to convey that in my writing.

Chris invited me to a birthday get-together tomorrow at JR's and a "Would You Like to Stay the Night?" proposition that I tentatively turned down in light of the "Let's Take This Slow" conversation. I'm kicking myself over and over again after realizing that I'll need to work the morning after. And the morning after that. Note to self: Never take on another secondary, part-time job.

posted Tuesday, April 9, 2002

What I Want

I made a decision today that could quite possibly change my entire life or at least alter the direction I'm heading in anyway. I'm not going back to school. Not for a while. And I'm certainly not taking the class that began today, known as Modern Operating Systems.

I walk in and the entire classroom is grey: grey chairs, grey walls, grey carpet, grey lights. Even the instructor is wearing a grey striped shirt and grey pants and as I look down I realize that I am too, except for my jeans, which are blue. He drones on about operating systems and I rub my eyes fervently, trying to get the blur out of my eyes.

I slowly talk myself out of it as I sit there in a simmering frustration at having to take the class a second time around, only this time as a graduate course, and the conclusion crescendoes until it is a pounding pressure behind my eyes: I'm not going to do this.

It was all I could do to sit through the rest of the session as not to seem rude or flippant of the instructor's efforts and, after my mind had been made up, I thought about my options should I drop out. After all, graduate school is the sole reason I'm still in my hometown and I have no problem using that as an excuse when people ask me what I'm still doing here, or when I ask myself the same question.

But now the frustration mounts, as I contemplate the implications of this decision. Where am I and why am I here? What am I doing with my life and what do I want all of this to mean? Core questions that bombard my brain at every turn.

I feel relieved now that I've made the decision final in my head, and as this seems to be a common theme lately, I'm going to stick to my guns and see it through. I only hope Mason wasn't right in writing, "When God punishes you, he gives you what you want."

posted Sunday, April 7, 2002

Counting Days

This exhaustion is a tangible thing. I can feel around it with my tongue, the muscles in my back, my forearms and calves and I'm starting to question my reasoning when taking on this second job because I'm coming home with a palpably perceptible soreness after standing and moving all day long. On the other hand, I had been wanting this physical activity and involvement with people that is so lacking in my desk job so I'm apt to hold my tongue and stick it out.

It's amazing what a crush can do for your energy levels. Sloughing my way through the front door with an armload of boxes for moving, I settled in with a heavy sigh and picked up my phone to check messages. The first was from Dave, the second from Dad, and the third from none other than the crush.

(I have this really bad habit of conditionalizing everything by making mental bets against the outcomes of events in my life. For instance, after listening to my dad's message, my mind decided in the split second before the final message played, that if it was from Chris, he was a good catch. The message was from Chris.)

My breath caught somewhere between the back of my throat and my stomach as I listened, languorously, to each syllable exhaled somewhere on the other end of the line between those lips that I had been kissing not 48 hours ago. Dialing his number without a moment's hesitation, I tried to push aside the mental anguish over not thinking of something clever to say when he answered the phone. Fortunately, I didn't need to.

He's an easy conversationalist, witty and down-to-earth. Did I mention he's got a British accent? We chatted about weekend activities: I saw Kissing Jessica Stein; he spent time with friends at the bars. We chatted about future activities: Wednesday night for burgers at Red Top and dessert at Michelle's. Monday and Tuesday are cruelly long. I can't wait.

My house is being taken over by evil cardboard boxes from outer space, waiting to be filled with books and clothes and sundries and miscellanea. The move is to take place in T-minus 24 days. But who's counting?

posted Saturday, April 6, 2002

Perennial as the Grass

I keep playing his message on my voicemail over and over again, detailing every nuance of his voice, every inflection, bathing in the buttery buoyancy of his British accent. We met just a week ago. The way things have turned out is eerie and great at the same time, mostly because we were both really attracted to each other from the get go, although neither of us were very forthcoming and now here we are after a night of music and dancing, making out in the middle of Champa. Strangely enough, his name is Chris as well, which should provide for an ample amount of Seinfeldian comedy and confusion.

Earlier in the evening, Mason and I went to see Lucinda Williams at the Paramount. Not a regular on my playlist, she certainly earned a spot with her slightly-raspy, soulful voice and hit-the-spot guitar skills. She threw the melody out over the audience like a stone into water, her voice trailing behind like a ribbon that had been tied on, and I resisted the urge to stand up and move my body to the rhythm, to catch each stone that was skillfully juggled and precisely tossed.

A really awkward, obese woman with a brightly colored scarf wandered up towards the front a few times, twirling her hands in the air and waving them around as though she were witnessing a Southern Baptist baptism in the river. It was really a great scene. Each time, a white-shirted security guard would escort her nervously off to the side, and each time, she'd somehow wander back up again. I suppose no one's allowed to dance at these venues, and it reminded me of the "No Dancing" signs in clubs without a cabaret license in the south.

My thoughts always wander at concerts and I simply couldn't shake Chris from my head. I kept comparing our meeting and these upwelling of feelings to previous meetings with previous boyfriends and marveling at how each one felt so right in the beginning but turned out to be not so right in the end. It really kind of bothered me to think that if I feel this strongly for guys who are wrong, how would I feel about the right guy? Would I be able to handle it? I tuned out those jaded thoughts and attempted to lose myself in the music, which merely served as a pool of color in my head for Chris' face to bob around in.

posted Thursday, April 4, 2002

Mixed Crackers

Back from lunch with a full stomach, convulsing from massive amounts of raw fish and rice, and a full head, also convulsing from a perpetual chorus of John Mellencamp's "Hurt So Good" that won't seem to stop.

Lunch was a relatively off-the-cuff plan that ended up working out surprisingly well. Brandie and I met Linds and Leif at Jun for sushi, fortunate to make it before the noon rush that oozed in after we sat down. Pen in hand, three heads bowed over the long, paper menu, we ticked off phonetically-translated Japanese names for fish, one-by-one, occasionally stopping to question the translation. I remember feeling rather daring the first time I ever ordered sushi, years ago. Now, I only ever order the same thing.

Brandie and I stopped by Pier One?also known as the Gay Man's Wal-Mart?to do a little post-lunch shopping and take advantage of the mellow, languid state that a full stomach produces, being very conducive to leisurely perusal. My horoscope says to avoid letting my creative side take over purchasing decisions, and I made a point to shop austerely since the urge to buy new furniture and decorations for the apartment is overwhelming, especially when eucalyptus bunches are on sale.

This is probably the greatest thing I have seen on the Internet in a while: Hi-Ho (Japanese Flash advertisement). Does anyone know what they're singing about?

posted Tuesday, April 2, 2002

Another Start

I'm going through the stack of papers one-by-one, sorting out numbers, agreements and lists when it hits me that I've just rented a new apartment. This means I have to move. Of course, that was the whole point of visiting various apartments over the past few weeks, looking at my options, reassessing my budget and working out the pros and cons but the implications still hadn't fully occurred to me until just a few moments ago.

Of course, this is after a weekend of inundating hyperactivity so I'm a little spin-crazy at the moment anyway, attempting to recover from clubbing, drinking, and lack of sleep. The second job started on Saturday, too, and through this haze of activity and blur of change, I still feel a distinct tinge of buyer's (or would that be "renter's"?) remose. Could I argue that my decision to move was influenced by a temporary lack of judgement?

After the months of debate over this issue, I'm settling it once and for all, and saying that: no, this is in fact what I need and wanted. Point made. Time to run with it.

posted Friday, March 29, 2002

Keep On Movin'

It's an hour before lunch, and my manager just came in to tell me that it's an "early day." In other words, don't come back from lunch. I love my job.

Fly-by, hit-and-run, wham-bam-thank-you-ma'am week. Snowboarding on Wednesday with Leif and the Fatbob, which is just what I need for my size-13 feet, but it didn't make much difference because the slopes were windblown and icy, prompting an early retreat to the Breckenridge Brewery for India Pale Ale, onion rings, and burgers.

Training at the new job. I can take hands-on failure, try-try-again, but sitting in a stock room for four hours?after eight hours at a desk?listening to the hype and company propaganda that overshadows the actual product training makes for a very sleepy and very irritated boy. I'm on the floor tomorrow. Bring it on.

What started out as a great idea chugging down the tracks at eighty miles an hour has lost some steam as I debate and redebate the whole moving plan. Cons: down payments, mortgages, taxes, packing, furniture (or lack thereof). Pros: tabula rasa, independence, closer to work, shirtless movers (the weather has me optimistic at any rate).

I'm living it day-by-day and not even glancing in the general direction of my calendar because it's too much to bear: party tonight, work in the morning, party tomorrow night, work in the morning. Get up. Get down. Don't stop. My life is a never-ending dance track. I love it.

posted Tuesday, March 26, 2002

Uncovered

Every time I open my Inbox nowadays, I blush. Spammers have no shame, I tell you.

In lieu of my usual, pre-packaged dinner consisting of Ramen, tuna, and a bagel, I spent yesterday evening entertaining Brandie's two-year-old, Caitlin, at Zio's where we dined on shrimp and angel-hair pasta over brown-paper table coverings, much to the fortune and foresight of the restaraunteurs. She asked whether I'd ever want kids and, looking at the greasy mess Caitlin had made of herself and the paper tablecloth, I shook my head adminantly and replied, "Not until they figure out a way to Scotchguard them."

Afterwards, I started training for my new part-time job last night where I will be moonlighting as a sales rep for a recreational equipment retailer. The staff is very friendly and laid back, and the other new-hires are diverse and eager to start. There's a kind of quiet, contagious excitement that spreads with a smile or a glance or a nod, and it all confirms my decision to pick up the work as an easy way to wind down on the weekends and make a few friends and extra cash at the same time.

Yesterday's six inches of snow is completely melted under the ever-approaching, spring sun. I feel equally uncovered today.

posted Monday, March 25, 2002

Punching Through

The past week was like Jell-O. I'd push through each day, but the viscosity of my activities would pull me back or leave me suspended, mid-step, and I'd have to push through with enough consistent force to make it through. There were no free-flowing moments. Every minute was deliberate.

Work, school, reading, games, and exercise. Hot water. Mix. Pour. Plans filled the square molds of my calendar quickly as though they resembled nothing of their gelled counterparts, threatening to overflow, and once they set it was time to start the engine of routine, that autopilot in my head that takes helm and dictates action based on a list of rules like a finite-state automaton.

And thus, I punched through the week, working because I have to, reading because I want to finish the book, gaming because I committed myself to completing it. Each activity was bland, tasteless, void of any meaning besides "getting it done."

I berate myself because this isn't living (further mental torment over my current situation provided by Thoreau). Really, the only thing I seem to be working towards or drawing any sort of motivation from lately is this remote idea of my future where I'll be financially, educationally, and professionally stable.

But enough ranting. Things are really falling into place, and I suppose the main thing is that I'm happy with where things are going. Sometimes I just have to punch through things to ignore this itch of malcontentedness that afflicts me periodically. I like to think it's a Sagittarius thing.

posted Tuesday, March 19, 2002

Wary of Landslides

Today is day one: I came out to Brandie, a coworker, over Chipotle burritos after what seemed to be an eternity of living in silence at my current employer. I've been working there for almost three years and she's the first.

It was painless. One minute, we're talking about food, the next, we're talking about her best friend being gay. You know I'm gay, right? Oh, you do? Okay. Apparently, I tipped her off several weeks back when she spotted the Sheena postcard in my cube and I told her it was campy.

It feels good to know I have an ally and a friend at the workplace, even though I always said my sexuality wasn't something that needed to be discussed with my coworkers. It's great to finally be able to talk about all the boys at work. It's like waking up from a good dream and realizing you weren't dreaming, but that these good things are real.

In celebration of a new-found friend, Brandie came over after work and I rented Toy Story 2 for her two-year-old daughter, Caitlin, while we chatted over dinner. It was an opening of the flood gates, as three-year's worth of gossip and interests and stories spilled out onto the table.

Part of me is still a little wary about the situation. It feels as though I'm making my way down a steep, rocky incline and I need to be careful who I tell or the rocks will give way under me and I'll fall for miles. I know it's not nearly as bad as my mind makes it out to be, but all I can do is take it one step at a time. One way or another, I'll reach the bottom I suppose.

posted Monday, March 18, 2002

Life, the Comedian

Today was the kind of day that begins well drawn out—in which you know each hustle as though you studied the team playbook weeks in advance—and then turns you into the Miss Cleo of day planners with a complete turnaround of events.

I had taken the day off to drive Lindsay to the airport for her flight to Germany. The plan was to go and come back. A simple, two-hour trip. I had absentmindedly wondered what I would do with an entire day off as I was driving away from the airport, when suddenly, I was on the phone, dialing my friends for lunch.

After a quick, two-hour shopping spree through several malls, Dave, Damen, and a friend of Dave's from work met me at Lime, a sheik neo-Mexican restaraunt decorated in minimalist white, green, and orange. Lunch was surprisingly good and the company even better, as Dave dished out the most recent gossip like Spanish tapas, each successive tidbit more tasty and sinfully decadent than the last.

As I was returning Damen to his mom's house, the thought crossed my mind to call my ex, Jeff, who I hadn't spoken to in almost six months. As I was contemplating the implications of this, my body had pulled the car to the side of the road and had dialed the phone. It wasn't until Jeff's voice resounded in my ear, that I forgot the mental debate and blurted out: "I'm in town. Want to have dinner?"

It was a pretty simple proposal and quickly accepted. We'd meet at five. I'd choose the place. Easy enough. But even though it was a gut decision to call him and I'm all about following my instincts lately, I felt anxious. It's been six months since we broke up and I still get this awful sour feeling inside my stomach whenever I think about him.

I whiled away the time at the mall until five, since consuming material items is an extremely effective method of distraction, though not very kind on the wallet. I bought Ivy's "Long Distance" and Final Fantasy X for my neglected PlayStation and moseyed around looking at this and that. Senses flooded with the heroin-like effects of credit-card swiping, I was suprirsed when I looked down at my watch and realized it was five.

We met at a nice steakhouse called Alexander's for some prime rib and red wine. Conversation was easy and after a short while my nervousness faded into the dimly lit surroundings. There was a reason I hadn't attempted to contact Jeff in such a long time, and that is because he is still hung up on me in a way, which he freely admitted. I had no intentions of rekindling any sort of romance and wanted to meet out of pure concern and curiosity over the doings in his life.

We finished dinner and wandered out into the snow to leave. Showing me his new Jeep, I got in and gently prodded reluctant enthusiasm out the doors of my mouth and eyes to play in the vapors of breath that rose in the only-recently-cold air, and when we went to hug, he wrapped his arms around me snugly and brushed his nose against my cheek. My eyes fluttered closed and I let myself relax into his hold, wishing that in a perfect world, perhaps I wouldn't have some feelings I was having, and that maybe I wouldn't have to drive home in the snow, that perhaps we could ride home in his Jeep with a towel over my legs and the thrill of newness and anticipation of exploration still fresh on our tongues.

posted Sunday, March 17, 2002

Sunday Saint

I went to the symphony last night with Ricky. The head conductor had left town on a family emergency, and Tom was required to fill his spot as the assistant conductor, so we were there for support as well as an evening of great music. I lazed languorously through Mozart and Shostakovich, mesmerized by the cursive letters Tom drew in the air with his conductor's wand. Occasionally, his head would loll back as though he were awash in emotion or in danger of being overwhelmed by the unrelenting waves of sound.

Afterward, we congratulated him backstage for a virtually flawless performance and he glowed. It is wonderful to share in other people's victories and even better to know they freely choose to share them with you. For the first time in a long time, I felt a glimmer of attraction stir in the recesses of my head, incited by Tom's afterglow and, for a few seconds, I was seventeen again waiting at his door in my waiter's uniform, holding a bouquet of flowers.

The house is empty this week, and it's a great to be able to sit around in my underwear, sing out loud, cook whenever I want, and have free reign of the television (which I've made good use of after renting Rat Race, O, and Zoolander). Lindsay came over yesterday and I made lunch, futilely attempting to entertain her. She is to be excused, however, as she is riding the crimson wave this week and isn't of the most gracious disposition. I am, on the other hand, very grateful that I don't?nor will I ever?have to deal with that particular feminine problem on any other level than friendly support per the specific, serendipitous nature of my sexual preference.

Speaking of which, I contemplated the implications of attending a gay church service this morning, while driving around looking for a place to rent a violin. If you've ever attended one, please share your experiences.

posted Friday, March 15, 2002

Stillness is Illusory

A line taken from my email to Aaron the other night, feeling particularly poetic in light of good weather (which turned into big snow yesterday) and the recent turn of events. It's such a turn around from even a year ago when life seemed to be congealing around me from the cold weather and school, and the past few years have seemed a constant battle against stagnation. It took a few reflective moments and a few kind words from friends to show me that stillness is illusory.

As typical and uncreative as it may sound, I've decided to take a break this summer from graduate school to regain some focus. The only risk in doing this, however, is getting so caught up in the routine of work that I end up absorbing the extra time and energy like a sponge. Just something to keep in mind.

My hands and feet are growing tough and calloused from climbing and lifting weights. I feel like a construction worker or farmer. I feel damn sexy.

posted Monday, March 11, 2002

New Job

"Assuming your background check comes back clean, I'd like to offer you a position," he said.

I stuttered a few seconds before exhaling an "Oh, great," as it's been about four years since I have heard those particular words directed at me. We finalized everything over the phone. Yes, I'd be there next week for training. Yes, I'm ready. Thank you.

Not that I need one, but a part-time, weekend job would make the current financial load easier to swallow, not to mention offer me a chance to make a few new acquaintances and walk off with some toys to boot; the new position is with a recreational equipment retailer.

It has slowly bled through the fibers of everyday life but the realization that I seem to have drifted towards the whole climbing-and-mountaineering bit really hit me hard this past weekend. I would have never anticipated any sort of interest in the area two years ago, but it has grown to a more-than-weekly activity.

I had this in mind when applying for the new job last week. Starting will almost be like starting a new chapter in my life since change hasn't come around these parts lately. It's thrilling, in a way, to know that there are so many other side-worlds such as this one, awaiting exploration.

posted Sunday, March 10, 2002

Dreams of Running

I had a dream last night that I was running barefoot in the streets. A specific destination wasn't clear to me at the time, but I remember looking down at my bare feet landing on the pavement in that slow-motion blur you always get while running in dreams and being amazed at how my feet were able to function without the usual protection of socks or shoes. I wonder if it's an enactment of this ubiquitous urge to leave and take off running. I'd silence everything in my life with a big piece of duct tape and just run with no destination in mind, no preparation, no shoes or socks and watch my feet grow strong against the elements of life.

posted Sunday, March 10, 2002

Weekend in Boulder

It was another white-paper weekend and I scribbled on it here and there with meditation, travel, and time spent reading. I visited Boulder to see my brother and spent a few hours with Cale for coffee, a few games of Dance Dance Revolution, and a walk around campus.

The university there has the most amazing architecture. Freshman year, I spent a semester there and have faced slight pangs of regret for having left to move to Denver, although I always reassure myself that I wouldn't be where I am right now had I stayed. Walking across the winter-whipped campus, I kept recalling events and people and Cale was kind enough to shoulder my stories.

It was good spending time with Derek, too, who will never cease humbling me with his open, benevolent nature. His presence continually reminds me that the world is okay. It's not clear if I'll ever be able to provide an bastion of support equal to the mountainous psychological foundation he provides for me and so I look for cheap ways to recompense by spending money on him and offering advice whenever I can. I know in my heart that it's nowhere near enough, but sometimes I feel that's all I have to offer anyone.

posted Thursday, March 7, 2002

Un-Zen

I place my hands flat on the desk to make sure the surface is not fooling my eyes. The cool hardness registering under my palms is a relief.

Sometimes things work out so well in life that your brain runs circles, devising ways of tricking itself into believing that what is happening is really imaginary. Then again, sometimes things in life don't work out so well and your brain does the same to convince itself that things aren't nearly as poorly drawn as they seem. Is this real, or are we simply imagining imaginings, dreaming of dreams, pretending to pretend?

Obscurity aside, recent events have transpired with such precision that I often find myself confused and bewildered. Is it possible I'm dreaming? Seemingly inauspicious outcomes have proven more favorable after lending time a bit of space to toil at the anvil. It's times like this, which reaffirm my shaky conclusion that time fixes everything. Time is the ultimate smith.

Sometimes, things fall apart and, sometimes, things come together. Everything is in a perpetual state of creation upon creation upon creation. Whether we are imagining this creation is irrelevant, I suppose.

That we are audience to a most remarkable craftsman and able to comprehend this work should be gratifying enough, but to fully release our grip and let life fall where it will is a greater capacity.

posted Tuesday, March 5, 2002

Kids

An awkward-looking boy of about six or seven sits in the passenger seat of the car behind me and I watch the rear-view mirror as he struggles to shield his eyes from the setting sun that has easily dodged the made-for-adults visor, splaying itself over his face. He twists and turns, raising his hands to block the light, and throws a heavy winter coat over his head. I'm laughing and say out loud, "Don't worry kiddo, just a few more years."

At lunch, a toddler runs past our table and waves with a ridiculously large smile on his face. You can't help but laugh at the open display of naive friendliness. I wave back with what is sure to be an equally ridiculous grin. The restaurant is under his reign as he clumsily cavorts across the green tiles without falling, as only a toddler can, and flips through a key chain as big as his head, randomly choosing one that will fit the lock on the front door. The key is bigger than his fist, but somehow, those small hands manage to slide it into the keyhole. He turns and flips his tiny body around, but the door doesn't register the effort in the slightest. I can't hide my smile and think, "One of these days, don't give up."

Kids in cars. Kids hiding in small spaces, conspiring. Kids coming out of their winter shells as the weather warms, to play in the adult world. I play with my adult belongings and conspire with my adult friends, but I feel as though I'm still exploring a world that is made for a different kind of person, the kind that's better equipped for life.

Someday, kiddo.

posted Monday, March 4, 2002

Releasing Control

My internet service provider unexpectedly changed this site's IP address on Friday causing it to be down for a few days. This was the last, ill-placed card on the ever-growing tower of obstacles.

After a few months of struggling to get my own web server up and running, I've finally decided that the do-it-yourself phase is officially over and I went out and bought some commercial hosting space. Setting up the server was a great learning experience, but it has also taught me that it's worth spending a few bucks a month for someone else to maintain the availability of your site.

I lost one entry?the one recapping Derek's birthday weekend in Las Vegas?due to a missed backup on my part. I probably won't attempt to rewrite it, but at the same time, I feel as though the site is continuing incomplete. It's really amazing how much these quick entries begin to mean to you. I suppose it's the weight I put behind them in my mind and am wondering if maybe I should reprioritize.

Had a footwork technique clinic on Thursday at the climbing gym. Saw 40 Days and 40 Nights on Friday with Lindsay. Caught up with my Chinese class and made a few dates for the week. It was a good weekend.

posted Friday, February 22, 2002

I Think

I need a direct link to this thing, some sort of feed from my brain to the database on my server so that I can siphon off even a particulate amount of this flood of thoughts that breaks over my mind, day-in and day-out. It's discouraging to think of how much human thought processing is going on out there, and how miniscule a portion of that is recorded or shared with someone else. On the other hand, what an amazing medium the web is for doing both at the same time: recording and sharing.

I went rock climbing last night again with Leif and managed to complete every single route I hit, including a 5-9 that has been tormenting me for the past week. My hands still feel like Jell-O. Afterwards, I had planned on packing and meeting up with the new dating interest for dinner, but due to some miscommunication and bad timing I was left at home with a pizza and Civ3. I'm not complaining.

Cale sent me a link to Colorgenics, where I took a frighteningly accurate personality quiz. I'm normally ambivalent towards these sort of things, because—like horoscopes—they tend to be so ridiculously general they could apply to just about anyone. This quiz churned out some specifics that raised my eyebrows:

"Everyone has to compromise at times.. and circumstances are such, that at this time you are feeling the need to do just that. Put all of your hopes on the back burner and let matters flow...for a time...forgo some of the things you want. The good times are around the corner."

And:

You are a master of demonstrating considerable charm in the hope that this can or will lead to better things... Deep down - you are fearful that this may not work and that you may have to employ other strategies in order to realise all your ambitions.

I'm going to Vegas tomorrow for Derek's 21st birthday and will be back Wednesday. Luck be a Lady (or at the very least a cute, shirtless, Austrailian Rugby player).

posted Thursday, February 21, 2002

Happiness Is

There was an interview with Josh Rouse on NPR this morning, a soft-spoken "rock/country/power-pop/whatever" artist, in which he explained that he had been married five years ago and was living on a farm that he had inherited from his parents in the humid heat of the South.

What is happiness to you? Is it getting married and living a life of quiet routine? Sometimes I wonder if I need to re-evaluate my priorities in order to find some sort of contentment in life, where the pounding night-life that serves mainly to feed ego and superficiality is only ever explored in the corners of imagination or on the musty pages of a paperbound novel.

It's all perspective. I keep defaulting on the idea that because I get a little bit of enjoyment out of partying, drinking, and drug useage, that it's a viable source of happiness or, at least, some kind of quasi-contentment. Like any repeated exposure, however, it wears on your senses. You grasp frantically at the euphoria of the first year as it speeds over the horizon at an exponential velocity. Everyone becomes bent and faded.

There is happiness. I'm constantly under the impression that it is all around us, we just have to start looking in the right places, open ourselves to it, and let it flow through us but the interview on the radio this morning had me thinking that perhaps happiness isn't something we acquire but rather something that we produce as a reaction to our condition in life. Can we shift our paradigms to fit our condition instead of employing the popular notion that it's the other way around?

Rouse's buttery voice said various things to me this morning, but between all the words there was the sense of satisfaction?a sense that all this extraneous artistry and exposure was merely icing on the cake?and I tossed about images of living on a farm in yellow sunlight fields, and I saw myself inside-out with my self being superfluous to the happiness streaming from between every atom like electricity.

posted Wednesday, February 20, 2002

Once (or Twice) In an Eternity

It's common knowledge that the very second, the very moment in which you exist, right now, will never occur again. It's a profound thought, really. But, today is unique in another way.

At 8:02p.m. on February 20 this year will be an historic moment in time.

It will not be marked by the chiming of any clocks or the ringing of bells, but at that precise time, on that specific date, something will happen which has not occurred for 1,001 years and will never happen again.

As the clock ticks over from 8:01pm on Wednesday, February 20, time will, for sixty seconds only, read in perfect symmetry 2002, 2002, 2002, or to be more precise - 20:02, 20/02, 2002.

Actually, this particular palindromic phenomenon happened more than once in the past, in the year 1111, and will happen again in the year 2112. Still, it's interesting to think that it will?probably?not occur again in any of our lifetimes. Then again, will any moment, for that matter?

Thanks to Cale and this article for the interesting bit of information.

posted Tuesday, February 19, 2002

Living In Made-Up Worlds

I am addicted to Civilization 3. On a whim, I made a special trip to our local media giant on Sunday solely to purchase it after talking with the new guy I've been dating who's been entranced by it's mind-altering play. I remember the second edition coming out shortly after I graduated high school (my God, it's been five years) and it probably had the addiction level of cocaine. This release, however, well, this release takes the cake as far as addiction is concerned. I've managed to rack a good 15 hours of gameplay just since Sunday.

Backing up a bit, the surprising news of late is the fact that I'm dating a guy who likes computer games. In all my years, I don't think I've ever met another gay guy who's been into computers, let alone computer games, and it's about time I met someone with some similar interests since so much of my life and work seems to revolve around these insipid machines. He even confessed playing AD&D as an angst-ridden teenager. I think I'm in love. Either that, or I've met my doppelganger. Is there a difference?

posted Tuesday, February 19, 2002

Pimps and Fundamentalists

I missed yoga today because I woke up two hours ago. The clock face was an angry, red, "10:54" and I had an appointment with my hustler at eleven. He was going to kick my ass. I jumped out of bed, threw some clothes on and ran out the door with the car keys dangling from my mouth, attracting attention from neighbors who were milling around my parking lot (Don't they have jobs?). Exactly six minutes later, I sighed inwardly as I pulled into the parking lot, relieved I wasn't late again because he probably would have been pretty peeved, considering I missed last week's appointment as well. (Everything is more exciting when you replace "financial advisor" with "hustler.")

Half-an-hour later, I was chowing down on a salty, nutty hummus-on-bagel sandwich at Einstein's when I ran across this article detailing Christian Fundamentalists in Tennessee. These types of stories are guilty pleasures for me, not because I'm a closet Fundamentalist, but because I'm always intrigued by the things they say, the activities they participate in. It's a sort of do-people-really-do-that kind of interest.

The accompanying photograph (in the print version) is even better: a thirty-something pastor preaching to a congregation, the sleeves of his plaid shirt rolled up in a lets-get-some-preachin'-done manner, his eyes pinched shut, and his hand reaching out in supplication. I just kept thinking, His eyes are closed. Perhaps he was praying really hard or maybe it was bad timing on the part of the photographer but the idea of a self-imposed blindness kept resounding in my head whenever my eyes would return to the image of those eyes shut like fists.

posted Monday, February 18, 2002

Letter to Future Urbanites

Hello, twenty-second century citizens. My name is Chris and I am a 23-year-old "computer-programmer." I'd like to share with you a bit of my day with you so you can experience life as it was one hundred years ago. I will try my best to explain things in a manner that will be understandable to you.

I wake up every morning to the soothing sounds of my "radio," a device that picks up electromagnetic signals and transforms them into audible sounds. It must sound terribly primitive, but let me assure you that the voices of NPR reporters come in clearly.

I prepare myself for the day with an extensive cleansing ritual that includes activities such as "showering," "shaving," "moisturizing," and "grooming." I can only imagine what advancements mankind has made on these time-consuming, yet undoubtedly necessary, routines. Do you have automatic hair-stylers yet?

After I nourish myself with "break-fast," I get into my "auto-mobile" and transport myself to the office, which is essentially a large building to the north of my city in an area that is not yet developed. It sits among fields and forests and sloping hills, very beautiful. I wonder, have you any undeveloped land in the 22nd century?

I perform the day's tasks with a "computer," which I'm sure you have many of. The machines of my day must be simple and barbaric to you, but they get the job done and are quite efficient when used correctly. I enjoy leaving work at the end of the day, walking out from the towering office building, in which I sit for eight hours every day, and entering a field of blue, for all you can see is sky. It swirls above you, unhindered by buildings or track housing. The hills and fields fall away from the office and suddenly you have the sensation you are flying. Have men discovered how to fly yet without the aid of "air-planes"?

I return home and spend time with my friends and family who all live close-by. Oftentimes, if I cannot see them in person, we communicate via "tele-phone" or "e-mail." I do not ignore my physical health, either, so most nights, I will exercise at a gymnasium or play a game of "basket-ball." We have many activities in which physical engagement is a popular form of entertainment. The day ends with a good "book" or watching sitcoms on television (my favorites are "Twilight Zone" and "The Daily Show"). Afterwards, I fall asleep, ready to start the whole day over again.

I hope that by your day and age, mankind has found a way to improve upon this routine. It may sound unusual and intriguing, but truth be known, it is more often monotonous than either of those.

I am working for you, now. I am working to improve the future. Hopefully by documenting this brief history, I may be able to provide a base point from which to grow. I am writing to save my life. I am writing to save yours.

posted Thursday, February 14, 2002

Breaking Through the Fog

Yesterday was Ash Wednesday and, although I don't follow the Catholic religion, it holds a certain importance or reverence for me and many people I know. It's a time for regeneration, rebirth, cleansing, renewal--however you want to put it--and there's something monumental about those ideas that I like to reflect on.

I went rock climbing last night with Leif and John. It's been almost two months since I've gone, and it felt good to feel the chalk on my hands, the sandy grain of the holds against my palm and fingertips, and the earthy weight of my body tugging at my arms. I've felt weightless for the past week. It was good to know there's still something here, some sort of substance.

In the spirit of regeneration, I finished a new layout after coming home last night and am pretty satisfied with the way it's turned out. That old newspaper layout was starting to grate on my nerves. When I spoke of a loss of focus on Tuesday, I must have triggered something inside my head, for a whole new level of clarity has taken shape. I feel closer to the surface, but in a different way than last week.

Thanks for the emails of concern. Just so you know, I'm in no way depressed or down or upset as my last post may have led you to believe, just a little less there. I told Brent the other night that these swings are natural and expected.

In a way, the cycle of life is a lot like a process in the production of metals known as annealing, in which the metal is heated and then cooled repeatedly. This results in a restructuring of the atoms, producing a more uniform, rigid structure. The metal becomes stronger. The cycles of life are like this, in which we experience enjoyment and pain, clarity and lack of focus, joy and sadness, good times and bad. Exposed to these polar experiences, we become stronger, better people.

posted Tuesday, February 12, 2002

Jettisoned Into Space

The unfocused days of late seem to be a natural recourse, considering the intensity of the last week. It's all a cycle. I've been trying to get back some of that clarity that streamed through my head last week until my veins were raw from the inside out from thought, but all I've been able to do is walk down the hallways and shake my head in an attempt to rid this plaque of torpor that congests my neural networks.

Yoga class hasn't been doing as much in the way of helping me refocus, either. I know the idea is to practice it every day and not once a week in class like my habit would suggest, but my body just isn't pushing for it. The urge simply isn't there. The same goes for my diet and exercise routine, which hasn't exactly slacked, but the drive isn't at the same intesity that it was just a month ago.

The search for a side-dish job is like beaming a flashlight into the sky in anticipation of a response from the stars. I've submitted a few applications here and there, but haven't gotten any responses. Everyone seems to have ideas of where I should look and apply, too, and I've followed a few leads, but they all seem to head directly into the black velvet folds of the night sky.

I'm pushing myself through this fog. Like I mentioned yesterday, I vowed to myself that this week would be productive and, so far, I've been surprisingly successful, although I'm no more clear-headed today than I was yesterday. I've unclogged my closet and bathroom, hung a few pictures, finished some laundry, and cooked a few meals today. I know that losing myself in daily routine will help to some extent, but the thing is, that's really all I'm capable of doing right now.

My grandmother on my mom's side is in the hospital with pneumonia and they don't expect her to make it through the week. I'm not really sure how to feel about this, because I've never been terribly close to anyone on my mom's side of the family. At the same time, I feel — under this languid miasma — a vague sense of sadness and guilt for not writing her years of thank-you letters for all the presents she bought me for Christmas and my birthday. Maybe I'll harness some of this determination to punch through the week to write her a final thank you so she will know that her considerations were not useless flashes of light into outer space.

posted Monday, February 11, 2002

Gray Monday

That was the only way to describe it. The day was gray. Gray skies, a quiet office, and an inbox full of people describing the gray times of late. I was terribly unfocused for the better half of the morning. It was as though someone had just put me through a Gaussian blur filter and smudged all the details away, pixel by pixel. I plugged through my work dilegently, however, because I vowed to myself that this would be a productive week. Wake up early, eat right, work hard, and I did just that. But I still felt like the day was a pair of coke-bottle glasses.

In an effort to refocus, I exercised an hour longer than I usually do. I ran three and a half miles (that is up from two miles at the beginning of the year, so you have an idea of the rate of improvement here) and lifted more. It helped to some extent, and later, when I drove home, I turned off the radio and let the quiet hum from the engine center me. Mostly, it made me simply recount the day, minute-by-minute, and I wrote and rewrote this entry in my head.

This is Mark Farina's autograph. You probably don't know who he is, but he has been a mainstay DJ in my CD player for over four years now. Amazing, amazing stuff. My friend Cale is lucky enough to work at one of the more upscale hotels in the state and runs into a few famous people every now and then. Thanks for the autograph, Cale.

posted Friday, February 8, 2002

Her Birthday Visit

Everyone around me looked so somber, and if I didn't know where I was, I would have mistaken their slight scowls for anger. But I did know where I was, and a funeral was no place for me to indecorously analyze these people in their mourning. The mausoleum smelled like a flower garden. The high marble walls were littered with silk flowers, wilted flowers, and Mylar balloons. Somber-angry people timidly milled about in mismatched sport coats and pretended to read the plaques.

It has been almost eight years since my grandmother passed away, and this was the first time I'd been back to visit since her funeral when I was 16. Today is her birthday. I buried my nose in the single, pink rose I picked up on my way over and inhaled the pungent aroma. She always wore a sort of rose perfume. Amazingly, I didn't have to look for her urn; I walked right to it as though I had been visiting here every day for the past decade and I stood for a while gazing up at her name engraved in gold.

The bench in front of her wall pulled me onto it, and I sat, inhaling more of the rose. It made me sad to think that I probably never gave her a rose while she was alive, and that she probably would have enjoyed it very much. Placing it gently in the holder, I wished her a happy birthday and exited out the back. I didn't want the rest of the people in the mausoleum to see my somber-angry face.

posted Thursday, February 7, 2002

I Swear I Don't Fake-n-Bake

In the bathrooms where I work, there is a bottle of lotion by the sinks so that computer programmers can moisturize their hands after sanitization from a long day's typing. I always take a squirt of it before leaving. I normally don't pay much more attention to it, but today I noticed that the lotion smells an awful lot like suntan lotion. About face, I returned to the restroom and sure enough, the bottle of lotion is actually a bottle of Vaseline UV Protection, SPF 15.

At first, I thought that maybe someone was playing a joke, but later today in the gym, I noticed a bottle of the same stuff in the locker rooms. If you saw the pasty white faces of the people that work alongside me, you'd find this discovery strangely unnerving. I'm wondering if the building managers know something about these flourescant lights we work under that they're just not telling us. Or maybe it's the electromagnetic radiation from our monitors.

And to think, I've been telling everyone this tan is natural.

posted Wednesday, February 6, 2002

Apartment Adventures

I've been looking for an apartment today because the winds of discontentment have suddenly blown into town, frigid, from the north. Sometimes I just get a whim to change things around, to mix it up. More often than not, I'll follow it and see where it takes me, which can sound like more of a fun adventure than it really is.

I visited a few buildings downtown and did a little research online this afternoon, but most of the places that are in my price range are terribly run down. In one building, I was sure I saw a woman shooting up through her open door from the hallway, and another building was festering with homeless like flies on a piece of discarded meat. I did find one apartment in an old mansion that looks pretty cozy. It's a bit out of my price range, but I'm going to try and see if I can fit it into my budget if I take another job on the weekend.

I've had visions of myself as a waiter at an upscale restaraunt, so I called around to see if any positions were available, but the entire city is staffed. Apparently, everyone has decided to quit their jobs and work as waiters. Considering the economy of late, I wouldn't doubt it.

In a few of the restaraunts, I actually felt a little embarassed asking for an application. Sheepishly, I remember saying that I'd never work another blue collar service job ever again, once I got my degree. I suppose I don't really need the money, but it would make things a lot more comfortable, and that's what I'm all about in the end. I'd simply like to be comfortable, not necessarily rich.

posted Monday, February 4, 2002

I Lived Alone, in the Woods

I have a thing with reformatting my computer. A whole day can be dedicated to this, and I am perfectly comfortable with the sacrifice. I like to erase everything, repartition the drive, reinstall the OS and all of my software, and organize everything in its appropriate directory. I feel a little like Amélie's parents (see Le Fabuleux destin d'Amélie Poulain), who enjoy emptying, cleaning, and putting everything back.

While I was waiting for the drive to format, I picked up an old copy of Thoreau's Walden I had laying around and thought I'd dive through it. I've been wanting to read it for a few years now (one of probably sixty books I have sitting in front of me). Just thought I'd post a few excerps from "Economy":

Most men, even in this comparatively free country, through mere ignorance and mistake, are so occupied with the factitious cares and superflously coarse labors of life that its finer fruits cannot be plucked by them... He has no time to be anything but a machine.

That particular idea struck me rather forcefully, maybe due to my mental state at the time I was reading, but I started to feel incredibly friviolous, particularly in regards to my computer habit, which isn't to say anything about sitting eight hours a day in front of a computer in a cubicle. I know I've gone through this line of thought before, and have come to the conclusion that I should, in a way, "pay my dues" in the working world. After all, wasn't Thoreau 30 before he wrote any of his major works? Another excerpt:

The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation. What is called resignation is confirmed desperation. From the desperate city you go into the desperate country, and have to console yourself with the bravery of minks and muskrats. A stereotyped but unconscious despair is concealed even under what are called the games and amusements of mankind... But it is a characteristic of wisdom not to do desperate things.

When I read of "games and amusements," the first thing that came to mind was the Superbowl fanatica of yesterday, which has struck me before as an ever-evolving method of self-deception: in that we believe we have found meaning and release through a game. It has taken on a significance and weight of its own. The popularity of football has done nothing for me but reveal the frivolity of our preoccupations — dare I say, out of "desperation."

As if you could kill time without injuring eternity.

posted Friday, February 1, 2002

Airport Incident

"Do you take American Express?" She shook her head. "Mastercard? Visa?" She said no and smiled apologetically the way foreigners smile when they can't say anything more than "yes," "no," and "thank you." I glanced longingly at a bottle of orange juice in the cooler and thanked her for her smile. When you live off company money, you learn to purchase everything with a credit card because a paper-trail is easier to reimburse. I had just gotten it down pat and hadn't spent any cash all week.

I turned around and was face-to-face with a mustached man and moved to the side, initially annoyed that he was standing so close.

"Whaddaya want?" The question came out of the blue (or from under the mustache, rather) and, for a minute, I didn't think it was intended for me because the man never even glanced at me.

"Oh, I was just going to get some orange juice," I said cautiously.

"I've got it," he said, pulling out his wallet. "How much for the orange juice?"

"One-forty," the girl responded, her smile never fading. He pulled out two, dollar bills and handed them across the glass counter.

I felt a little weird accepting this purchase from a complete stranger in the airport, but at the same time, it was so offhanded and seemed so simply genuine that I accepted more out of speechlessness than being grateful I was being given a handout. I thanked him and returned to my gate a little surprised.

I know it sounds strangely Hollywood, but as I sat there sipping my OJ, I suddenly had an overwhelming desire to perform some similarly random act of kindness.

posted Friday, January 25, 2002

The Fast and the Furious

I skipped breakfast this morning. For some reason, I thought it would be a neat idea to fast today and live off green tea and orange juice so I started out with a cup of each and sat down at my desk to do some work. It's a nice day out, and the sun is shining and this will be a good fast, I think to myself.

Fasting is a lot easier than it seems. Well, the first few hours of it, anyway. I mean, you're stomach is sated from the last meal and you're feeling good that you're going to give your digestive system a little rest. Nine o'clock flies by, and I'm feeling healthy. My blood sugar is relatively normal.

By eleven, I feel a little bit of pain in my stomach. I nod, resolutely. This is to be expected. I haven't eaten breakfast and my spoiled stomach is pleading me to feed it. Then my left arm starts to feel a little sore and maybe, I think, it's going numb. Oh my God! I'm having a heart attack because I didn't eat this morning! I clutch my chest like they do on the movies. No... no. It's okay. Calm down, you're fasting and the sun is shining and it's going to be a good day.

I purse my lips and think about something else. Maybe the date later on tonight, where I'll be enjoying a nice meal at a steak house. Oh, that menacing growl was my stomach. Okay, new subject. Trip to Dallas next week. That will be a nice break, and fortunately the company is paying for all my meals. Oh no... okay, another subject that is not connected to food. I need a new monitor for my computer. I wonder... are monitor's edible?

It's one o'clock and I'm starting to get snappy. My green tea has gone cold and I think I'm losing sight in my right eye. Clouds have even covered the sun in an ominous omen. I abandon my work and fly out of the door, kicking a small child on my way to my car. I run down to the local grocer and buy ten pounds of food, returning to my desk with a sparkle in my eye.

As I sit, replete in my calorie binge, I think to myself, no day is a good day to fast, regardless how sunny. Suddenly, the clouds are parting and I think to myself, it is going to be a good day.

But, oh my God, I feel like a heifer now. Maybe I should skip dinner.

posted Tuesday, January 22, 2002

Take the Good With the Bad

It's frustrating when you work your ass off exercising diligently, eating right, taking care of yourself, and somehow, physical ailments still manage to get the better of you. I was in my weekly yoga class this week — an attempt on my part to help improve my flexibility and strengthen my lower back — when I leaned over and pulled the same muscle in my lower back that I had pulled last November. It's not a debilitating problem, but I can't sit without sharp pains in my back and right leg. Considering my job requires me to sit for eight hours a day in front of a computer, this poses a bit of a problem.

I scheduled an appointment with a chiropractor on Thursday at the recommendation of a few friends. I'm almost willing to pay any price to have this problem fixed and identify what I can do to prevent it in the future, and a chiropractor is the only solution I haven't tried yet so I figure I'll give it a shot. If that doesn't help, I may end up dealing in black-market narcotics.

On a brighter note, I've been in a wishy-washy state concerning my feelings toward my dad lately, but today I can honestly say I made somewhat of a turnaround during a conversation we had over dinner. He was in a good mood after working out ("...exercise gives you endorphins, endorphins make you happy. Happy people just don't go around killing people." —Elle, Legally Blonde) and we were having a fun conversation involving my propensity towards marines (and men in uniform, in general), gay marriage, and meeting guys. It had been a while since we talked about those things, but it reminded me how grateful I am to have such an understanding, supportive, and enthusiastic father.

Speaking of men in uniform, I got to take my work on the road today and spend some time with other, uniformed employees at my company. And for those of you who know where I work, you understand how happy I am right now.

posted Sunday, January 20, 2002

Lazy Ass Sunday

Up at noon. Shower. Shave. Hair down. Brown sweater. Jeans. Brunch at Cactus Rose with Derek. Omlettes. Grocery shopping (hulless barley, steel-cut oats, leeks, shallots, fuji apples, mozzarella, soy milk, yellow-tail tuna). Movies (Mommie Dearest, Steel Magnolias). Dinner with dad. Surf the web. Read. Write. Goodnight.

posted Saturday, January 19, 2002

Home at Last

Muscles melting into the floor. Brazen wind burn on my face. Still feeling the sliding skating slickness of the snow under my board — swish! My body beefed up like the Michelin Man in a space suit, going to Mars, or Jupiter, or the ice caverns of Io, or Keystone, Colorado. Driving long stretches of unkept highway: clear skies, white peaks, clean air. Body tilting forward. Turn right. Body leaning backward. Turn left. Straight down, downtown, to the base lift and back up again. And back up again. And again. And again. It?s like sledding on your feet, this board underneath you like a flat rocket powered by the non-poluting natural fuel called gravity and aided by frictionless surfaces. Man kind has always wanted to know what it feels like to fly like a bird. Why else would lift tickets cost fifty bucks a pop?

posted Friday, January 18, 2002

Unmorning Routine

I don?t consider myself a morning person, mostly because I can?t stand rousing myself from "delicious sleep," as Brent puts it. I also am very lucky to be visited, nightly, by the most amazing, vivid dreams but that?s a story for another post. I have to admit, however, that mornings have probably been the best times of the day for me as long as I can remember. Perhaps it?s my optimism that relates so well to the open possibility that the morning brings of the day ahead.

I?m typing this entry with my gloves on. The keyboard feels a mile away, seperated from my fingers by thick wool, and I?m amazed that coherant words are actually arranging themselves on my screen. It?s 32 degrees Fahrenheit outside. That?s freezing, in case you live in any other part of the word besides the US. I always listen to National Public Radio news in the morning on my daily commute, and somehow, it warms me from the inside out. Their voices are so calm and articulate.

The warmth of this giant building enveloped me as I entered, like the arms of a mother gathering her children around her. I leapt up the stairs by two, and said goodmorning to the beautiful receptionist who flashed a smile and asked me how I was doing today. Great.

I had a rare urge for coffee this morning, and walked into the break room just as a new pot was being made. I poured a cup of the thick, undiluted brew and smiled. It is going to be a great day.

posted Wednesday, January 16, 2002

Merging on Ice

The first thing to understand about the universe is that no condition is ?good? or ?bad.? It just is. So stop making value judgments.
?Neale Donald Walsch, "Conversations with God"

It was threatening to snow when I woke up this morning and I fishtailed all over the road driving to work. Is it healthy to keep wondering if you?re going to die during your commute every day? Fortunately, I arrived with relative ease after making my way onto the interstate. I parked in the back of the lot as usual ? a consequence of always arriving an hour later than everyone else ? and trudged against the wind that sweeps down the Rocky Mountains to the west like a skeleton racer winding down the ice track at 80 miles per hour.

This stress that has built up over the past week pulls on my shoulders, even more than my lead-weight gym bag, slung over my chest. Two chapters behind in my project management class, two papers due today, a project due on Friday. Design document due at the end of the month, business trip to Dallas. Groceries to be bought, car to be cleaned. Drew on the line ? I can?t start this, I don?t know what made me think I could manage another long distance relationship ? and friends getting pushed to the sidelines.

A deep breath. I relax my shoulders. I force a smile. It feels like a step in the right direction, but it doesn?t change a thing.

In a drive-home analysis from work last night, I picture my life swinging from two extreme phases. There is a build-up phase where I accumulate all sorts of activities, garbage, and preoccupations. The house becomes cluttered, my reading falls to the side, I am outwardly focused. Then a holding period where I plateau and start to reflect. This is followed by a clean-up phase, where I correct and pickup the pieces of my life that I?ve let fall away. Then a holding period where I?m able to maintain this organization. I?m fully aware of myself, isolated, inwardly focused.

I think I will have achieved growth and success if I can somehow manage to merge these four phases into a continual period of balance.

posted Tuesday, January 15, 2002

Dinner Parties and Bad Moons

"I?m not much of a dinner-party person," I kept thinking to myself, as the rest of the table chattered away. It?s not that I?m antisocial. Quite the contrary, I seem to fit in quite nicely, albeit a bit less loquacious than our more flamboyant guests. Tom and Darryl used to hold fondue parties every few months or so, and I found myself reticently bored among the gossip and high-brow, quasi-connisseurism. Instead, tonight, Ricky pan-seared steaks with potatoes au gratin and a vinaigrette salad while we caught up on everyone’s current affairs. It was low key and casual, which seemed a better fit for me. I still felt a little outside of everything, despite managing to hold up my end of the conversation. Maybe it was because I hadn’t seen Tom and Darryl for so long.

We started another eight-week session of yoga today. I bought John and myself yoga mats, since Marlene said the class was full, and I’m glad we did. I was starting to wonder how often she cleaned the community mats. The classes are a nice break in the day and I’m even seeing some improvement as far as my flexibility is concerned. The goal here is to learn enough of a routine to practice at home, by myself. So far, I’m pretty sure I could pull it off but I want a little more exposure.

It seems like everyone is caving in on me lately. Suddenly, I’m getting invitations to parties, sporting events, outings, and dinners from people I haven’t spoken to in months. Leif wants to go snowboarding, claiming he missed hanging out with me, despite the fact we didn’t hang out much in school except to play Dope Wars in the back of compiler and operating systems. Lindsay wants to go snowboarding again this weekend, which will be fun. Drew wants to get together. Tom, a coworker, came up to me and — completely out of the blue — asked if I’d be interested in a LAN gaming party or playing D&D sometime. I’ve been doing fine on my own for the past few months, and actually enjoying the solitude. It must be the new moon.

posted Monday, January 14, 2002

Pump You Up

I started exercising regularly when I was 13. I can?t remember why, exactly, except for a few blurry memories of seeing my first Falcon video, but at any rate, it began rather simply. Over the years, my father had imparted golden nuggets of physical improvement wisdom and I had eaten them with relish. A nightly routine of sit-ups, jumping jacks, and pushups followed.

That routine lasted for a few years, until my fifteenth birthday when I happened to be caught reading a Men?s Physique magazine in the air force base BX by my father, who beamed at the idea that his son wanted to learn more about fitness. I blushed and hurriedly stashed the magazine behind a copy of Mademoiselle, hoping to hide my guilty perusals of nude male form and prevent him from finding me out.

That night, while opening birthday presents, I was greeted with a glistening, bikinied Phil Baroni who happened to grace the cover of that month?s Men?s Physique, and I was in love. My dad had gone back to the BX and purchased the magazine. He had no idea how happy this made me but was visibly proud that his son was interested in health and fitness.

Somehow, I managed to glean a bit of exercise erudition over the course of wearing down the pages month after month, and started to alter my exercise routines to incorporate more weight training and muscle building. I didn?t have any weights at the time. Instead, I scavenged what objects in the house that could serve as weight-lifting-type devices and altered the routines to accommodate these new tools.

I did upright rows with my stereo, triceps extensions with dictionaries, seated rows with bungee cords. I even grabbed a pair of my dad?s hammer pants and jogged around the block every morning, which forced me to get up before sunrise so that no one would actually see me in them. I can?t say for sure whether all of this effort paid off, but it certainly motivated me to join a gym when I had the chance.

Now, I find myself lifting and running daily out of habit more than anything else. There is no doubt in my mind that the effects of exercise are nothing short of a panacea for all of life?s problems. Depression? Kiss it goodbye. Family problems? You?re a happier person now, much easier to get along with. Sucky immune system? Watch your health improve dramatically. Increase your energy. Feel better about yourself.

I don?t mean to sound like a late-nite infomercial, but the effects of exercise are really that amazing. Plus, you can say "Pass the mascara, girlie man!" and actually have something to back it up.

posted Saturday, January 12, 2002

Death, Love and Snowboarding

I saw death in a casual stroll down the sidewalk today while accompanying Dave and Lindsay to "Amelie" but, of course, I didn‘t know it at the time. Looking back, I realize had passed through it like a ferry through a foggy river. It wasn‘t in the way the man was lying on the concrete bench -- a common sight in any city of reasonable size -- but in the way a cigarette lay a quarter inch from his slightly-curled hand, perfect and unlit, like an unwrapped Christmas present.

Our heads remained fixed on the motionless figure as we passed. Dave made jokes about learning when to stop drinking, but I felt strangely self-conscious and mentioned that I hoped he wasn‘t dead. My hopes went unrequited as several ambulances arrived half-an-hour later to remove the body of a man that had somehow slipped through the cracks of society. As they took him away amidst a gaggle of onlookers, I carefully wrapped this parcel of information in my mind to be delivered as soon as I got my snacks from the counter and joined the others, already having staked seats in the theater.

The movie was as good as the previous two times I had seen it (once in November with Jessie and Chris, a second in December with Cale). As we left the theater, I remembered the dead man on the sidewalk and remembered I had wanted to tell my friends, but I couldn‘t do it. I couldn‘t ruin the overwhelming feeling of optimism and love and perma-grin that the movie had imparted on us. Instead, I took the news and threw it far into the dark night sky.

I went snowboarding today for the first time this season. Lindsay and I had purchased season passes, but I have been so overwhelmed with school and work I haven‘t been able to pull myself away to go. We spent the day casually carving figure eights in the icy white slopes, and I had forgotten just how much I love it. Afterwards, we ate sushi and edemame. I haven‘t spent any quality time with her in months, and it was good to pretend, if even for a day, that we were still roommates.

posted Wednesday, January 9, 2002

Online Classes and Work Overload

School and work have caught me completely off guard this week. My latest class is a lot of reading and essay writing (it's only five weeks, so they have to pack in as much work as possible) but I'm keeping up despite the fact that I have virtually no free time when I'm finished. The class is being conducted online, so all "discussion" takes place on a bulletin board type interface (think old-skool BBS's from back in the day). I'm actually liking that aspect of the class because I can really let my writing fly, which is a lot more than I can say for this journal lately. Maybe when I have some free time, I'll post a few of my class entries here sometime just so you can see what you're missing.

posted Monday, January 7, 2002

Warning: Do Not Become Bitter Queen

I?m talking to Drew on the phone and keep wondering if this voice that I?m so eagerly listening to on the other end will someday be a voice I can?t stand to hear. I can?t shake the thought from my head. I can distinctly remember talking to Jeff last summer with the same sense of excitement, but I really don?t enjoy listening to him now-a-days (which is not to say I don?t think he?s a good guy, I just wince every time I think of his voice).

Despite this preoccupation of mine, Drew really is an interesting guy. We?ve been talking for a few months now, but we have yet to officially meet since our schedules are completely at odds with one another. Supposedly, we met at a 2000 New Year?s party hosted by a mutual friend, but neither of us remember meeting.

He?s having surgery this weekend and I?m snowboarding. Hopefully, we?ll get a chance to meet up and see if this will work out as well in real life as it is on the phone.

posted Thursday, January 3, 2002

Happy New Year, Oh-Two

Classes start today. Per usual, I‘m simply ready to get them out of the way and am therefore looking forward to starting the winter quarter. The downside (or maybe the upside, depending on how you look at it) is that all of my classes are being conducted online, which means no chance to meet any new guys.

Things have been pretty wild during the past week with my trip to Los Angeles and the holidays. I think I‘ve spent about 36 hours in airports alone this holiday season and although I love travelling, I‘m glad to be home.

posted Wednesday, December 19, 2001

You Have Been Served

The hum from the server on my desk is a new sound. It‘s an old P150 I had laying around and earlier this evening, Nathan came over to help me set it up. It serves now. That‘s about it. As a matter of fact, this very page has been served to you from my bedroom. I‘m spending the few, free days I have available this weekend to tinker with it, which should give me a few hours of fun.

I know I said I was keeping the archives available but for the time being, I‘m storing them safely away. I‘m still not sure how this whole readjustment is going to work yet. A lot of things are uncertain right now.

posted Tuesday, December 11, 2001

Painful Process

Growth can be a good thing, but it can also be seriously painful. When I was a gangly teenager--not much different than I am now, in my twenties--I suffered from major pain in my legs late at night, making it very difficult to sleep. My father attributed these aches to stretching, knitting, and growing that was apparently taking place in my bones. It got so bad that I would sometimes lay awake at night for hours, crying, holding my legs to my chest and wishing I could saw them off at the hip.

In almost all other areas of my life, growth has been a positive thing with little or no suffering. College blew past with the usual whining, but was relatively painless. I grew into my current position at work with very little difficulty. I've adapted time and time again to the daily tasks and duties required of me. I finally feel as though I am coming into my own, so to speak, and managing my life much more responsibly while still accomplishing more.

The only area I can't seem to grow without discomfort or pain, however, is my love life. In fact, I seem to digress every time a situation presents itself. No matter how many self-motivating speeches or success stories or elderly words of wisdom I receive, I simply cannot deal with other human beings in a romantic setting--potential or otherwise--without turning into a sheepishly inept child. If I like someone, I am unable to let them know. Likewise, I am unable to be straightforward with my feelings when I do not like someone, as well.

I'm sure the inability stems from being afraid of rejection or hurting someone's feelings, and I imagine myself overcoming those fears and being completely candid. In time, I'd like to be more confident and aggressive, although not overbearing, simply because I admire people who are. The first step, as it's said, is always the hardest. I have to work on that honesty because there are people waiting for an answer.

It always seemed to me that brute honesty required an abandonment of one's sensitivity to others. I think that if I'm able to grow into someone who is true to others and myself without losing that sensitivity, I will have succeeded. Although I'm not an advocate of suffering as a source of growth, I know this will not be painless and, unlike the growing pains I experienced as a teenager, these cannot be alleviated with analgesics. I do believe, however, that the more difficult changes--and certainly the more painful changes--in life are also the ones we benefit the most from.

posted Saturday, December 8, 2001

Twenty-Three Revolutions Around the Sun

Well, one more year has passed. I got an early birthday present yesterday, as my WindowsXP upgrade arrived and I spent the evening after dinner and a movie (Ocean's 11) installing it with Derek, another movie (Requiem for a Dream) playing in the background. The operating system is rock solid and absolutely beautiful. That's not something I would have ever imagined myself saying, especially after the grueling six months known as "CS410", or "Modern Operating Systems." Lunch with the family, and later dinner and drinks with the Denver crew. It feels like it's going to be a good birthday.

posted Thursday, December 6, 2001

Yowza!

The day is at an end, and oh boy do I have a story for you. I woke up this morning with a thorn in my side and wondered what I was going to do with my day. Would it be productive? Would it be exciting? Would I fall in love or fall on my ass? Alas, the day looked like any other day where I'd go to work and type, type, type, like a good little boy. Then, I'd go to class and come home to read a little bit before I went to bed to start the whole process over again tomorrow. Ho hum.

As I gathered my things to walk out the door, my computer stopped me. It said, why don't you stop and check your email before you leave, because I have new mail! I dropped my coat and sat in my chair and to my surprise, new email awaited! But it wasn't any ordinary email. It was one of those psychic, kick-you-when-you're-down (although in a good way) kind of emails that you weren't expecting, but had coming nonetheless.

In a matter of minutes, I had my ass kicked. I was down on the ground, screaming uncle, begging for mercy, and I shouted: this ain't no way to live my life! I struggled and twisted and I turned the tables and grabbed this day by the horns and I said, no way muthah! No way in hell are you takin' me down. With that, I hogtied the sonovabitch and threw him over my shoulder. I was takin' him home.

Grabbing my coat, I clipped on my work badge and made my way into the bleach-clean winter air. I stopped before unlocking my car. The mountains asked, and with heavy determination, I replied:

I want to paint! I want to write! I want to travel and laugh and cry and love and know and see and spell and smell and joke and live like no one had ever known or heard of life before.

And would you believe it... I did just that.

posted Wednesday, December 5, 2001

Wandering

The weather is beautiful today. Sapphire skies, a lemon sun, and crisp, mountain air. It's the kind of day that could be an advertisement for any number of consumer goods but I'm going to ignore that brainwashed perspective and just enjoy it for what it is: a simply amazing day.

I stayed home from work because I'm still fighting off this sore throat and I've been somewhat productive around the house despite body aches and minor sinus pressure. I opened the patio door in hopes the weather might invade my head. The army of suppliments and pain killers seem to be doing a decent job, so house cleaning and homework have ensued. I even made a trip to the grocery store to buy a few items for dinner: butter, eggs, broccoli, potatoes, orange juice, tomatoes, sour cream.

As the fall quarter is winding to a close, I'm seriously debating whether I want to continue going to school. Winter quarter is only a few weeks away, so the decision needs to be made soon. Sooner than I'd like, because the decision-making dongle in the upstairs hangar is a little fickle and I know if I cancel my class registration now, I may regret it later. I don't want to shoot myself in the foot as far as my education's concerned.

I haven't had sex in three months. I just needed to get that off my chest. And, in a way, I'm probably saying that more to congratulate myself than anything because I don't think I've gone longer than a few weeks since I came out during my junior year in high school. It's not a dry spell, because heaven knows I'm not with a lack of opportunity. Something sorta clicked off a while ago, and I know I've written about it already, but I'm just amazed that it's lasted this long.

So, basically, that's my life in a nutshell right now. I'm sort of in a holding pattern as far as everything else is concerned and haven't even unpacked from my trip to California until a few minutes ago. The birthday is on Saturday, whence much partying will commence, oh yes. I'm really looking forward to it.

posted Friday, November 23, 2001

Giving Thanks

It was a good thanksgiving. Derek came home yesterday and we spent the day together. It's funny to think that the majority of the nation dedicates this entire day to cooking and that's exactly what I did: I cooked the full Thanksgiving dinner with a turkey, dressing, and the works, mostly to see if I could actually do it. Of course, the majority of it was simply following directions in a recipie, but it was pretty satisfying, nonetheless.

Somewhere in the mess of tapes and photographs we keep hidden away underneath the television, dad found an old video he recorded from a trip to Florida the family took back in '86. Derek and I look like little monkeys, jumping around the place, messing things up, making faces. We laughed and laughed. Most of the family members in the video have since passed away. I can't really describe the feeling it gave me to see them joking and laughing and alive. It felt good, but it also made me want to cry.

It's sad to think that those days are gone. I mean, they're all there, burned into my mind and smelling of familiarity. After reflecting on the good times we've had in our lives, I had to stop and recognize the goodness in my life now. It is a conscious effort to do it.

Whoever came up with the idea of Thanksgiving was a wise person.

posted Tuesday, November 20, 2001

In Memphis

I feel drained. Shaky, even. Physically, I just feel weak, as though something is sapping all the life out of me. It's the fucking caffeine. I should know not to drink so much coffee late at night.

I went to see a psychic tonight, as hoakie as that may sound. John Palmer said they offer good inspiration and direction. She was good, and got many points right on the nose, such as: my being spiritual, but not religious; my wanting to do something completely opposite, career-wise; my being involved with someone but not in love with them; my love of writing (she pulled that one out of thin air). There may have been others, but those stand out.

As far as direction is concerned, she said I will work in my current career for a few more years and then she sees me going off and "doing my own thing." I'm destined to have two loves before I get married around 30, and I'll have 2 or 4 children--my choice--although, she said I'm not interested in that right now, which I'm not. She said I have an enormous amount of growing and maturing to do. I can agree and attest to this.

She mentioned that I was harboring a lot of negative energy. Actually, she said I have a good flow of positive energy, but for some reason, the negative energy was pooling instead of flowing through. This explains the "tired sprirt" she says I have. Whether by revelation or power of suggestion, this negative energy began to reveal itself. I nodded my head in recognition of what she was saying--that I'm meant to be happy, but am not right now. I feel this to be true.

When she said I'm meant to do something completely opposite of what I'm doing, career-wise, I teared up and almost started bawling. I don't know why this affected me so much. Perhaps because it had been weighing on my mind for so long, and it was a relief to finally hear someone acknowledge it.

Oh, back to the negative energy. She said I need to be cleansed, but that it was a very difficult process and would cost $300. I told her I couldn't afford that. Instead, she offered me a crystal, which she said would serve as a "band-aid" in the meantime, absorbing negative energy and giving positive energy in return.

After the reading, I left feeling somewhat nauseated and drained. I simply didn't feel good. So, I decided to call John Palmer and discuss the whole thing, but he was out. I needed to talk to someone, so I called Jeff, but I'm not sure if that was a good idea.

I hold the crystal in my hand, on my cheek, on my chest like a stethascope. I try to imagine it drawing bad energy out of me, but it doesn't seem to help. So, I write because it distracts and comforts me. Perhaps if I go work out, I'll feel better.

posted Thursday, November 1, 2001

Word Count

(Updates continued below)

     Nanowrimo started today. I had been ignoring it, not really deciding either way about doing it, and this morning I just started writing. I've already got almost 3,000 words down. That's a pretty good count, considering my goal is to write 2,200 words every weekday (I'm taking weekends off). "So, where's the plot going?" you may ask. I have no idea. So far, my characters are:

• Stuyvesant: 27-year-old, gay journalist and playwright. A six-foot-tall, Buddhist/minimalist who is forgetful and looking for something to set on fire.

• Janine: 30-year-old television producer who is helping Stuy with his on-the-side play "Who Killed The Canary?" Outspoken, high-speed, and dirty-mouthed.

• Brad: 35-year-old, senior editor of the local newspaper and Stuy's boss. Also, Stuy's ex-boyfriend. A dapper professional with a passion for lawn darts.

• Gracie: 26-year-old waitress-cum-actress who plays the part of the canary in Stuy's play. Red-head, air-head, gives-good-head.

• Penelope: Female character who has no depth, but appears in the story to convey random, miscellaneous insights to life and other characters.

That's about it. I'm considering posting periodical updates to keep myself motivated and on track, not to mention it will be fun to document the journey since this is my first "novel." If you want to participate (read "help me out"), feel free to send me random thoughts, character and plot ideas, cards, money, flowers, or food (I'm addicted to S.N.A.F.U. by Ben & Jerry's).

Update - November 4, 2001
     Word count: 7504. Plot-twists: 1 (automobile accident). Plot-twist Setups: 7. New characters: 3 (Todd, Todd #2, and Nina). Hours spent: 7. Auditory motivation: Dionne Farris' "Hopeless" (thanks, George). Visual Motivation: FFX wallpapers

Update - November 6, 2001
     Word Count: 10,227. This book is all I can think about, lately. It's with me from the moment I get up in the morning to my dreams at night. I'm not really sure I know where I'm going with the plot and I'd like to read what I've written to get a feel for the direction, but Nanowrimo tips say don't reread. Just write. Although the book is always on my mind, it's difficult to keep the continuity between days. Coffee has really been helping. I nixed Penelope and am focusing mainly on Stuy, Nina, Janine and Brad, in that order. I'm starting to really dislike my main character. He's turning out to be a real ass. Somehow, though, I think he'll find a way to redeem himself. Tip for other writers: Exercise does wonders for your creativity.

Update - November 8, 2001
     Word Count: 20,526. Okay. So, wow. In just two days, I've doubled my word count, which goes against every preconception I had about this activity being a horrible experiment in reviving my age-old writer's block. I had never been able to get past three or four pages in any writing activity (besides my thesis and school papers) and now I'm staring at the tool bar which reads "36/36." Thirty-six, 8" x 11.5" freakin' pages. That's a formidable stack. Probably thick enough to hit someone with and do major damage. The amazing thing is, I'm only about a third through the story I want to tell, and I still have 3/5ths of my limit to go. Amazing.
     I'm a little worried about the direction the plot is going. It's turned rather dark, my characters are starting to reveal their Hyde personalities, and steering the plot back onto the road I had originally intended is--I'm discovering--a delicate process. Almost like trying to control a vehicle speeding at 120 MPH down the freeway. Janine is turning into Fran Drescher, Brad is the good guy, Stuy is a spineless weakling, and Nina is now a pathological liar. Gently insisting that these traits are merely secondary aspects of each character is becoming quickly impossible as they dig themselves deeper into a hole with every chapter.
     Well, they still have 30,000 words in which to redeem themselves. Will it work? Only time will tell.

Update - November 12, 2001
     Word count: 39,589. So tired. Quick update: Woke up midnight, Saturday. Everything fell into place. Characters have redeemed themselves. There is a new love interest. The main theme of the novel has made itself painfully obvious. Got out of bed and wrote the entire rest of the book down in the form of scribbles that I'm still trying to discern. It's almost as if someone else wrote them. I can't stop writing. It has taken over my body and my mind. Must sleep now.

Update - November 14, 2001
     Word count: 48,651. Only two thousand more words, and the worst has happened. I've hit writer's block. I know how I want to end the thing, but I just can't get it out. It keeps turning out the same, dull way. I erase and rewrite, erase and rewrite, but to no avail. I'm sure it will come out. Perhaps I'm just out of creative energy and need to get a little more rest. So close, but it feels so out of reach right now. It's incredibly frustrating.

Update - November 16, 2001
     Word count: 50,201. Finished! Whew. Actually, I finished yesterday, but I've been revising with the help of Dianna and Cale. Thanks guys. I figure since I have 15 days left until it's due, I can afford to go back and polish it up a little. Time to get something to eat!

posted Wednesday, October 31, 2001

Contentment is Complacency

I'm leaving. I don't know where, but I'm going to take a trip somewhere I've never been before, and I'm going to do it before Christmas. Complacency has been plaguing me for the past few months. It wasn't until another chat with Peter tonight that he made me realize I need to Get. Out. Life is going on all around us, he said, and if you're not passionate about what you're doing in life or where your life is, than you're not living. I am not passionate about anything in my life. I am content, comfortable, and even happy, but I feel nothing beyond a mid-range of emotion. I don't know where I'm going, but I'll figure out something. Other than that, there's too much I want to say and not enough stamina to write about it here. It will have to be postponed until I have more clarity/sleep/energy/understanding.

posted Tuesday, October 30, 2001

I Almost Bought a House

Yesterday stretches behind me like a tense cord of muscle threatening to pull me back into an entire day of viscous anxiety. I made an offer on a house last night. Looking over my shoulder, it wasn't all that bad, but I had been skeptical about buying property from the start and, although I loved the place, I'm just not sure I'm ready for the commitment. The offer fell through this morning; a scalpel cutting through the tendons connecting me to yesterday. Bittersweet relief and disappointment ensued because part of me wanted the place--wanted a new start--and that part of me knows I'm ready for the challenge and burden.

I'm not a big champion of fate but I wonder if my indecision or evasiveness steered the deal down a road I knew I wouldn't be able to take. My mom says things work themselves out for the better. I can take a modicum of comfort in that. But the journey to The Better is always what torments us, and don't they say that life is the journey? Along this part of the journey, I've learned a few do's-and-don't's and the next offer I make will be smarter, better. Perhaps this is The Better my mom refers to: the self-improvement that comes with learning, not only from good experiences, but disappointing ones as well. From this we should learn to cherish all experiences, objectively. It's a self-sufficient cycle.

posted Friday, October 26, 2001

Good Morning

Crazy dreams of night driving and frat boys. Waking to NPR. Shower, shave, clean clothes, new shoes. The house births me into the crisp air and a bleach-blue sky and I follow my breath of cotton clouds. Silent, reliable pavement under foot, warm coffee in my hands, bittersweet taste on my tongue, banana-nut muffin in celophane wrapping reflecting the morning sun. Life as a porous surface up close, life as sheet-glass far away.

posted Thursday, October 25, 2001

Manifestations

Peter and I had a good conversation last night. I've been paying him for counseling sessions, mainly because he's fun to talk to but also because he always offers great insight, and last night he helped me come to a few conclusions about what's going on in my life and what I ought to focus on.

I suppose the main thing I'm obsessing about lately is this tremendous desire or urge to leave. Ever since I graduated high school, I've been fighting the urge to move somewhere new, start over on my own, establish myself, and build a life with my bare hands. Instead, I forced myself to finish school and get a job here in my hometown where I'm really comfortable but ultimately not happy.

So, why do I stay? Well, security is a big issue for me since I have a tendency to throw myself to the winds whenever my complusiveness gets the better of me. Therefore, I've been working hard to pay off my debts and save up a sizeable chunk of cash to start me out when I do. That's going to take, I estimate, about three years. In the meantime, I figure I might as well be working towards a masters degree since my company is paying for it. I'm getting good job experience at the same time.

Insert sigh here. I really need to let go of this fixation and learn to enjoy myself, as I am, now. All this focusing on the future has made me worry that I'm going to develop a habit of always working towards some out-of-reach goal without ever really enjoying myself on the path to it. And I'm a firm believer of the idea that happiness isn't something you find or stumble upon, but something you strive to be.

This repression of--or attempt to control--my urge to take flight has built up inside me like steam in an engine, and the frequent spurts of manic behavior I've been exhibiting lately are probably manifestations of this repression. My impulse shopping is a good example. I'll buy nothing for a good couple of months, and then suddenly, I go on a rampage of materialistic ardor. My recent computer purchase is a good example, despite the fact that I can almost justify buying it.

Peter says there's something more to be said about my shopping sprees, but I believe that's the crux in the paragraph above. And that stems from my ingrained materialism which I've forever fought but never quite vanquished, instead repressing it much the same way I've repressed my Sagittarian drive. Perhaps it's like art or writing, in that, sometimes it comes naturally but for the most part it is a skill that needs regimented practice until it becomes second nature.

posted Wednesday, October 24, 2001

The Color on My Cube Wall is a Dull Taupe

I go through about fifty different emotions, daily, and I'm surprised my heart hasn't exploded or at least sputtered like a pneumatically exhaling baloon by this time in the afternoon. I feel okay; fine, really. I can talk myself out of any depressive, pessimistic or negative attitude. It's something I've always been rather proud of. Right now, the emotion I'm going through is grrr-anger. Work is pissing me off and not for the usual, agressive reasons like annoying coworkers or unreasonable expectations or poor conditions but because I'm sitting here all day long typing and fidgiting with this tracker and coding, while screaming "WHATTHEFUCKAMIDOINGHERE?" over and over in my head. And it's sad, really, because I come into work with good-little-boyscout enthusiasm beaming from my face like I've just gotten out of the tanning salon and all that energy just goes right down the tubes around 11 a.m. What a waste. Sure, maybe I'm just frustrated because my coding ability isn't enough to get what I want done and I'm berating myself for always expecting one of my more experienced coworkers to help me figure out a solution. The one I normally turn to is letting me figure the current problems out on my own. I can feel it like he just erected a cold wall of air right between our cubes. And I'm sitting here typing in my journal, but I don't feel the least bit apologetic because I've been working straight since I came in this morning. Code. Compile. Test. Code. Compile. Test. Code. Compile. Test. Work. Eat. Sleep. Work. Eat. Sleep. Work. Eat. Sleep.

Usually, The Onion makes me laugh, but today it made me feel really sad because my horoscope says, "You will spend the next 40 years of your life desperately preparing for the final 10," and at first I thought, How funny, that is so true. But then I thought, How sad, that is so true.

posted Tuesday, October 23, 2001

The Addiction to New

The Memphis skyline appears over the Mississippi as I cross the I-40 bridge into the city. God, I feel so free, it's fucking great. I'm in the brand new rental--it only had a few hundred miles on it when I picked it up--and intoxicated with the smell, diluted as it may be with the heavy river air. Hooverphonic's "Waves" plays on the radio, and although I may not have realized it at the time, I was making a mental, auditory bookmark in my mind. The song takes me back every time.

My new computer arrived last night via FedEx Priority Overnight. My printer comes today. I peeled open the dusty box and stuck my face in it, inhaling the factory smells, ignoring the irritating warning of anthrax in the back of my mind. Although I may not have realized it at the time, I was making a mental, olfactory bookmark in my mind. I gingerly pulled the hardware from its styrofoam womb and deliberately connected the pieces. It runs so quietly, I hardly know it's there. Even the hard-drive whispers.

New music, new books, and new plans litter my life. New furniture, new colors, new stuff. Newness fades and is reborn in the faces of new friends that dot the horizon. From what fountain is this newness eternally springing?

posted Sunday, October 21, 2001

Ever Evolving

When the undertow of change pulls you out to sea, you let it. Don't fight.

The familiar tug catches me every month or so and sweeps me out into a blue abyss of activity. Long ago, I realized that things must be in a constant state of change for me to be satisfied in any way and stability is, itself, only a momentary change from the metamorphosis that is my life. I feel close to the earth and its changing: the trees shedding, the days exhaling, the air biting.

The current picked up last night, and without even consciously recognizing it, I began to reorganize my closet. It always starts out small. Slowly, it spread to the rest of my room, the house, my car, and before I knew it, I was looking for a new place to live. I needed a new place to live. I craved change like I hungered for my next meal.

Could this be an outward expression of inner dissatisfaction or turmoil, or is it a natural aspect of my personality that keeps the flow going? I've tried to restrain myself during these times of tremendous urge--to take a step back and look at what's going on--and I've leared the best solution is to let it run course. My pragmatic half usually gets the better of me after a few days of swimming in the sea anyway.

I've also been working on trusting my gut instincts. This probably goes hand-in-hand with that, since most of these whims tend towards reflex and intuition. But am I being true to that intuition or simply compulsive? I keep thinking that if I ask the right question, the answer will be evident. Maybe I need to stop drawing things in black and white and let the answers come to me.

-----

Campus walks are great at this time in the year when, at any moment, you might be snapped by a publicity photographer, promoting the school in the next freshman catalog. Leaves crackle underfoot and fill the air. It's beautiful. Looking at the snapshot of me walking across campus in next year's brochure, I'd think, "Wow. Everything in my life at that instant... was perfect."

But it's not.

I know what you're thinking: Just another whiny journal entry. And granted, I suppose I really ought to be focusing my energy towards cultivating optimism, but the thing is that everything on the surface is good. There's just one thing: this shadow lingering under my skin that I can't pinpoint. I'm hoping that by repeated analysis, I can fish it out, skin it, look at it under the light of day. Figure out how it got here--how I got here.

My first instinct right now is to scream. I can hear it in my head and it sounds really good. But I can't. Well, I mean, I could but I don't want to alarm anyone in the house and besides, I don't think I could do justice to the one in my head. Writing it down here is as far as I can go with it right now. It's as far as I've gotten for any of this mess.

I hope this doesn't turn into a crutch.

posted Thursday, October 18, 2001

Updated and Inundated

This week has passed in a stampede of dust and garbage, leaving me in the middle of the road on a nondescript Thursday afternoon. I'm wondering if I should be concerned. That is, concerned about how I am constantly busy because I feel like I've just been letting time pass me by.

I went to Denver this weekend to see Patricia Barber in concert at the Gothic with my brother and some friends. She's groovy. I never knew my brother to be much of a jazz enthusiast, but apparently he's been drinking the stuff down in giant gulps, lately. I'm liking the fact that his music tastes are as varied as mine. It's good to try new things. Plus, I ran into Paige there, and finally got to meet her girlfriend Rebecca, who we've all been joking didn't exist since no one had ever met her. I'm the first one.

After a second lunch with Susanna on Saturday, I went out on the town with no plans. Just me. It felt great to go out and wander the city by myself and not have to worry about should-bes or could-bes. I parked by the Mayan and picked up a matinee ticket to "Ghost World," which I'd been wanting to see for a while. I window shopped along Broadway, called a few friends to say hello, and took the day in: the fall sun on my face and the crisp air in my nose.

After grabbing a bite to eat -- one slice of vegetarian deluxe pizza -- at Famous Pizza -- famous in the same parallel universe that the Pope is a sado-masochist -- I wandered back up the strip to the theater and slipped in just before the previews -- my favorite part of most movies -- which, fortunately, were only half as good as the movie I had paid eight bucks for -- matinee, too, can you believe it?

Saturday, I watched a movie with Cale and Lindsay and crashed out early. I'm working on paring down my weekend plans to do more vegging and sleeping. It seems like I'm always on the go, lately. Sunday, I washed my car, went to class, and again turned in to bed early. Well, early, in relation to the midnight curfews I've been setting for myself, which tends to be around 10 p.m.

I talked to Peter last night. Some things I'm working on this week: a) saying "no," b) painting, c) coming up with reasons why I should move, and d) following my first gut instincts. Books I'm reading this week: a) James Morrow's Only Begotten Daughter (finished), b) E.F. Schumacher's Small is Beautiful (again), and c) Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra's Don Quixote.

posted Tuesday, October 9, 2001

Sexonomics

Economic principles are everywhere and can be applied to a wide variety of situations in life.

For instance, I could be having sex tonight. As a matter of fact, I could be having sex every night if I wanted it. The marginal cost of doing so -- finding a suitable partner, verifying compatibility, driving and meeting somewhere, risking the contraction of diseases -- far outweighs the marginal benefit of the encounter, which would primarily be a short period of pleasure, ranging anywhere from fifteen minutes to a few hours.

The theory of supply and demand also plays a large part in my sex life. Currently, there is an abundance of undesirable sexual partners, and -- had they not been undesirable in the first place -- this surplus would decrease the demand. The demand is already low, but that is due to the high cost of engaging in sexual activity with such partners (emotional trauma, for instance). As we all know, high cost decreases demand and, inversely, increases supply.

The principles of present choice versus future possibility also hold true when considering the opportunity costs of having sex every night. If we consider my present choice of having sex every night, I must give up the time and energy I could otherwise put forth to improving myself physically and mentally or searching for a more ideal partner. Instead, if I chose to forgo immediate sexual gratification and focus, instead, on building my capital goods (self-esteem, appearance, and pick-up lines), I stand to gain, sexually, in the long term.

Further still, economic systems display themselves in abundance when discussing my sex life. A purely capitalistic encounter (a.k.a. "the one night stand"), assumes that each participant acts in his own self-interest and each seeks to maximize his own satisfaction or profit. The system allows for the private ownership of capital (each has his own life, outside of the relationship), communicates through cost, and coordinates activity through markets (or Internet chat rooms).

Sometimes, my sex life looks like a command economy (commonly referred to as a "LTR"), where there is public ownership of virtually all property resources and sexual decision making through central planning. Most of my relationships and encounters are a combination of the two "economies" and are known as mixed systems.

But I suppose it all comes down to the central problem of both sex and economics, which states that our wants are insatiable and our resources are forever scarce. Because classic economics deals with doing the best with what we have, most of us who model our sexual relationships on this idea end up in trailer parks with drunken boyfriends. I'm considering a production possibility curve that focuses on capital improvement for future benefits.

That is why I'm not having sex tonight. Economically speaking.

posted Monday, October 8, 2001

Happy Columbus Day

Or should that read, "Happy Violent-Imperialist-Pig Day"? Not that I have a thing against Columbus, because he seems to have become more of a children's storybook character than anything these days. On top of that, the holiday isn't even officially observed anymore. That is, no one gets the day off except for K-6 graders. Ah, to be a kid again.

So, Houston was good. Not great, but definitely a lot of fun. Barry's birthday party -- themed "Heathers" after the 1989 high-school tragicomedy -- went smashingly well a la Corn Nuts, "paté", some blue KoolAid for "Hull Clean" punch, a croquet set, red legwarmers, "Big Fun" t-shirts, and a sign on the door identifying Dianna's apartment as the "Snappy Snack Shack."

I was a little disappointed I didn't get to see John, although looking back, I'm sorta glad. There's a lot I want to say about this, but I don't really feel like talking about it right now. I ended up going to Rich's for drinks on Saturday night, mostly because I was told John would be there, but ended up going home early after getting sick. I think someone slipped some G into one of my drinks, since I only had three and am not a lightweight by any means.

This really disturbs me, because the mix of alcohol and GHB is lethal. To think that one of the guys I chatted with could have considered it a viable means to whatever ends they had in mind, angers me. Fortunately, Scott was there to keep an eye on me and carry me home when necessary, and it could have been a lot worse. My life seems to be turning into a deranged Queer As Folk episode!

Overall, the trip was a lot of fun, though. I got to spend some quality time with new friends and get out of my life for a few days to party, which I haven't done in a couple of weeks. I think that doing that once in a while is essential to keeping an even keel. This is mostly due to the fact that I feel so guilty afterwards I have a tendency to overachieve the following week.

So far, it's worked out pretty well. This morning, I feel relatively human and am again ready to take on the world of embedded systems. Things are good.

posted Thursday, October 4, 2001

Life Coach

Peter called last night and finally got a hold of me. We've been playing phone tag for the past two weeks. In a recent email, he had said something about needing to finish a conversation we had on Outward Bound, and that he'd be in touch, but never explained what it was. Very mysterious. But anyway, like I said, after many messages and many missed calls, he finally got a hold of me and revealed said topic right as I was getting ready for bed.

At some point on our camping trip, we were discussing his job and turns out he's a "Life Coach." What does this mean exactly? Well, he coaches people on how to take advantage of their talents, get the most out of life, and pursue their dreams. Sounds interesting, I thought, despite being a bit on the Yuppie-Motivational-Speaker side (then again, I suppose I'm more of a yuppie needing to be motivated than I'd like to admit). After articulating my interest, he indicated that he'd talk to me about it after the course is over, since he didn't want to promote his business on the trip.

I'm really looking forward to it, if not for gaining greater clarity or direction, than simply to talk about where my life's heading with an interesting individual. Peter is a really insightful guy (from what I remember of my 10 days spent with him), and it will be good to get an outside view. For our first discussion, I am to think of a few points in my life that I'd like greater clarity on. I can think of a few: work, my living situation, school, love, family, friends... damn, pretty much my entire life now that I think of it.

But as I was stuffing clean socks into my dresser this morning, I realized that everything in my life has been clearer now than ever before. I have clarity. I know where I am heading and where I want to go. I suppose what I really want now is reassurance that everything will turn out okay. And even then, I need to just slow down, forget worrying about the future, and concentrate on Now. Stop living in the future. Focus on living the current moment fully.

Perhaps my writing is holding me back in this sense. I write to keep connected to my past, and I enjoy reading about my past. I write to keep my past alive. And instead, maybe I should accept it for what it was and the effect it had on me. Move on from there. Realize that the past is not now, and that the person I am now IS what has resulted of all the nows before it. Perhaps I should be shedding the past like a shark sheds its teeth.

Speaking of sharks, I had a strange dream about 'em last night. I dreamt I was jet skiing in an ocean bay, the water turquoise and clear to the ocean floor. Among the boulders and seaweed that composed the bay, I saw large white sharks, swimming agitatedly to and fro in the water. And funniest thing, their mouths were coated in blood. Okay, so it wasn't funny at the time, but I started to panic and tried to dock the jet ski near the pier, but every direction I turned, there was a shark. They never saw me and, eventually, I woke up, but I kept fearing that they'd notice me and attack.

John wrote me a really reassuring email on fear and describes a dream he had:

I dreamt that this demon was menacing me. My first response was fear. I stood my ground with him (maybe because I realized that there was no escape) but still tried to find a way to make him go away. Then something in my mind said to embrace him. So I did. I held him and felt him flinch then relax and then dissolve away. After thinking about the dream I thought that the demon represented the demons in our lives. If we try to fight with them, they will never be conquered. This is because they know how to fight, they understand the fight. If we approach them with love, they succumb to it, just as we would. Maybe we really are princesses in dragons clothing. (in reference to Rilke's "Letters to a Young Poet")

Are we put on this earth to fear? I think not. I believe we are put on this earth to know fear and to understand it, but at the same time, realize that there is no reason to fear anything at all. Living with fear is simply living in the future based on what has happened in the past, as John succinctly put it. By doing so, we are letting life preclude our actual living.

posted Wednesday, October 3, 2001

Reconsiderations

I signed up to write a novel for National Novel Writing Month last week, but am seriously reconsidering it after reading Rilke's "Letters to a Young Poet." Specifically:

"Go into yourself. Find out the reason that commands you to write; see whether it has spread its roots into the very depths of your heart; confess to yourself whether you would have to die if you were forbidden to write. This most of all: ask yourself in the most silent hour of your night: must I write? Dig into yourself for a deep answer. And if this answer rings out in assent, if you meet this solemn question with a strong, simple 'I must,' then build your life in accordance..."

I have done what Rilke instructs. I have gone inside myself and asked whether every word has been born of an inner necessity, and the answer is simply, "No." I write because I enjoy practicing my ability to create, and ? most of all ? I use it as a tool to build myself from the ground up, to see where I've come from, to remember, and to observe my progress. That's it. I think the only reason I ever got it in my head that I should write a novel was the persistent push from Jeff to "put my talents to work." I'm sure the urge to write will come at some point in my life, but it's not there now and I'm not going to force it.

The first day (or, technically, "night") of class went pretty well. I misread my schedule and thought my class started at 5, when it actually started at 8, and ended up going to the school and turning around to come home. Which was a good thing because I managed to buy Barry's birthday present, cook dinner and whip out a painting in the betweentime. Then I re-drove myself to school and made myself comfortable in the front row of the class so I would be unable to cruise, which is a distracting habit of mine. I figure I'm in Graduate School now, and need to be focused on school, rather than arm-wrestling my hormones. Despite my efforts ? and I don't know how I did it ? I somehow managed to pick out three cute guys in the first five minutes of class without even turning around. One of them is gay (black mules, tight Armani pants, short crew-cut hair... you do the math). Ever on the prowl.

And that's not really the case, either. Sex has been the last thing on my mind lately, and I've had no desire to date or even to meet new guys. I have dated but more out of habit than want. The idea of not dating at all has crossed my mind, but it's hard to let people down like that. I know that sounds really bigheaded. The two guys I've met are great, and I've had fun spending time with both of them (nothing but respectable, polite, peck-on-the-cheek-goodnight dates), but they both are interested in pursuing something more and I'm simply not interested. I think I'm hesitant, because this is such an unusual situation for me. Some part of me keeps thinking I'm going to turn around and suddenly be interested any day now, so I need to keep dating until I am. The majority of my brain is thinking not.

I'm going to Houston this weekend. It's sort of my last vacation before I have to fully delve into my schoolwork and I'm really looking forward to it. Hopefully, I'll be able to hang out a bit with John while I'm down there. Nothing but polite and respectable.

posted Tuesday, October 2, 2001

Learn Me Something

I pulled my backpack out from under the bed this morning, the one with salt on the shoulder straps from hiking shirtless under the white, summer sun. It's worn, but in a way that makes it look somehow more durable. I felt kind of like a kid again as I filled it with books and pens and pencils and my trusty TI-86 calculator. Today is my first day back to class.

When I first stepped foot on the campus of my new school a few months ago to enroll, I distanced myself from the place. I wouldn't let myself be there any more than a man in a submarine is actually standing on the bottom of the ocean. And I figured it would stay like that, because I don't want to be going to school there. I have about as much passion for my subjects as I do for a Playboy centerfold.

As much as I hate to use the term, I've been psyching myself up for the quarter this past week, telling myself it will be fun to start something new. It will be a new adventure. And I know nothing of business related subjects ? my past education being firmly rooted in math and computers ? so I'm sure I will learn something new and, hopefully, interesting. After all, it's better to learn something than nothing, and if it weren't for school I'd be sitting on my ass all winter daydreaming and playing Final Fantasy.

School is also a good distraction from myself. Let alone, my mind will run amok with escapism fantasies and delusions of romance; I'll start to get antsy and Look for Love in All the Wrong Places. And school is good in the sense that -- while it won't help me focus on the fact that I need to just calm down and let things play out in my life -- it will draw a nice chalk outline around the ant colony that is my thought process. It will cause me to focus on something other than the many paths out of this city.

posted Thursday, September 27, 2001

Still Warm

I needed a break from sitting endless hours in front of my computer monitor, so I left the building and wandered into the undeveloped fields outside our office. It's a beautiful autumn day, slightly warm, but clear and sweet-smelling. Large grasshopers the size of a trucker's middle finger flew haphazardly, not out of fear of being squished, but seemingly for the sheer enjoyment of it as though they were putting on a show for a new spectator. Stepping onto the grass, I felt a tinge of fear as I wondered if my feet would get wet. A voice in the back of my head said, "Don't be afraid. Walk in the grass." I noticed having a lot of worries like this of late. I worry about my mutual funds and stock prices and wonder if my money will still be there if there's another attack. I worry about losing my family and friends. The same voice in the back of my head tells me I'll survive any loss. And that's really what it is: the fear of loss. And like a lot of my worries in life, I just need to let go, because in all reality we have nothing to fear. We are a part of everything and can therefore never truly lose anything.

posted Wednesday, September 26, 2001

Clean Up

I dedicate this past week to clean up. Sort of a fall cleaning, if you will. The weather has been absolutely dazzling, the trees are changing, everything is getting in one last performance before the winter slumber hits. That goes for me as well. I've been organizing my finances, rearranging my website, working and saving money, and prudently managing my time with friends, family and dating interest(s). The idea is to get as much done so that I can be prepared for the winter (at which point I will have little motivation to do any work because of ski season) and still have time to enjoy the weather and outdoors. I feel like a bear gorging on berries in preparation for hibernation. The good thing is that I feel good about the direction my life is heading.

Last night, while I was laying in bed, I thought about my past relationships. Not that it's a rare thing, but last night I came to a conclusion. I had always berated myself for not being smarter about my past situations. The idea of apologizing came to mind. That's when the realization hit me. I wasn't going to apologize for anything. I've learned something pretty valuable from every person I've dated, and that lesson is worth the pain and frustration. I mean, we're paying for these lessons with emotional torment. Shouldn't that be enough?

I'm working on setting up a new site for this domain, something to plug me back into the weblogging circuit. I miss it. Now that grad school, work, and my finances are all in order, I can afford to divert my attention a bit. The majority of the weekend has been spent writing CGI scripts and setting up a MySQL database to hold my posts for the new site. Perhaps when I'm finished, I'll write up a little something to detail the experience like Eartha did with her Linux adventure.

posted Thursday, September 20, 2001

Phone Call

I'm shaking.

You'd think after breaking up with someone and not talking to them for two weeks (two and a half, actually), I would be okay after calling them. It was good to hear his voice. He was in that sweet, somnolent, melancholy mood ? not unlike a good-looking shirt or hairstyle ? that I had always loved him in.

Secretly, part of me wanted him to be mean, upset, distant, or even slightly cool to me, but he was none of those things so now I'm left trembling. Blaming it on the coffee won't help any. I've got to identify this feeling inside of me, the root of this weed.

It's not nervousness, although it feels the same. Okay, well, maybe it is a bit of anxiety, tossed in with a few other emotions. But anxiety over what? Over what he might say to me, what he was thinking? A bit nervous that I might be stirring up a nest of snakes?

I just feel bad. And I shouldn't. Because everything turned out the way it was supposed to ? better than it was supposed to ? and I know deep down that it was the right decision. Why do I feel so bad?

One of the thoughts that keeps drifting back and forth in front of this question says, "Why ask why?" Just accept it. The thing of it is, I need to figure this out, because I don't want to feel this way again. I need to know what it is, how I planted it, and what's feeding it.

Well, right now, it's time to feed myself. My stomach is growling. Maybe that's why I'm trembling... it's always easier to blame your problems on external sources rather than internal.

posted Tuesday, September 18, 2001

Random Encounter

As I was purchasing my buddy pass for Vail today, I happened to catch a glimpse of a beautiful boy. Okay, so I did more than catch a glimpse. He was working at the sporting goods store, looking very busy, walking to and fro, and since the line I was standing it was taking such an awfully long time to move, I casually sauntered over to the shoe section in hopes he would help me.

Tony ? not "Sty" as his nametag read ? was enough to cause me a headache by himself without the screaming children in the store. He was so attractive, it hurt. I watched him come closer out of the corner of my eye, and when he approached and asked to help, I let him help me try on a few shoes. I was very professional with him, never giving him a reason to think I might be interested. I squeezed every last drop of conversation surrounding the shoes I was trying on, and thanked him for helping me. He smiled and I felt a stabbing pain in my chest.

I don't think I've ever been around anyone who I found attractive enough to cause me physical pain. This is pretty intense stuff (thus my recording it). He was so beautiful, it scared me. The things I would do. I stopped myself as background processes in my mind conjured preposterous, insidious plans and constructed deleterious thoughts. I felt sick to my stomach. I closed my eyes and tried to put myself somewhere else.

I have never felt this before. How could a simple glimpse or a few minutes interaction, cause me so much mental turmoil? I felt my face flush and my ears burn. Everything in the store faded out. Time seemed to slow to a molasses pace like a bad movie effect. I breathed in and it took everything I had to focus on the task at hand. I wonder if I'll ever feel this way about someone who feels the same way about me.

Actually, that scares me even more.

posted Tuesday, September 18, 2001

Desultory Emotional State

I seem to be emotionally unstable as of late. A list of missing persons on the news or even the right song lyric can send me into tears. This is actually kind of cool, since I'm normally unable to cry at anything. It feels good.

posted Saturday, September 15, 2001

Beginnings and Endings

So, the key to this whole thing is to just start typing. Sometimes I can barely bring myself to "write" anything down in fear of seeming nonchalant about the week's atrocities or cold or heartless, but I know the key is to keep up the forward movement. At least I can type with my eyes closed.

School orientation was today. It feels weird to say I'm a graduate student because that always carried the weight and presumption that said student was equipped with an arsenal of actual knowledge. Any concrete knowledge in my head has long since sunk to the depths never ? or randomly ? to be recovered.

Somehow, I still maintain the hope that I'll meet some good and interesting people at school during this program, but as I walked with a group of twenty or so new enrollees, that hope faltered. I suppose it shouldn't be a surprise, since the dedicated students who actually aim for high achievement are in places known for it. Harvard. Yale. Columbia. What kinds of people did I expect to be attending a small, technical college in America's Bible Belt-Buckle? I stopped myself somewhere at this point in my train of thought.

After orientation, I bought my books and headed up to Denver to meet with Susanna, an intern of Jeff's who, coincidentally, is from the same city in Taiwan that my mother was from. We've written a few emails back and forth over the past few months, and decided it was time to actually go over some concrete evidence my mother left of her existence ? a few letters from her family ? and some of my Chinese lessons.

She made me rather uncomfortable, because she is so polite and impersonal (although extremely friendly and a good conversationalist). It is hard to explain unless you are familiar with native Chinese. Physical contact is unusual in Chinese culture, and when I went to hug her goodbye she stiffened slightly, obviously uncomfortable. I figured she'd just have to get used to it, but I also vowed to expand my personal bubble a foot or two outward.

After a quick jaunt around the city, I joined Lindsay for dinner. The usual dim sum and then some at Sien Sien, with a hefty side order of bitching. As much history as we have together, I'm starting to grow weary of her constant complaining but I'm not going to join her by making this a bitchsession about her, either. I know I accepted this as part of her personality when we became friends oh-so long ago, but right now I'm just exhausted.

A few more stops at a birthday party and a quick stop at a concert to see a friend, and I'm back at home. Truly exhausted. I can't imagine what the rescue workers in New York feel like right about now. I'm channelling my remaining energy to them. So sleepy. Good thing I can type with my eyes closed.

posted Friday, September 14, 2001

Cruising for a Bruising

So, I've carried on. Work has let me rearrange my schedule to four, ten-hour days instead of five eight?s and I had the day to sleep in and work around the house. I keep hacking at the bills and paperwork around here, but it never seems to go away. Whenever anyone used to say that before I turned 21, it would go in one ear and out the other. Now, I'm starting to get it. That's all growing up is, really. Realizing for yourself everything grownups used to tell you when you were younger.

Since the break-up a few weeks ago, the cruising habit has kicked in again. I find myself sitting up late at night, chatting up Internet users, and going out to the bars with Dave and other friends. I've met a few guys, but nothing more friendly dates, I think. It's fun to be dating again. I've been pretty good so far, too. Nothing but totally polite and respectable. So that's fun for a change.

Maintaining youthful optimism has been a conscious effort of late. It came so easily before, but I'm starting to notice my straining grip. The tendons in my forearm tense and my veins are bulging (Mmm...). Every so often, I see that shadow creeping along the visible edges of my thoughts. It whispers disheartening things about how this is As Good As It Gets, and to Give Up because no matter how hard you look You'll Never Find It.

Cynicism. That's the word I'm looking for. I'm holding cynicism at bay with a burning torch, and it slithers along the outside of this lighted perimeter like those creatures in Pitch Black. Which is a great movie, by the way. I'm sure I've mentioned this in the past, but I love Vin Diesel. Vin, baby, if you're reading this, I'm a single guy, fairly intelligent, handsome, have seen all your movies (including Iron Giant) and give great... massages. Wanna date?

Yeah. This cruising thing is getting a little out of hand. Luckily, I have my Ben & Jerry's in the freezer to take my mind of such disgraceful flimflam.

posted Thursday, September 13, 2001

Catharsis

When I was 14, I saw a man shot in the back of the head ten feet in front of me. The memory isn't fluid. That is, I don't remember the shot in slow motion, or him falling to the ground, or even the sound of the gun going off, but rather a series of discrete images in my mind. One minute he's standing there (between two cars, orange shirt, brown curly hair, mustache) and the next minute he's lying face down in a pool of blood.

I feel pressure build on my ear-drums. As if coming out of a tunnel, the silence around my head is slowly penetrated by a gradual increase in volume and my mother's scream suddenly rings full pitch in my ears. Her fingernails dig into my shoulder and I feel the weight of her body as she runs, pushing me away from the body and towards the car. The parking lot rushes in around us.

I remember being fully unemotional during the entire scene. Not shocked or scared, but simply devoid of feeling. I wasn't really sure what to make of it. Looking back at the crowd of people gathering and the body on the ground, I remember just watching as I was rushed away. It was the first time I had ever encountered death first-hand, although certainly not the last.

Many people are taking these days as an opportunity to talk about death. The plane crashes have opened a crater in the mind of the world that is slowly flooding with talk and horror and disbelief and celebration and ignorance and emotions of every kind. As much as I try to carry on, the topic is unavoidable. Even the attempt to ignore it is ? in an offhanded way ? acknowledging it at the same time.

I successfully avoided seeing any footage of people leaping from the World Trade Center. Every time they would show it, I would look away. It's not that I wanted to deny it happening, I just didn't want to see it happening. I had enough horror going on inside my head. Imagination tends to be worse than reality, but I can at least refute whatever preposterous conjurings my mind comes up with as only imagination, whereas the horror on television must be acknowledged.

posted Wednesday, September 12, 2001

The Day After

Woke up this morning feeling like I had been tormented by a bad dream. Then I realized it wasn't a dream. Things are perfectly normal here, with people carrying on their daily routines and the weather being beautiful as ever. The difference is in my head and in the heads of everyone around me.

I'm slightly nervous to find out what our country is going to do. Although fairly certain now that the US won't strike right away with fists, I feel the mass of the continent quietly reeling. And I don't trust the monkey. I pray for common sense from the people.

I felt a tinge of guilt yesterday, as I went about my daily chores, cleaning and eating and paying bills and watching television, but I realized that I can't let this stop my life. Any one of us could die at any time, and it's not our place to sit around and worry about the death of others or our own death. Our job is to pick up life by the roots and run with it while we still have legs and arms and hearts.

posted Tuesday, September 11, 2001

Tuesday Morning Attack

This has been an extremely strange and terrible morning. After an unusual cup of coffee, I've been stationary in front of the television watching the smoke and destruction unfold at the World Trade Center in NYC and Pentagon in Washington, D.C.

It was comforting to know that the events were occurring two thousand miles away, but it has hit closer to home with the evacuation of Federal buildings and the capital building here in Denver. There is a strange air in the office as people stand huddled around radios and televisions.

In a sort of sick thrill, I watched, unmoving, as explosion after collapse after explosion occurred. I feel drawn, in a way, to the disaster as though it is feeding some part of my psyche. Part of me wants to see the remaining hijacked planes continue unintercepted, just to observe the full outcome of this horrible plan.

This cannot ? will not ? happen, of course, and as the nation and fighter jets scramble to strike down the continuing threats, the sense of anxious anticipation returns. Things seem, for the moment to have slowed, if not calmed, a bit.

So much will happen because of today.

posted Monday, September 10, 2001

Tracks Closes

I had originally planned on titling this entry "The End of an Era," but I didn't want to give Tracks that much credit. The dance club ? probably the most popular in Denver ? closed on Saturday after what was supposed to be a major party, but ended up being just another night at Tracks. The one major difference was a sweltering, suffocating crowd.

Scott and I arrived at around 9 p.m. Had anyone heard of such a thing prior to the closing, we would have been laughed at, but considering the circumstances everyone had arrived early. There was a line of about 300 people wrapping around the parking lot and into the entrance alleyway, causing us to consider turning around immediately. Dave convinced us to park and stand in line anyway. An hour later and we were inside, which we decided wasn't too bad.

The crowd kept piling in until there was only standing room, which made for quite the cozy evening. There was much dancing ? up and down, anyway ? and as soon as it started to get too crowded, we left and headed to another club where more dancing took place. It was another night at Tracks, nothing special, nothing outstanding. It was an appropriately mediocre end.

It's been a while since I partied with the girls. I've abstained mostly because I've grown accustomed to early-night turn-ins and have been trying to avoid the drug/club/fag scene altogether. Feeling somewhat obligated to go, though, I ended up agreeing to join them and, subsequently, enjoyed myself.

Being there reminded me of all the good times I had had. I always said I had one of the best nights of my life there, not because of the location, but because of the events that took place and the people I was with.

I was 19 and on one of my last months living in Denver. The past couple of weeks had been particularly bad because my roommate, Ed, and I had been having an ongoing fight. That Saturday, I decided to go to Tracks ? by the graces of Scotty ? to relieve some tension and dance a bit. Dave couldn't make it that night, so I had to go by myself, which was unusual for me at the time.

Upon arrival, I met up with Alan and Kali in Heaven's Lounge, the hip, disco room with the tic-tac-toe dance floor. Jeremy Inman was there, who I had had a crush on for a year or more, and we ended up talking for a good hour. Before I knew it, we were holding hands on the couch and oblivious to the rest of the room.

No sooner had Jeremy and I confessed our mutual attraction for each other, than my roommate Ed stumbled in and, upon finding me on the couch, began apologizing profusely for our fallout over the past weeks. Both of us being slightly tipsy, embraced each other and cried apologies, swearing undying love and loyalty to one another.

Later, Jeremy and I continued into the main room to dance, enamoured with one another, and as I walked through the bar upstairs, the crowds parted mysteriously. There stood Dave beaming at me. I had not expected him to be there, so his arrival was a complete surprise and I was elated to see him and share my recent adventures with him.

Of course, that night has gone through the usual shoe-shine of time to appear sparkling and idealistic in the light of memory, but I remember the highs and lows as though they were last week. By going Saturday night, I had hoped to capture a bit of the light and air from the club to attach to that memory, somehow bring it to life or make it more realistic. But whereas physical location can easily be reproduced, emotions and people and events must always remain ambered in memory.

posted Friday, September 7, 2001

Gutting the Situation

The past two days have been really busy, but great for my sense of well-being. I've been packing the activities in, more or less, with a thrilling sense of freedom. I can do whatever I want, whenever I want, and not have to worry about anyone else's schedule. That is a big advantage to single life.

Then again, sometimes I wonder if that love for independence is detrimental to my future relationships. Will I be less likely to work something out with a boyfriend if I would rather be on my own anyway? Will I not value the time we spend together as much as the time I spend by myself? Questions to definitely keep in mind.

I still have so much to do and discover about myself. I need to get myself on my own two feet before I can offer anything of substantial value to a potential boyfriend. In my earlier college days, I had assumed that my "cocooning" phase, as I liked to call it, would only last until I graduated with my bachelor's, but now I'm realizing that I could stay in this phase and grow and grow and never come out.

I suppose I should draw the line at some point, but now is definitely not the time.

So, ultimately, my intense schedule of late is due primarily to the break up with Jeff. Not that I need to preoccupy myself, but it is more of an opening of floodgates that had been closed to make room for quality time. The activities I had been holding back ? working out at the gym, taking random classes here and there, reading, playing my PS2, writing ? are now being released in a tidal wave of recurrence.

It feels good to get myself back. I'll know when I have the right relationship when I can incorporate a man into my life without having to sacrifice those things that I enjoy doing on my own.

It was rocky the first week that Jeff made the break. Since Key West, the breakup has gone much smoother. So much so, I'm afraid there's something Jeff's not telling me, or that maybe I'm not seeing. We've had our tiffs over the past couple of months, but overall, we still get along famously and adore each other to no end. I believe this is the reason that he wants to made amends.

Despite our reputation and his conviction, there is no doubt in my mind that Jeff is not the right person for me. There is some connection that's missing, be it emotional or intellectual or simply in the way we view the world. Perhaps it's my immaturity in relationships, gay culture, and the world around me. Tonight, we are going to meet to discuss the future of our relationship, and I am planning on telling him this. I love him, but I can't continue a relationship with him. Not right now.

It scares me because I risk regretting this decision later on down the road. Jeff is offering me all I've ever wanted: telling me that he has a firm sense of commitment to our relationship, wants things to work, believes that I'm "the one for him," and that even if things don't work out, he will value the time we spent together and our friendship. And here I am preparing declinations and rejections in my head.

There is only my gut that is telling me this is the right decision ? for both of us. I can't recall a time when my instincts have been wrong about a situation, although I can remember several where my so-called "logical thinking" fubar'ed a potentially good situation. John Palmer once said that so many fuck-ups in life can be avoided if we'd stop leading with our heads and started listening to our gut instincts.

I'm going to follow this one.

posted Thursday, September 6, 2001

Deadline

It's approaching. I received my admissions letter to grad school on Tuesday, and although I had decided I wasn't going to go, I'm starting to have second thoughts. Should I do something that will benefit my career even though I have no desire to do so? Studying something that I have no passion for seems pointless to me in the grand scheme of things, but it is practically being handed to me on a silver platter. All I have to do is say "yes."

There is the practical side of me that says I should go for it because it's an easy ride and will be a ticket for more opportunities in the future. There's also the gluttonous side of me that feels I should do it just because it's there and learning anything is better than not going to school at all. These are both very tempting thoughts.

At the same time, the anchor of doubt that is holding me down says that I shouldn't waste my time (or my company's money) on something I could care less about ? in this case, a masters degree in business administration. I should be working towards completing my dream of moving to California, saving up for art school, getting out of computers. Why hold myself down for another three years when I've already held myself here the past three to complete my bachelor's degree? Does it ever end?

Granted, I may be blowing this out of proportion. After all, it doesn't hurt to work towards the degree while I'm saving money and working. And I like the idea of learning something even if it isn't what I've been dreaming of learning or doing. And I can take art classes and work towards an MBA at the same time.

I believe the root of my frustration is my growing comfort level here in my hometown. I never wanted to be here for any extended period of time, but when I stop and look around, I realize I've stayed here well past my original deadline. The plan was to complete college, move to Cali with a good degree, work and go to art school. It's turning out to be a lot harder and more complicated than that with so many other choices being offered to me now.

If only life were as simple as I used to make it out to be. Then again, perhaps it was that simple, but now that simplicity has eluded me as I've slipped into the sea of adulthood and work and goals and deadlines. There is (and has been in the past) this great move towards simplicity, where people try to simplify their lives with less of everything. That appeals to me, but at the same time, the robustness of life with a multitude of choices appeals just as much, for the perfectionist in me wants all the options to make the best of all possible decisions.

Letting go of that grip on life scares me. I believe, however, that I really can achieve some simplicity if I just let life unfold before me, rather than dictate every direction. This decision about grad school ? although not monumental on grand scales ? is difficult now, but maybe if I relax and wait, answers will come to me. This could be the greatest procrastination excuse I've ever come up with. Then again, sometimes I work best under stress, and as the deadlines near, this monster will rear its head again and again.

posted Wednesday, September 5, 2001

Missing Lonliness

You can't beat summer weather here in the Rocky Mountains. Anywhere. As I walked from my car to work ?- really the only time I ever get to spend outside anymore ? I reflected on this thought. The sun didn't blaze or sear like clear, sunny days usually do; the sun seemed content to simply shine. A cool breeze was enough to keep the air from feeling stagnant, but did not bluster nor annoy. No humidity. No bugs. Perfect. The air even smelled clean.

Spending time in lower altitudes, as I have this past month, has really led to the development of a genuine appreciation for my home state. Not that I don't love the smell of an ocean breeze or the skin softening effects of humidity, but I have definitely realized that this place has spoiled me with its beauty.

Also on said walk between car and work, I came to a chilly realization that I miss being alone. I miss my depressive winter months, pressing through piles of books and schoolwork, passing through familiar halls of familiar faces and not knowing anyone. I miss coming home and spending hours alone just reading or creating bits of art here and there.

These days have been truly filled to the brim with activity. Constantly making new lists and revising old ones. Berating myself for forgetting little things. Berating myself for not having time to do everything. I want life to slow down and I know I have the power to do so, but the crux of the problem is my desire to be everything to everyone. I try to maintain my relationships with friends in Denver, my family and friends here in town, and it stretches me to the point of breaking.

I need to stop. I will stop. Perhaps this is a cycle that happens every year, where I swing between poles of high summer activity and slow winter torpor. Well, as they say, variety is the spice of life.

posted Monday, August 27, 2001

Revive!

After ignoring a journal for a certain amount of time, you begin to wonder if it's worth catching up on everything you've missed. Normally, my fixation on tabula rasa ? a nod to my textbook Sagittarian personality ? would make this a prime opportunity for another clean start. Instead, I'm going to be good to myself, and at least attempt to do a quick overview of what's been going on lately.

I've been traveling a lot this month; more than I ever have in my entire life as a world-savvy military brat. I was in Chicago, Houston, and Memphis for the better part of the month and have been to Denver at least seven or eight times. It's not over, either. On Thursday, I leave for a five-day trip to Key West, Florida, where I'll be spending the Labor Day holiday with my now-ex-boyfriend, Jeff.

We broke up in a relatively civil discussion over the phone, yesterday. Neither of us were very happy with the direction the relationship was taking, and it seemed to be the best decision for both of us considering our circumstances and places in life. I feel relieved. That being said, it will still be a bit awkward spending an entire weekend vacation with him as just friends, but I'm sure we'll have a good time. We always do.

Work is going really well. Sitting in front of a computer for eight hours a day is still as boring as ever, but I'm getting more important work and my decisions are bearing a little more weight. It is a sense of pride to be able to actually contribute something worthwhile to the group. The people I work with are great in the sense that they are very laid-back, intelligent, and always have something thoughtful or funny to say to brighten your day. The trip to Memphis for Alpha testing was my first time in the field and it ended up being more like a vacation than a business trip since there were no problems with the software.

Touring Memphis was a chance for me to break out on my own and really explore. One note about Graceland: the tourists are more interesting than anything Elvis ever had or did. Beale and Main Streets were exciting and colorful. Spent a few nights with Erin's ex-girlfriend, Heather, and Kena and Kena's little boy, Thor. Lots of fun times. Good people, too. After about day three or four, I was at a loss of things to do. I had toured the city, circuited the gay bars, and visited numerous coffee shops and restaurants. Ended up finding a few good, used booksellers and parked myself for a couple of days and just read. I had to buy an extra carry-on bag just to tote the books I bought while I was there.

Travelling has always been a big to-do on my list, but now that I've gotten a healthy dose of it this year, I'm valuing my time at home more and more. I enjoy sleeping in my own bed, having everything where I want it, and having access to a full kitchen and, of course, a full wardrobe. With all it's promise of adventure and new experiences, traveling is really overrated and should be done in utmost moderation. Otherwise, your roots start to break and you tend to start drifting. Perhaps for some people this works, but I have a need to stay relatively grounded right now. Traveling a lot has taught me this much.

So, life is really good. I'm in high spirits and there are so many possibilities open to me right now. I'm exploring art schools for graduate study and am making decent progress towards eliminating my debt entirely, which is responsible, in large part, for my needing to be grounded and focused. Once that's out of the way, I'll be able to fully uproot and go wherever the wind takes me. That should be fun.

posted Tuesday, August 14, 2001

Disintegration

I meant to burn him into memory like I had so many times before with other, less-vivid events so that when I left, he would still be here in my hands. The smell of his hair, his skin under my palm, his breath on my neck, the rasp of his voice, the sun through his morning beard, the crease of his eyes when he smiled. Experience melted down to a list of images, smells, and sounds. Simplification does memory no justice and even if it did, ultimately, memory will always fail. It always fades. Everything fades.

posted Tuesday, August 7, 2001

Good Things

What can I say, other than things have been really busy and really good. I've been full-up with activity, between work, hanging out with friends, and spending time with Jeff and I hate the fact that when times are good, I never write about them, it's just that I never have the time to write about them. I've been making a concerted effort to write less about the melancholy and focus on the good.

Things with Jeff are looking exceptionally good. He came down this weekend with my friends Dave and Scott to peruse the booths at Pride, and afterwards we had dinner and drinks followed by a movie. So far, plans for a fall vacation are shaping up nicely. We're pricing trips to Cancun, Key West, and Costa Rica. Nothing solid as of yet.

I'm going out of town for two weeks on Friday for business and pleasure. First to Houston, then to Memphis. Hopefully, when I return, I'll have regained a bit of my desire to write.

posted Thursday, August 2, 2001

Desired Outcome Versus Actual Result

I was going to write something of great importance last night, but a strange turn of events resulted in me (purposefully) pulling the power-cord from my computer. Perhaps I'll elaborate on those events in the near future. For the time being, however, they will have to remain unsaid. The week has been full of events reluctant to be acknowledged or detailed, and I wonder if it's my ubiquitous aversion to the truth rearing it's ugly head. If so, I refuse to admit it.

Who is Helen Landing? The name is seared into the back of my mind like the retinal burn from a camera flash. Intensely vivid dreams have spun webs in my head the past few nights and the name has stayed with me, beyond post-arousal forgetfulness. Despite this, I cannot remember any details of the dream surrounding the name ? who she was, what she looked like, what my relation to her was ? and it has since echoed in my head like a bad Pat Benetar song.

The other dream I had involved the boyfriend and a tropical resort of some sort, which, after elucidation, resulted in the drawing up of an appropriate itinerary for travel to a tropical destination. I'll write more about this as plans solidify, but we're looking at many of the well-publicized gay resorts in the Caribbean. I've never been to one, and as a result, am a little skeptical as to the exact entailment and anatomy of such purlieu.

Media consumption of late has revolved around habitual web surfing, although I've made a point to read a bit every night and even purchase some new music. I've been exercising at the gym regularly this week, and ? despite lack of sleep ? have been in good order to "get my life back on track" (I hate that cliché, but it conjures the most appropriate visual). All evil forces aside, that will occur, on schedule, at approximately 7:34 p.m. on August 23rd.

Voltaire's "Candide" (or Optimism) has been quite the godsend.

posted Tuesday, July 31, 2001

Air

The wet-weight heat of the humid air settles on my skin as I roll down the windows. In a hasty escape to mingle freely with the opposite, the cool dryness of the car dissipates. Age-old theory of opposites attracting, I think to myself. No. Not attraction. Diffusion. Thermal physics. I shake my head to rid the moist torpor that has blanketed my senses and gaze onward, the shimmering air calling, hypnotic. I was on the floor of my bedroom when I burned his scent into the supple leather of memory. He lay sleeping, facing away from me. Quietly lowering myself next to him, I breathed him in, his hair, his breath -- smells that had grown roots in my stomach. I had developed a need for the air around him. Somehow the intoxicating humidity now revived that hunger. Sliding across the marble sky, the clouds whisper of cooler days as they travel to places beyond the horizon. He?s over the horizon too, I tell them. Perhaps they will visit him and bring him along the next time I see them. I roll up the windows and start the air conditioner, driving towards the mountains, away from the humidity. Driving away.

posted Sunday, July 29, 2001

Melancholy Ardor

The musty silence that builds after a few days of being gone welcomed me back as I opened the door to my home. Had I not closed the windows, the blinds, the vents, the house still would have accumulated the same stale, stagnant air. It wasn't unpleasant and easily fixable. A few fans in open doors and the house was instantly resuscitated.

Voices from the past and present ? no doubt the future as well ? lay waiting on my answering machine. Josh had called from New York to touch base. I jotted his number down on a paper napkin and skipped to the next. Yes, it's Jeff calling to say he misses me and is thinking of me and can't wait until I get back and...

I skip to the next message. Weekly logistics from various coworkers and life enhancement agencies, as I like to call them. Marketers in convenience, more appropriately. I fumble downstairs to my bedroom and check my email where more marketing awaits, and figure there will come a time when privacy will be the most valued commodity. The delete key on my keyboard is looking pretty worn.

I pass the evening blindly. The tasks I use to prepare for the week are ways of dividing my attention to reduce the amount of runabout in my head ? spirals of thought that lead nowhere but down. I question my stance with friends, with people, with myself. What do I want? It seemed so clear to me, not even six months ago. Now, I struggle with the very bases of my identity.

Uncertainty will always be a mainstay in my life. It will always be present. The few things that are absolute are few and far between and seem to have all occurred when I was under the age of ten. I long, in a way, for those days but dismiss that desire at the same time for I know those times bring a necessary ignorance. Uncertainty still remains regarding whether I'd rather choose blissful ignorance over the dry-heat desert of Truth.

posted Tuesday, July 24, 2001

Love's Labors Relinquished

Yet again, I am outward bound. Dad and I are making a trip to Chicago tomorrow with Sumo and delivering him to a new home. It's hard to give up a pet, especially after you've put so much time and love into caring for them.

Finding him a new home wasn't entirely my decision, but was one I made concrete. The deciding factor was the coincidental discovery of a canine utopia with a built-in girlfriend ? 20-acres of farmland in Illinois owned by a woman who has a 1-year old female Akita.

I'm saddened I wasn't able to provide him a better home. I know that ultimately I would have been able to take better care of him than I can now, but in the meantime, I found it grossly unfair to keep him confined to a kennel day-in and day-out.

For once in my life, I feel I have rightly put the welfare of another before my own selfish wants. At the same time, however, I can't help but feel a little guilty ? a little humiliated ? that I didn't anticipate this situation to begin with.

I am a different person than I was six months ago when I first found Sumo. I recognize this in my changing beliefs, the company I keep, the way I spend my time and perform everyday activities.

Change is good, but continually improving one's situation oftentimes requires the uprooting of the innermost vines that have grown out of love. Love itself may last forever, but the products of love are in constant motion and states of existence.

posted Wednesday, July 18, 2001

Self-Circumvent

Reading the remaining 62 pages of my journal, I began to reconsider posting them. Not that I dislike anything I've written, it's just that everything feels forced. No real self-discovery occurred. I know myself. There have been times in my past when I feel like this body that separates me from the world is thick and unwieldy, but recently, I've felt so close to the surface ? as though I could walk through with little effort.

So much has happened over the past week, and I feel I need to be recording now. Something is happening. Things are changing all around me, subtly and on grand scales. This outlet has become bland. I need something new and clean. I need a redesign.

posted Monday, July 16, 2001

Outward Bound - July 2, 2001

     "Today was eventful, to say the least. So many colors, feelings, highs and lows. We hiked to a rock climbing spot this morning and spent the better part of the day there, climbing and just enjoying the view.
     "Erin and I spent a lot of time together. We are at a similar climbing level, skill-wise and climbed a route which resulted in a very nerve-wracking chain of events.
     "Erin was belaying Gene and I was maintaining the rope on backup belay when he stepped on a boulder. It came loose and fell. At least half a ton, it began a horrible descent whose path appeared to lead straight to Erin's head. The sound it made as it fell ? a dull, loud pop on each contact with the rock face ? still echoes in my head.
     "As frightened as I was for Erin, I turned and ran, dropping the rope, and watched as the boulder broke into two smaller pieces and continued to chase me down the hillside.
     "Somehow, Erin managed to hold onto Gene's rope, swinging under a rock overhang to protect herself. I felt rather lousy after the dust had settled since everyone was okay and I had bolted, thinking only of my own safety.
     "Despite that unsettling string of events, I managed to climb the route ? which was difficult, being rated a 5-10 ? and that was a huge accomplishment for me since I have never climbed outside before. It made up for the shame I had felt earlier.
     "Hiking from the climb site was relatively easy. I led the way through a rather marshy valley to a point below Rival Pass, which we're hiking tomorrow. Here, we set up camp.
     "The pass looks daunting, and the only thing keeping my mind quiet is knowing I've already done much harder climbs. I think that's one of the things I'll really take away from this trip: the idea that I really can do anything despite my mind telling my body it can't. It's such an empowering thought.
     "So, here I am, keeping myself from drifting into much-needed sleep to journal, but also to write about one specific thing: Jeff.
     "I cannot stop thinking about him. I wonder what he's doing, what he's thinking, what outrageous plans he's making... I miss him so much.
     "I haven't really been able to sort out my feelings for him like I had hoped to. At times, I feel only an overwhelming sense of love for him, love for what he wants to be and see and do, love for the person he is, love for what he believes and feels.
     "Othertimes, I feel uneasy and afraid, as thought it's not real and will disappear at a moment's notice. I wonder if I truly know him as well as I think I do when I hear the stories David tells me. I don't want to hear them, but at the same time, I listen because it is a link to him and I feel so... not exactly empty... but as though something's missing without him.
     "David's knowing Jeff is such a relief. Even talking about Jeff with complete strangers is comforting and affirming. It is my connection to him.
     "Where will all these roads lead, and will they ever converge? I keep hoping, quietly, that I'll know in time.
     "I still feel so torn between opposite forces and choices. Hopefully, I'll be able to work some of this confusion out here."

Do not pray for easy times; pray to be a stronger person. Do not pray for tasks equal to your powers; pray for powers equal to your tasks.
?J.F. Kennedy

posted Friday, July 13, 2001

Outward Bound - July 1, 2001

     "I am truly exhausted. So much so, I nearly didn't write. We left the trail midday, yesterday, and have been forging out own across the Continental Divide and down through various valleys. The higher elevations are cold and windy, but devoid of mosquitos and get sun first in the morning.
     "Lower elevations are comfortable, but we are being eaten alive by mosquitos. We are still above 10,000 feet, so the nights are still chilly.
     "Each day, the views grow more spectacular. I don't want to take this for granted, but I am so tired and sore that I can barely keep my sense of humor, let alone my interest in our surroundings.
     "Fortunately, David and Risa and Erin have been keeping me in high spirits.
     "At one peak, we stopped to collect a rock that 'resonated' with us. I found two, a quartz rock and a hematite rock that Erin gave me. We ascribed a quality or aspect of ourselves to the rock that we would like to let go of, and pitched it off the side of the peak.
     "I couldn't think of anything, but figured I'd throw it anyway and decide later."

The problems we experience are not so much to do with who we are as to holding back who we really are.
?Albert Einsten

posted Thursday, July 12, 2001

Outward Bound - June 30, 2001

     "I relaxed my shoulders and realized that everything would be okay."
---

     "God. This is so much harder than I thought it would be. We found a great campsite at about 12,000 feet and the view is incredible. We're surrounded by 3, 14'ers and valleys and lakes, just ate, and are enjoying the view.
     "These people are great. I'm going to have to remember to give Matt hell for bailing out at the last minute.
     "I travel to a point outside of camp. My back is weary, my feet hurt, and the skin is peeling away from my fingers. I find a soft spot in the grass to sit, and listen to the stream rejoice in its inevitable journey to the ocean.
     "Where is my life going? I feel as though I'm standing before a massive void where any number of possibilities can materialize. I know it's all dictated by me ? my choices.
     "That kind of pressure scares me because I'm such a perfectionist. I want things to turn out the best way possible, and I'm so torn between idealism and practicality. God, it seems as though I've written that so many times before. At some point, I'm going to have to choose a side.
     "The view in front of me seems to reflect my position in life: a stream runs down the hill to my right and collects in a small ravine below me. At one point, it splits and runs around a hill where it pools into a small lake to the left. On the other side of the hill, it continues down the mountainside.
     "The left lake, although stagnant, is serene and beautifully clear. It reflects the sky, the mountains, the plants and rocks. It is peaceful.
     "The stream is jubilant and fast. It runs over the edge of a cliff below me, unaware of the risk of falling. It flows west, and as we are on the Continental Divide, it will eventually join the Atlantic ocean.
     "David is washing his face in it at the moment. Alas, he wants to play cards, so I'll write more later."

All that we are is the result of what we have thought. The mind is everything. What we think, we become.
?Buddha

Go my students, burn your books, buy yourselves stout shoes. Get away to the mountains, the deserts and the deepest recesses of the earth. In this way and no other will you gain a true knowledge of things and their properties.
?Peter Severinus, 1571 A.D.

posted Wednesday, July 11, 2001

Outward Bound - June 29, 2001

     "It's so amazing out here. As much as I hate starting out this journal with such a banal description, I honestly can't find uncliché words to explain the emotions that my surroundings evoke. It's beautiful, calm, quiet, awesome.
     "We hiked Delaney Gulch in the Collegiate Mountains this afternoon after a morning of prep and packing. The camp site is on a mountainside near the creek we followed up. Four hours of carrying a 60-pound pack. Hard, but definitely worth it.
     "We met at Manhattan Bagel this morning at 6 a.m. ? Erin, Paige, and Dustin. Erin is great. We hit it off right away, and Paige and Dustin both seem pretty nice as well.
     "We made it to base camp near Leadville, CO at exactly 10 a.m. and proceeded to get acquainted and pack. Lots of interesting people. David (who knows Jeff), Heather, John, Risa, Vicky (who's a guy and his real name is Chris, but he's a transexual, pre-op), Dustin, Paige, Erin, Gene, Peter, KP (Kirsten), and Linda.
     "David and I ended up talking at one point during packing and it turns out that he recognized me, originally wondering if I was John's old roommate. He elaborated saying that John dated a guy named Jeff, and I said I did know them.
     "Without my saying anything further, David went on to say things about how Jeff has dated many guys, at which point I told him Jeff and I are dating. He was naturally embarrassed and apologized, but the entire hike's conversation revolved around Jeff and guys he's dated, things he's known for, etc. The whole idea of 'planting seeds' came to mind.
     "I started getting a little down on myself as David continued to talk about the countless "beautiful men" Jeff has dated who were not only gorgeous, but nice.
     "I came to get away from that, the whole insecurity issue, so that I could re-center myself out here. I can't help but wish, however, that Jeff was out here with me. I hope he knows I'm thinking of him and miss him quite a bit.
     "Dinner tonight went smoothly. Pasta with carrots and pesto. The guides cooked while we got our packs unloaded, which was quite a chore.
     "The sun slowly set out of sight, behind the peaks to our left and we wound down the night with a group talk around the dying stoves.
     "We discussed what each of us felt a high point and a low point of the day was. Mine were negligable, but Vicky said her high point was when someone offered to help her with something. Earlier, I had offered to help her put her pack on, and hearing that really made my night.
     "Well, time to sleep. The stars are beckoning."

On the mountains of truth, you never climb in vain. You either reach a higher step today or you exercise your strength in order to climb higher tomorrow.
?Nietzche

posted Sunday, July 8, 2001

Returning Home

After ten days in the Collegiate Mountains, hiking and rock climbing, I am finally home. It was amazing and by far, the hardest thing I have ever done in my life, physically. Thank you for all the email and kind words while I was away. I wrote over 80 pages while in the wilderness, and will be posting excerpts over the next week. It was definitely what I needed at the time, and have gotten a lot of issues sorted out in my head. For a while, at least, the storms seemed to have been quelled.

posted Wednesday, June 20, 2001

Humanity as Course

Whether by nature or sheer force of habit, I am a private individual ? a loner. I don't enjoy getting lost in large masses of people (thus my abhorration to malls, clubs, and Krispy Kreme), and would much rather spend time at home by myself or with a small group of friends.

The other day, however, I found myself navigating a volitile path through seas of people at a local bazaar when I was suddenly overcome by an engulfing sense of wonder and awe. It caught me off-guard, so much so, that I stopped in my tracks.

A realization soon came to me. I understood that the feeling welling up in my chest was a profound sense of love ? love for everyone and everything around me. I looked around in amazement at people walking by, people doing things, people going places, and interacting.

I stopped to just observe a scene that would normally be considered everyday banality. I watched people. They were consumed by their lives, by their activities, and I basked in the productivity and collaboration that was taking place here and everyday.

It was a feeling that was so satisfying and fulfilling, just to see humanity at an operational level. I wondered how I had overlooked this so many times before, and whether I would be able to recapture this overwhelming, wonderful feeling again.

I smiled to myself and took off through the crowd that swallowed me whole.

posted Tuesday, June 19, 2001

Bridges

If you drive north on the local interstate from my town, eventually you'd cruise under a newly built bridge. It's impressively large, spanning across a river, a frontage road, and the highway in one graceful sweep. It's almost done being built.

Where the bridge crosses the interstate, there's a fence standing guard along the edges. It's tall, so people have difficult access to the speeding traffic below. Jumpers or stray rocks would have to climb at least eight feet to cause major catastrophe.

Letting your eyes be seduced by the gentle arc of the bridge, they'd wander lazily to the west, following it across the ravine and river. There is no fence guarding the edges on this side of the bridge. It's curious, at least, that planners would protect speeding traffic on the highway, but not a jumper or the water and wildlife below.

Had they merely overlooked the fence, thinking no one would jump? Or was it too expensive to include an extra 100 yards of fencing? In my mind, I kept hearing the city planner's voice in the back of my head:

"At least she jumped over the river. Can you imagine what a mess it would've caused if she had jumped over the interstate? Good thing we put those fences in."

posted Thursday, June 14, 2001

Current Life Soundtrack

In an act that was both symbollic and practical, I deleted my account from Blogger, closing a year-long chapter in my life of weblogging, friends, and writing. I was sure to print out every post I had made and have it bundled in a safe package in my closet at home. It will be fun to peruse them in twenty years or so.

Looking for a house has taken up the better part of my weeks lately, next to spending time with Jeff. It's tough because buying a house is a big leap. I'm convinced that getting into the market is a good idea, however, and know I'll have to bite the bullet at some point if I ever plan on getting into a house, period.

Driving back and forth between Denver and Colorado Springs has kept me in the car for a greater part of the week. My drives are really the only time I have to listen to music, which has always played an integral part in my life. I love adding and attributing specific music to certain periods of my life, because I can always pop in a CD and be instantly transported back to that time. I've selected a few albums to compliment the recent uncertainty and calm my anxieties:

• Ben Watt & Jay Hannan - Lazy Dog Deep House Music
• Saint Etienne - Interlude
• Saint Etienne - The Sound of Water
• Cocteau Twins - Stars and Topsoil
• Janet Jackson - Janet
• Pizzicato Five - Fifth Release from Matador
• Daft Punk - Discovery

The summer has filled up unbelievably fast. I had figured that once I graduated college, I'd have more free time than I knew what to do with. Not true. I'm running around, quite honestly, like headless poultry. Most of these plans are with Jeff. This weekend, we are camping. Next weekend is Pride in Denver. The following week is Outward Bound. The week after that is soccer tournaments. The week after that is road trip to Iowa and Missouri to meet Jeff's parents. Whew...

This is what I asked for. This is what I've wanted all along. I just wish I could slow down and enjoy it, make it last. Perhaps if I tend more to this journal, I'll be able to enjoy these days later on down the road. Well, gotta go. I have to grab some last minute camping gear for this weekend.

posted Monday, June 4, 2001

Velocitous

I cannot stress enough how fast time has gone by these past few weeks. Jeff has given great, feathered wings to my watch and calendar; they pull me, breathless, behind them in a cloud of dust and paper and feathers. I anticipate the weekdays only for the moments of silence that allow me to catch my breath and write and exercise and meditate, but not without the blue longing for weekend flights.

I wanted to capture every moment on paper or film, but the amount of writing would be immense and, more importantly, unpractical. All I can do is hope that my memory serves me well. The amount of information that has been amassed over these past 3 weeks could fill an entire set of encyclopedias. It is amazing how much you learn about someone you really like in such a short amount of time.

Perhaps I'll post a picture of Jeff sometime. It would be worth more than my words could establish in this small space. I wish there was a way I could convey to you the beauty and wonder his presence has stirred in my life. Perhaps when I have more time, I'll try.

posted Wednesday, May 30, 2001

Creative Compulsion

When I was 12, I remember doggedly teaching myself assembler and BASIC in an attempt to program my own computer games. At 13, I taught myself hexadecimal and binary mathematics using a book from the local library. I got my first computer at 14, and by the time I was 15, I had accumulated a wealth of knowledge in the form of computer books, software, and fellow geeks.

At 16, however, the motivation disappeared. I left the world of geekdom ? of computers, RPGs, and programming ? for hobbies more suited to the socially complex world of high school. Now, here I am, ten years later doing the same thing I started out doing. I sit in front of a computer and write computer programs day in and day out.

I remember how zealously I absorbed every bit of information I could get on computer programming. I couldn't learn enough. Now, I am full-up, and wish that I could go back in time with my current knowledge. Maybe I could actually finish those computer games that were started, but never finished due to a lack of understanding. I suppose that could be said for many things in life.

I'd want to take that idea and put it to use now that I have the know-how. I just don't have the motivation or desire I did back then. I guess that's what I really miss ? the intrigue of the unknown, the curiosity that came so naturally with youth, the exhilaration of a new discovery. We become so numb to these things with time. If only I could find some way to recapture that without artificially creating it.

posted Tuesday, May 29, 2001

Blustery Change

The past week has gone by in such a whir of activity. Spending time with Jeff, camping, gym time, work, and getting life in order has proven to be more strenuous than school, since nothing is run by a set schedule. Gotta do this on my own. The house search is not going as well as I had planned, and I'm getting more frustrated by the week. The winds are picking up and the urge for change is blowing in with it. Something drastic is about to happen.

I sensed doubt or preoccupation in Jeff's voice tonight. I'm not really sure how to take it, but am going to let it slide. The weekend camping trip, the dinners, and the sex have been really great. On top of that, we get along really well, and seem to be able to communicate effectively. Despite all of this, I need to take a step back and evaluate this from an objective point of view. We have something going, but ultimately, we have nothing yet.

I hate the expectation that develops in any new relationship I begin ? expected success, perfection, and fulfillment of hopes. It's too much to place on someone. I've managed to delay the onset of these expectations, but they are developing in the back of my mind, one by one, silently. I only hope the distance doesn't cause us to lose sight of who the other really is or what we have learned about one another. I know that is a common problem with long distance relationships.

Perhaps I should back off for a while. The winds of change are blustery, indeed, and I've found the best way to weather them is to go with the flow, so to speak.

posted Monday, May 21, 2001

Sunday Snapshots

The smell of grass and hamburgers on the grill. Sun on my shoulders. Vertigo on the trampoline. Cool indoors. A hand on my waist.

The grass and sky unfold before me, running for miles to meet, unseen, behind mountains. I'm sitting on the sidelines, the grass cool between my toes. Jeff turns his attention from the game and glances my way. I smile and he sticks out his tongue. Clouds roll overhead. He fills his soccer uniform nicely, I think. I imagine putting my face between his furry legs and watch him kick the ball to the other side of the field.

Wind and rain that turns to snow. Riding in the open jeep in Jeff's sweatshirt. It's so cold. Jeff puts a towel over my legs while working the traffic. Rushing to the warmth of each other in the darkened house. Arms around my shoulders. Arms around his shoulders.

He's sitting in his underwear, pushing buttons on the keyboard. The right instrument is gold treasure to be found, the pitch an emerald, the perfect volume a ruby. He pounds out chords that fill the room. They are melodies that have come from his head. I feel like I'm evesdropping on his thoughts.

posted Saturday, May 19, 2001

Retrospect

Graduation went smoothly. Four hours in a sweltering black cap and gown, and the culmination of my college career was over. Nothing in particular stood out in my mind when I look back on the event ? simply because it was a ceremony designed to process a mass quantity of students in a short period of time ? but, like most things in life, it wasn't any particular event but the people I was with that I remember the most.

I came late to the organizational pre-ceremony and was placed near the end of the engineering line. Viola Lee and Adam Davis were at the end of the line with me, and later Henrietta joined us. The hour we spent waiting for the exercises to begin was filled with smiles, anxious small-talk and playful banter. Waiting is great when you have people to spend it with. The time slipped past us relatively unnoticed, and we finally began filing into the large auditorium to my high school's rendition of "Pomp and Circumstance."

Although there were thousands of students, I felt as though I were on the spot. I had made the mistake of wearing my glasses, forgetting that I couldn't see more than 500 feet in front of me, and blindly gazed into the crowds above me futily searching for friends and family. The thousands of students were directed on stage, one-by-one, and before long the entire graduating class had received empty frames.

I vaguely remember walking across stage. Mostly, I remember anxiously looking for my family right before I walked up. Chancellor Bunnel-Shade, who was handing out handshakes and frames, cocked her head at me as though she recognized me ? which she should have considering I've been introduced to her on four seperate occasions ? and smiled congratulations. Taking my "diploma," I quickly left the stage (I was the last one called, besides Viola), and waited patiently as the rest of the ceremony played out.

The auditorium quickly dissolved into a sticky mass of people. Navigating crowds in a cap and gown is harder than it looks; the tassel getting caught in your mouth and eyes, gown getting caught on other people. Swimming slowly through the crowds, I managed to make it outside where I met up with Daniel, Lindsay, Mom, Derek, Dad, and Kay. It was a relief to see everyone. Pictures were taken and we slowly headed out for the remaining day's festivities. The weather was beautiful, and we could not have asked for a better day.

Lunch with the office at Jose's. Nap. Dinner with the fam at the Cliff House. Gifts. From Mom, Mikasa flatware. From Lindsay, tickets to Moby. From Dad, an antique, leather-bound book collection:

• Jane Austen - Pride and Prejudice
• Charles Baudelaire - The Flowers of Evil
• Charlotte Bronté - Jane Eyre
• Emily Bronté - Wurthing Heights
• John Bunyan - The Pilgrim's Progress
• Miguel de Cervantes - Don Quixote
• Stephen Crane - The Red Badge of Courage
• Daniel Defoe - Robinson Crusoe
• Fyodor Dostoyevsky - Crime and Punishment
• Fyodor Dostoyevsky - THe Brothers Karamazov
• Johann Wolfgang von Goethe - Faust Thomas Hardy - The Return of the Native
• Nathaniel Hawthorne - The Scarlet Letter
• Washington Irving - The Alhambra
• Henry James - The Portrait of a Lady
• Jack London - The Sea-Wolf
• Sir Thomas Malory - Le Morte D'Arthur
• Herman Melville - Moby Dick
• John Milton - Paradise Lost
• Guy de Maupassant - Various Tales
• Sir Walter Scott - The Talisman
• Sir Walter Scott - Ivanhoe
• Marie-Henri Beyle (Stendhal) - The Red and the Black
• Laurence Sterne - The Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy, Gent.
• Ivan Turgenev - Fathers and Sons
• Mark Twain - Huckleberry Finn
• Francois Marie Arouet de Voltaire - Candide
• Oscar Wilde - Short Stories

posted Wednesday, May 16, 2001

Admissions and Emissions

Damnit. I should know not to take a full serving of that horrid TwinLabs RippedFuel before building a tolerance. They even say on the box to take half a serving before consuming regularly. Needless to say, I've felt off all day. It began as an energy high, quickly becoming nervously excited, chatting online at work, voraciously attacking whatever work requests I was given. After about an hour, I started bugging out. I began getting snappy and aggravated, the pent up energy sparking off like a geek's science fair project gone awry. I ran from work, ran to my car, ran into the gym, and continued running for the next half-hour. After a good hour of sweating, I left feeling relatively human.

My sporadic gym routine has been haunting me as I've tried to work in a relatively normal schedule without disrupting other responsibilities. I've actually been quite successful. For a while there, I was taking the RippedFuel on a regular basis, and it was doing my body good, packing a wallop of energy, and good source of protein. I stopped taking the stuff for a week due to finals, but absentmindedly took a large serving today. This is my problem. I'm pissed because I'm unable to maintain a regular schedule that includes: a) eating regularly, b) exercising enough, and c) sleeping enough ? the three keys to building strong bones and big muscles.

Somehow, one or the other slips through the cracks. I miss a meal. I miss a workout. I stay up too late. Missing one brings down the whole showboat, so it really is imperative that I keep all three on track. I've asked myself hundreds of times why I put myself through such a strict regimen. Most of the time, I'll tell myself it's a means of staying healthy. But deep down, I know the truth is I want to be an Abercrombie boy. There. I said it.

And as they say, admitting you have a problem is the first step to recovery.

posted Tuesday, May 15, 2001

Forging Onward

Ever have one of those weeks that moves like a 28.8 download? Graduation is this Friday, and I'm trying to savor the days, but my health is in decline and I'm dealing with a feeling that slightly resembles stress, at work. I'm not stressed, per se, but the daily grind is repelling me like a 60Hz refresh rate. I keep telling myself that the rest of life won't be like this. I'll pick it back up.

Books have kept me company in the interim, Neale Donald Walsch being my current author and mentor (thank you, John). The clarity of thought that I gain from his writing is good for my head, being cluttered for so long with dusty, jumbled thoughts and disheveled stacks of dreams. I push aside piles and blow clean surfaces to make room for new, shiny ideas. Many of them are ideas of my own that I've spit-shined after rediscovery.

Besides reading, I've revisited a bad habit ? the PlayStation. On a whim at the local exchange the other day, I purchased a copy of Final Fantasy IX and Lunar 2. I am sad to say that I am the classic sequel addict. This is bad if I follow past playing patterns (9 hours in one sitting), but so far I have been able to monitor my time pretty well. And to think I was almost free of the habit. I had been PlayStation-celibate for almost a year.

Most likely, I'll have to return to that self-imposed celibacy once again, as Aunt Kay arrived this morning from Illinois for my graduation. It's good to see her, and she looks good for her age. Despite old memories of her tendency to talk (I cringed when my father told me she was staying for a week), I'm actually appreciating her presence and look forward to the break from the normal crowd. Speaking of which, there hasn't been much of lately. Lindsay is off in her own world with Matt, Ricky is doing godknowswhat, and my other random friends are off playing without me.

Therefore I suppose my preoccupations at the moment are fitting. Perhaps that's why this week seems to have sludged onward; I am too consciously anticipating its passage by pretending to be in the waiting room, reading, playing games, mindlessly passing time. Ingrained responsibility causes me to hesitantly approach these activities because I've been raised to avoid wasting time. I'm not worried, though. I have an entire eternity to live, create, and play.

posted Sunday, May 13, 2001

Concert

The sweet skunk funk of marijuana dances with the noise of people in the evening air. I feel oddly out of place at this concert, surrounded by mostly boomers trying to reclaim a piece of their lost past in the music of Mark Knopfler. I turn my attention from them to the skyline, which is beginning to shimmer over the amphitheater (Red Rocks has an amazing view of the city).

The heartbeating bass bats at the fabric of my jeans, and I close my eyes to hear the music resonate in my head. Cale is standing next to me, bobbing his head to the music. As the sun drifts to sleep behind the mountains behind us, the music slows. The crowds relax. The air cools. The city awakens on the horizon. I smile because life is so amazingly beautiful.

posted Friday, May 11, 2001

Three's Company

Nauseauted, I gulp water down in two's and three's. My body doesn't deal well with a night of binge drinking, but for that matter, who's does? Lindsay, Nicole and I went out partying last night in our usual, pre-celebratory fashion to pay tribute to my graduation that's not until next week. Any excuse to get me out of the house and into a bar. Not to mention, both girls have new boyfriends they wanted me to evaluate for them.

It's amazing how alcohol changes you. Normally, I have trouble making small talk. Sober, I simply refuse to talk about pointless subjects, but give me a few beers, and it's amazing to hear the stream of banality that surges forth. Conversation seemed so easy. Both girls had picked some beautiful men and I did get to know them fairly well, although, autopiloting the conversation with alcohol wouldn't be my chosen method to do so.

I'd much rather be talking over dinner or lunch in the park with a bottle of lemonade, rather than in a bar over beers. Drinking alcohol in large quantities always results in the "I'm never drinking again" morning after. Memory loss isn't a great thing, either. Why don't we listen to our bodies?

Seeing as I'm still hung over and late for work, I should probably get my ass in gear. It would seem the only way to prevent hangovers is to stay drunk. Now, where did I put that bloody mary mix?

posted Wednesday, May 9, 2001

Parents

Dad: Nightly walks have become routine, or rather, dad has tried to make them routine by joining me every night when I take Sumo out into the fields. We walk in silence, the cool air gutting our sinuses from a winter of disconsolate torpor. I love him, but I cannot live with him. He is too dependent on my presence. Perhaps it's my ultra sensitivity to situations like this, but I feel his attachment to me like the grip of a drowning man to a plank of wood. I am strangely repelled by his loneliness, perhaps because it echoes so much of my own. Occasionally, quips of conversation would assault the night air. I would discuss my days with a cynicism that is so ill fitting, but reflexive to my annoyance. His laugh would come easily, too quickly, as though he were feasting on every word, ravenous for more. His elementary sense of humor -- ignited by jokes of bodily functions, sexist remarks, and human stupidity -- has quickly become a nuisance rather than a welcome addition to conversation. By spending less time with him, I maintain my arm's-length distance from bitterness. Unfortunately, this only seems to feed the cycle.

Mom: Dinner last night with alcohol. After nineteen years, I think I've come to understand her, since raising me has deeply ingrained her thought process in the bowels of my mind. Both of my parents are complex people, however, my mother is the most difficult to describe. Then again, maybe it's not necessary to explain the people we love. She worries constantly. I doubt it's out of true, heartfelt concern, but more out of the idea of motherly responsibility. These past few years have been especially hard on her with my brother and I going away to college. Financially, she's also struggling, and last night I confronted her about paying for a loan she had given me a few years back for a car I bought. The idea of me giving her money caused her to break down into tears. When she gets upset, however, she has reverts to a childlike state, giggling and bouncing around, so you never know if she's joking or seriously upset. It's hard sometime not to laugh. I think it's her natural reaction to upsetting situations that has taught me to laugh in the face of adversity.

posted Tuesday, May 8, 2001

Finale

I sit here before finals, the future wide open. I'm on the brink of the end. As it's said, however, the end of one thing is merely the beginning of something else: my pitfall into real life. I suppose I really can't say I'm done yet, since I haven't even taken the tests yet or passed. But I'm not worried about failing. No, what I'm truly worried about right now is failing life.

I decided to postpone graduate school until the fall. Going directly into classes two weeks after graduation wouldn't be long enough of a break. I deserve a break. I haven't had one in four years, having taking classes every summer and ever winter break, instead. I need some time to sort things out, work a little, maybe save up some money.

Why does a voice in the back of my mind keep nagging me to jump ship, here? I know I've written about this countless times, but topics as persistent as this should be revisited. Here's my dilemma: my life feels wrong. Sure, everything in my life is working, but it just feels like something's not right. I hate that, because again it's this terrible battle between my heart and my head. Knowing I should stay and work for sake of stability and security, but unsure whether I should. I know this sounds overly dramatic, but I honestly feel like something is dying inside of me.

Maybe it's something I want to let go of, something I should let go of. But as I said before, the thing that worries me the most is that I could just give up right now, turn a blind eye to this whole mess, and by ignoring the voice in the back of my head I'd stay here and finish this to the end. That is the problem. I don't want ignorant numbness, no matter how blissful it may be. Sure, if I stay here, I'll amass large quantities of money, read many books, continue life here at this one stagnation. But the image that thought conjures is one of a river that has been dammed up. Granted, it grows into this massively majestic lake, but it's ultimate purpose was to run free to the ocean.

I've lived so many places, experienced so many things that you'd think I'd be able to settle down now and concentrate on life, instead of actually "living." But I don't want just comfort. I want pain and toil and strife. I haven't cried in so long, and I miss my friends. I want the possibility of wrecking my life; riding the edge with the possibility of falling over. I don't want to live life with only the possibility of not failing.

posted Sunday, May 6, 2001

Foreigner

The familiar hi-fi thump and acrid smell welcomed me as I walked into the bar. I said hello to a few familiar faces, exchanged hugs, pecks on cheeks, and graciously accepted a drink offer. Despite all the familiarity, I felt oddly out of place.

It had been a few months since I had ventured to our city's only gay bar. It's a fairly large complex, hidden in the back alley of a neighborhood forgotten by everyone except its residents. History has taught its patrons to keep to the back alleys, and yet despite efforts to break stereotypes, the gay community here will never escape this one. We are the outcasts that must meet in the secret of night. It's quasi-romantic, really.

After a few minutes, I walked to the entrance to meet my friends who were just coming in. We toured the bar with a newcomer, describing various locations where various cliques would congregate, guided him through the lesbian bar, the leather bar, the country-western bar, and finally ended back in the lesbian room. Everyone is impressed with the place their first time.

I requested a song from the hispanic girl in the DJ booth, and she nodded, her green jersey flailing wildly as she juggled vinyl. Dancing came ackwardly in the half-empty room, even when my song began to play. Try as I might, the feeling just wasn't there. I felt like a foreigner, discretely trying to fit in, but necessarily (and obviously) failing. Instead, I gave up trying to get into the groove and watched the people.

A good-looking guy who had hit on me earlier was drunkenly making out with another guy. I looked away. As we danced, a boyish drifter wandered in from the other bar and stood on the outskirts of the floor. He appeared out of place, too, and I looked away. A guy dancing with us smiled at me and came a little closer. I tried looked away, but there was no where left to look.

I made my exit silently, quickly saying goodbye to my friends. As I walked to my car in the light rain, I couldn't help but feel strangely sterile, as though my visit to the bar was nothing more than professional. It was quick and impersonal, which is unusual for me. Normally, I feel right at home, but the mood I've been in lately seems to have estranged me from my friends and routine.

I stare at a collection of phone numbers I've accumulated over the past week, and blush at the bravado I initially displayed, only to collapse under my inability to use them now. I have nothing to say to these people. Instead, I spend hours grooming myself ? showering, shaving, moisturizing, preening ? and even more hours studying and reading. I yearn for the days when club life came so naturally and sparked even a bit of emotion. Instead, I curl up with a good book, my dog at my feet, and sleep soundly at night.

posted Thursday, May 3, 2001

On God and Trucks

I had to follow the truck. After all, it was emblazoned with my name, "Chris," in big, block letters. I sped onto and along the highway, ten cars behind, and managed to keep it in sight. It was fairly easy. The truck was white and very large. I had been considering taking the backroads home from work, but as I looked to the highway, I spotted the truck and decided against it.

I've always been one to follow signs, or at least what I've thought to be signs. They're coincidences that are just a little out of the ordinary ? but then again, I suppose that's the definition of coincidence. I, on the other hand, have made signs out of everyday events, coin tosses, phone calls, television shows, words on trucks. Taking these events, I would twist them around to make them fit a given scenario.

While driving, my mind began to wander. Somehow, I followed a line of thought that led me to ponder abortion activists that sometimes line our street corners with signs. Why were they so adamant? Was removing a fetus from a woman really murdering another human, or was it simply eliminating a dependence that would ultimately give opportunity to life? Why did they always have to bring god into the picture? Who are they to claim they know what god wants?

As a biology student for several years of my life, I've come to look at life and death as more of a continuum, rather than a discrete "alive-or-dead" situation. It also is the basis of my disbelief in the Christian god, and many other religions. I began to debate with myself, as I drove along. Since I had never been confronted on my beliefs, I had never considered how I would support my arguments or beliefs. Methodically, I began to think it out. At several points during my drive, I even reached over with a pencil to jot ideas down.

The whole concept of worshipping a deity is ludicrous to me. Because my father is a devout Christian, I began my imaginary debate with the topic of Christianity and the belief in the prophet, Jesus, as the "Son of God." First, I asked myself why this belief exists. The first answer would be to teach people to love one another unconditionally, which is Jesus' main message as the Bible explains. As I feel this lesson can be learned with common sense ("I wouldn't want this to happen to me, therefore, I won't do it to someone else") and without all the allegorical claptrap the Bible entails ? not to discount the many fascinating fables and other valuable lessons therein ? I disregarded this answer.

A second answer to the belief, is to ensure one's place in the kingdom of heaven for all eternity. This is because we are all "sinners" and in order to be absolved of these sins, we must believe that Jesus died for them. It also represents Gods proof to humans that he has power over death. Most religions agree on the fact that God can raise one into paradise to live for eternity after death, however many differ on what happens otherwise.

The belief of an existence in heaven necessarily creates the belief of a hell, or anti-heaven. Again, as I was driving along one day, it suddenly occurred to me that the idea of hell is not only ridiculous but also contradictory to the Christian view of a creator. Why would an omnipotent, omnibenevolent, omniscient deity do a wrathful, vindictive act like sentence someone to an eternity of pain/seclusion/misery? Because we don't do what God wants? I cannot imagine this "good" creator being so gratuitously destructive when what he wants is constantly debated and differs from region to region.

Even in the assumption that this god would do such a thing, one assumes that s/he would make a matter such as eternal, personal salvation more obvious than word of mouth or blind faith. I'm thinking a blinking, neon sign in the sky would do the trick. Because I do not believe in the existence of a "hell," I also discount the existence of a "heaven." Logically the two must co-exist to support the belief in this contradictory, Christian god as a savior of the "good" and judge of those that are "evil."

Taking that point a bit further, I examined the underlying reason for the belief in an everlasting life after death. This is a belief that is fundamental to the Christian faith. Instinctually, all life strives to sustain itself. Each individual organism is genetically programmed to sustain itself and/or others it interacts with. As living organisms, ourselves, we also strive to overcome death, but have looked beyond the natural method ? namely, genetic recombination in sexual reproduction to ensure our genes live on after we have died ? and extended the idea, philosophically, to the ego. We want our personalities, not only our bodies, to live forever.

In nature, all things have a purpose or place. Plants feed on the earth and energy from the sun. Animals feed on plants and other animals. The earth feeds on the animals and plants, and the cycle regenerates. Personality, or the human ego, has no place in this natural cycle. It is simply the engine that drives our bodies to take part in this system and interact with each other, but as it has developed over the centuries, it has become self-important and destructive. In the grand scheme of things, the human personality ? or more specifically, individual personality ? is irrelevant and defeating.

If you were raised to believe in your self-importance, this may come as a rather hopeless, drab theory of life. On the contrary, it indicates that we are part of something much larger than ourselves. We are part of creation on a colossal scale, so immense we cannot easily comprehend it. In time, I believe that humans will evolve, socially, to accept and understand this. We will let go of our ego, acknowledging our individuality in respect to one another, but also recognizing our part in a larger system of life that continually renews itself. In a sense, we will all live forever as long as there is life, existence, and matter.

This is not to say that I don't believe in a creator. Rather, I do not believe in the intricacies and undue, complex ceremony religion entails. There are several reasons for this. The first is that many Christians claim the prayers and ceremony are required to worship god. I do not believe that the creator of life needs to be worshipped. Logically speaking, if god created life, it would seem that simply living is all that is expected. How we live is subjective, and I will cover that in a moment.

Secondly, the Bible ? the founding text of most sects of Christianity ? was written by men thousands of years ago to reflect the values of society thousands of years ago. It has been edited thousands of times, and translated even more. Basing modern social values on it may have some merit, but using it to judge life and existence does not hold water with me. I do not believe that we are required to live by morals or rules. That being said, I do believe we should live by them, but the fundamental "ought-to's" are simply common sense, and boil down to treating others as you would like to be treated, and do not require religion as a basis (which cause most to follow out of fear or ignorance or both).

Hundreds of thousands of years ago, warring tribes in the Middle East fought over land and resources for survival. Many such tribes began teaching stories of a creator. This creator went by many names, but was most always powerful, wrathful, and on the side of the given tribe. The others were "outsiders" and guided by forces which sought to wreak havoc and own what was rightfully the others tribe's. From these stories grew great gods, battling each other as the tribes clashed with one another. This was the first theorized appearance of what we now know as "evil."

Today, most still believe in this force. I do not. The idea of "evil," is simply a subjective judgment. It is not a universal truth, nor is it a physical presence or power, as many Christians claim to be manifested in an opposing persona, oftentimes known as "satan" or the "devil" (interestingly enough, the word "satan" comes from a Hebrew word for "accuser" or "adversary").

When it comes down to it, modern concepts of evil can be used to describe three things: death, pain, or the cause of either -- nothing more, nothing less. If it were a universal truth, as some Christian faiths proclaim, evil would affect every lifeform on earth, similarly. In reality, an evil act to a human would probably make no difference to say, a rabbit, and vice versa. Granted, this is a complete conjecture, but as the death or pain of humans does not seem to affect other animals (besides those that dependent for survival), and considering we slaughter millions of animals a day without a second thought, I feel there is a pretty strong basis for this.

The idea of "evil" is simply an event that one does not want to happen. Our egos do not want to end and we do not want to endure pain. In this context, evil is simply a projection of our most base fear, and a concept that reinforces the self-important individual.

The question of evil is one that has been debated for hundreds of years, and not one I want to readily delve into as I'm quickly running out of space, energy, and time. In short conclusion, however, as I do not believe in evil, the existence of heaven/hell, or the need for my personality to live indefinitely, I also do not believe in Christian gods or dogmas.

My thoughts extended much farther than this during my short trip on the freeway. Eventually, the truck carrying my name turned off the highway, and I was left to travel it on my own. It was a sign, I thought. I would be traveling life unguided by religion. But I had a good idea where the road lead, and I had full faculty at my command. I would follow hard, dispassionate truth.

One last thought I had, before turning off the freeway towards home, was the sound of my father's voice telling me, "It's better to be safe than sorry." Over the course of years, I have heard the excuse that one should believe in god by default, "just in case he really exists." Either way, whether he exists or not, you have nothing to lose.

I thought to myself, that's like holding an unwrapped candy bar in your hand. You don't want the extra calories, so you think to yourself, I'll throw it away. But then you realize, it could be a Healthy Choice snack bar with only one calorie. You finally conclude that you might as well toss it, and not eat it, because that way you have nothing to lose.

I say that's a crock of bull. If god really existed and personal salvation meant anything to him, he would have put a wrapper on the damn candy bar to tell you what it was. I say fuck that shit and eat the candy bar.

posted Tuesday, May 1, 2001

Empty Space

"As a child, I played in the gaps between buildings, ruins of buildings, fallow land, abandoned industrial areas, gravel pits and sand mines. Formed through misplanning, they were our empire, the empire of children. Ours was a dirty, unused place, with snakes, lizards, insects of every category and wild vegetation. Every city needs places without external laws. Empty spaces have their own laws.
     Vegetation is information. Children instinctively understand the language of natural vegetation. They can read it, if only they're allowed to climb the fence and play undisturbed.
     But the city gardeners arrive ? the eliminators of mystery, the killers of the empty spaces ? and declare everything dirty. They mow, pave and plant in zones where children and teenagers once played. They pave the paths people may walk upon and prohibit walking on the grass. 'Naturalness,' in this case, seems to be understood as 'unused-ness.' The grass and roses are always jammed in identical pots of cement and framed with perfectly straight paths, tarred without any fantasy or mystery.
     Naturalness is understood as the annihilation of spontaneity through perfect gardening."
?Jürgen X. Albrecht

posted Monday, April 30, 2001

Cycle

I hike to this spot in the bluffs behind my house ? a new one ? where there is a flat, square stone like a table with no legs. I take Sumo out there, and sit on it and look out into the gullies and trees. The sand falls away from the edge of my seat, into the canyon below. I imagine unloading the violence within me onto the hillside. It tumbles down with the waves of sand and dead leaves. The troubles that are too light to fall get swept away in the strong wind that blows in the opposite direction. They flutter quickly, and get caught in the trees like plastic bags or tissue. Some escape into the red horizon.

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.

posted Saturday, April 28, 2001

One Man's Garbage...

I wore shorts today. It was refreshing to feel the setting sun on the backs of my legs as I walked Sumo around the developing neighborhoods. As sad as I am to see them plowing the field behind my house for a thoroughfare, it will be nice to have a new route to walk. I caught a glimpse of myself in a passing car, and realize that I squint a lot. Perhaps I should start wearing my sunglasses more often. Straighten up. Stop squinting. Get a haircut.

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.

posted Wednesday, April 25, 2001

On Everything and Nothing

Ricky has been having some difficulties with his parents lately, and as he is living with them, accepted my invitation to spend the weekend at my place. Studies aside, we dined, partied, and vegged -- exactly opposite my plans yesterday morning. Lately, I've noticed I turn into a different person when I'm around him. I've been working hard to keep that from happening, mainly trying to keep comfortable as myself. I can't deny his influence in my life, however. He has made a permanent change on me the past five years I've known him, and it shows in everything from my taste in art and music to my hobbies and gestures and mannerisms.

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.

posted Tuesday, April 24, 2001

List(less)

A few things have happened since Saturday:

• 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.

posted Saturday, April 21, 2001

A Perfectly Good Saturday

The parking lot is empty in the Saturday sun as I look out from my office window. It begs for a shopping cart race or rollerblades. Unfortunately, I am unable to abide, as I sit determined to complete my homework on this beautiful Saturday morning. I hate not being able to play, but at the same time, I know that if I did not have any work to do, I would be lazily sitting at home. I chide myself for letting my physical health slip. Not that I'm unhealthy, but I haven't been to the gym since New Orleans, and I know if I started running outside, I'd be quickly out of breath and give up. For some reason, I just don't feel the motivation to go. I know it will come back once I graduate, and thus the reason I'm sitting here on a perfectly good Saturday morning to finish my compiler. The sad part is, I already see myself looking back and nostalgically wishing for these days again. Is there any way to overlook deadlines, responsibility, and the stress of life to simply enjoy the "now" as it's happening? Dogs are said to live only in the moment, unlike humans who have a tendency to project themselves into the future or past. Sumo has taught me a lot about that, but I've gotten so much happiness and satisfaction by looking forward and imagining what will be and what could be, that I tend to linger on the future more often than not. Thus the extensive years we spend in higher education, building, constructing our futures. What's more important to you: enjoying life now, as it is; or the possibility of experiencing more enjoyment in the future?

posted Friday, April 20, 2001

Reminiscence as an Art

Memories are gifts you give yourself. I hide them in the most obscure places, setting them with delicate triggers of sight and sound and smell for me to trip when I least expect it. Sometimes when I'm experiencing something really amazing, I simply imagine myself turning on the record switch for future enjoyment. It really works, most of the time. Unfortunately, it doesn't work for all things, such as school lectures or mundane, everyday activity. Sometimes it even turns on all by itself, unexpectedly, if something unusual is happening.

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.

posted Thursday, April 19, 2001

Unexpected Encounters

Last Friday, I ran into my ex, Scott, at the Wave. As I was kissing my goodbyes to Kali, I turned around and ran straight into a white t-shirt.

"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.

posted Wednesday, April 18, 2001

Generation Gapping

Dad and I watched The Broken Hearts Club last night. Not the best gay film out there, but it is a "safe" gay film for parents. I wonder what he thought of it. I kept imagining he would get uncomfortable during the male-male makeout sessions (tame by any comparisson to many other popular, gay films), or confused at the barrage of gay lingo ("butch", "top", "mo"). Surprisingly enough, he seemed both comfortable and entertained throughout. Afterwards, I asked him what he thought.

"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.

posted Tuesday, April 17, 2001

Thoughts of Berlin

It must be the chill humidity, the smell of grass, and my aftershave moisturizer that brought memories of Germany rushing back into my head. My feet fell lightly on the moist grass as I walked Sumo out back for his morning outing. It felt like my first day in Berlin. I realized it wasn't only the smell of the air that took me back, but my whole being ? the state of my entire body ? that reminded me of that day. Is it possible to experience an entire moment over again? The sight, smell, sound, feeling, and taste of the air? I tried not to let it weigh heavy on my mind, and just allowed to moment to be experienced before it vaporized into the misty sky.

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.

posted Sunday, April 15, 2001

Renaissance du Jour

The smell of turpentine fills my room. Brushes lay cleaned and shaped on the sink edge. My palette is wet and tightly sealed. Getting back my artistic motivation hasn't been difficult, but it has definitely taken some effort, not to mention time and money. In high school, when I was at my artistic peak, art supplies were supplied and creative inspiration was readily available. Then again, everything in high school was easier, simpler, even though it might not have seen so at the time.

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.

posted Saturday, April 14, 2001

Anias Nin on Journaling

"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

posted Friday, April 13, 2001

The Death of Apology

I killed contrition the other day. Casually ripped it's heart out, and tossed it, still beating, into the bushes. Really, it was a long time coming. I had become cold and callous towards it, and it would have died a slow death eventually, anyway. I always used it to benefit myself, never considering its consequence or value.

"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.

posted Thursday, April 12, 2001

Gossip, et al.

Eric ? my most recent ex ? called me tonight. It was completely unexpected, but I humored him and we chatted for a while. I felt rather obligated to talk to him, since he's been making an attempt to keep in touch, and has left me email and voicemail, both remaining unresponded in their respective inboxes. I just don't know what to make of his interest. He seems genuinely concerned about me and my life, despite all my attempts to discretely slip through the knots that hold us together. My friend, Amy, asked if perhaps he was still interested in me. I'd have to discount that theory. After all, I've dated a few guys since we've broken up and all my talk about new, fabulous men seems only to encourage him more.

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.

posted Wednesday, April 11, 2001

Feud

Watching Family Feud this morning, I suddenly grew very angry. It occurred to me that this and other shows appearing during the same time of day -- Judge Judy, Divorce Court, The Price is Right -- are simply feeding a desire to conform and think correctly, safely, collectively. Family Feud pays people to think like everyone else, and we all know what happens if they don?t ("Survey says..."): they get an obnoxious, painful buzzer in their ear along with a sorrowful swell from the audience and studio orchestra. They don?t get paid, either. These shows claim to know what decisions should be made, how we compare to the rest of the world, or how much we "know." In truth, however, they are simply reinforcing our need to be accepted, agreeable, and ultimately loved, by telling us what to think and do.

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.

posted Tuesday, April 10, 2001

Note Not Delivered

"Scott: We haven?t met, but I?m a fellow employee. I had to tell you something that perhaps would not be kosher to say in person, so I hope you?ll forgive the junior-high anonymity of this note. From the moment I first ran into you, I?ve been completely smitten. Just walking by you makes my breath catch. We say hello, but I know you are married with children, and I haven?t made an attempt to push conversation any further. When I?m fortunate enough to catch a glimpse of you through my window, it takes me back to daydreams I used to have as a kid. But I sense a sadness in you. You seem so tired. I hope that you are happy. Take care of yourself."

posted Monday, April 9, 2001

Learning From Lies

It was straight out of the Celestine Prophecy. One minute, I was nearly asleep in our weekly staff meeting, surrounded by incessant technobabble and acronyms I didn?t understand; the next, I was inundated by a strange energy that seemed to pour into me. It was a moment that made me reconsider myself as a piece in this chess-like world we call corporate life.

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.

posted Friday, April 6, 2001

Coffee Culture Club

The culture that surrounds coffee consumption has been a mystery to me, primarily because I have abstained from drinking any caffeinated beverages since my freshman year in college. It all started when I joined the crew team in Boulder. The other guys seemed so health conscious, and refraining from the drink so many of my engineer (read "geek") colleagues cherished as a saveall, seemed the natural thing to do to fit in. Somehow, the habit just stuck with me long after I left Boulder. Despite sinking deeper into my hacker profile, I?ve managed to stay away from it. Until now. The past couple of weeks have caught me sneaking into the drive-thru coffee shop on the corner to get free mochas, stealing quick cups of coffee from the office breakroom, and brewing secret pots of coffee in my own kitchen. The caffeine addiction has begun, and my GOD is it incredible. The difference is amazing. I often congratulated myself on being so "health-conscious" that I would abstain from caffeine (while, ironically, consuming other illegal substances on the side), but the big bonus to being anti-coffee was the incredible kick it would give me on the rare occasion I would indulge. Since adopting this new vice, I?ve discovered an entire subculture dedicated to coffee consumption, even websites that sell caffeine-related merchandise. There is a definite schism between office cliques that consume coffee and those that don?t. I even suspect a covert, quasi-guerilla war being waged between them, in which power struggles between the quick, nervous intelligence of the highly-caffeinated and the calm, low-blood pressure, sleepy logic of the celibate cause major political catastrophes and undue bureaucratic protocol. I imagine certain members of upper management target those that do not drink coffee and label them as slow and unproductive. How else would I explain the sudden niceties that have been going my way in the hallway while running into managers while precariously balancing a full cup of watery coffee in one hand and fumbling for my access card with the other? One thing is for sure, I would never be this wordy in a journal entry if I were uncaffienated. Perhaps that?s the problem with so many people that talk too much. I wonder if a settlement could ever be reached with the coffee manufacturers for emotional damage caused by failed relationships due to the inability to listen caused by too much caffeine. Inhale. I?m going to get some more coffee, you want some?

posted Thursday, April 5, 2001

Shiny, Pretty Things

I can?t get enough of indirect lighting. It takes the familiarity of home and transforms it into a new, mysterious place to explore. In an attempt to regain some motivation, I?ve started spring cleaning ? or at least thought about cleaning. It hasn?t actually happened yet, but I?ve got a few things picked up and the lights are positioned in a way that makes the place seem quite livable. I don?t know what it is with me and this obsession with cleaning every time I need a rebirth. I could just take up a new activity or read a book or actually exercise at the expensive gym I?ve been avoiding. Instead, I spend my free time cleaning, downloading music, watching TV ? my GOD, the television ? and simply being lazy. I hate to say it, but I?ve come to adore Bob Barker and The Price is Right. I need to get out of this house. One thing I keep telling myself is that if I actually go out and do something, I may find some fodder for creative and mental burning. Simply stated, my life has been a bore lately, so I have nothing to write about. I had considered going out with Mike, Lisa, Eric, MB and the rest tomorrow night, but I cancelled today because I want to spend some time at home ? you guessed it ? cleaning. Last night, Ricky and I watched Gia, with Angelina Jolie. It?s funny to think that at one point, my life was almost as glamorous and drug crazed as the next supermodel, but that somehow, I got a grip and landed myself a nice, quiet life in this beautifully suffocating city. As Gia once said, "I?ve been to heaven, through it, in it, outside it, above it, and beyond it." At one point, though, I had to stop and realize I was going nowhere. Nowadays, I mostly feel like I?m actually headed towards a productive future, but the kid in me wants it allnowdamnit. Life is so not instantly gratifying. So, in the meantime ? while I?m waiting for my gratification ? I think I?ll clean out my closet. People are going to think I?m on speed. Oh, Gia, how did you do it?

posted Sunday, April 1, 2001

Goodbye Spring Break

Today?s the first day of April, and it?s hard to believe that the semester is more than halfway over. Lindsay just got back from her California trip, and she talked my ear off earlier this morning. My God, that girl can talk. She had driven out there with Nicole, and I had planned on joining them, but decided against it a few weeks before spring break. Road trips have never been my thing, and I?m working feverishly to get myself on level footing, financially.

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.

posted Thursday, March 29, 2001

More Dreams

This is a good week. It?s spring break, and despite my compiler project, it?s actually quite relaxing. I?ve gotten the majority of the project done, spent quite a bit of quality time with Sumo, and have even met a few new guys. As far as dating possibilities go, there are none yet, but it?s nice to be meeting some new people, nonetheless.

The girl at the corner coffee stand gives me free coffee. I can?t remember her name, but I went to her wedding last year because her mom was room-mates with mine and ever since then, she refuses to let me pay for my grandé mochas, no whipped cream. I tip her extra, and thank her. She?s very nice.

I had a horrific dream last night. It took place in some futuristic, parallel dimension, and in it, a friend had just returned from a South American expedition and a group of friends and I had him over to hear about his travels. We were excited to hear his stories, and all gathered around to hear how it went.

During the course of tale-telling, he began, with difficulty, to detail the findings of a dreadful disease he had encountered. This sickness was passed by simply touching an infected object, or being bitten by mosquito that carried the disease. Incurable and deadly, somehow a tribe of people had learned to survive with this pestilence and even incorporated it into their culture. He had spent most of his time with these people, studying them.

He pulled off his rucksack to show us a few artifacts he had obtained. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a fly on his back that was hiding under the pack. It quickly flew off into the corners of the room, free of its confines, and I nervously looked around to see if anyone had caught it. They hadn?t. Turning my attention back to our raconteur, we examined the items he had brought back: a key, a book, a few leaflets, and many pictures. He explained that all the items were possibly infected and for none of us to touch them, so we sat back while he described the pictures for us.

Suddenly, one of the dogs in the room that had been quietly sleeping in the corner, got up and came over to investigate. Wrapped up in conversation, no one noticed when he picked up the key with his teeth and swallowed it down.

I was lost in the sudden comotion that erupted in the room. Everyone began to panic, and I turned to my friend who began frantically digging through his pack.

"What?s going to happen to him?" I asked. "If that key is contaminated, will it affect a dog?"

"I?m not sure," he replied, "but let?s hope not."

We waited for what seemed an eternity, and eventually the dog went back to sleep in a corner. A few people were pacing nervously about the room, and I started to wonder if this visit was such a good idea. The light in the room had dimmed with the setting sun. Everything began to take on the air of a "Blade Runner" scene.

I climbed up a flight of stairs to a loft above the living room where we had been sitting, and the dog got up and began to follow me. As he was climbing the stairs, he suddenly began to retch, violently. Everyone stood to see what was going on. A few started to gasp at the sight that followed. The dog?s gags became more desperate, more vicious, and he began to throw up a clear liquid. Suddenly, the liquid turned bloody, and as he vomited more blood, he fell to the floor and began convulsing and shaking. I turned away, as a few girls in the room began crying. Someone screamed for help.

And just as soon as it started, it stopped. The silence that followed was eerie. I turned around. Lying in a pool of blood was a pile of fur and flesh and bone. The dog?s skull had split, and it?s hair had shed in a mess around the body. Horrified, I turned away. The crying resumed, and our visitor stood solemn by the scene.

"Well, you?ve all just witnessed how deadly this disease is, first-hand," he said, softly. "It strikes without warning, and there?s no predicting when it will hit once you?ve been infected." He turned to his belongings and began packing them up.

"What do we do now?!" I screamed at him. "You know, you?ve probably killed us all." He apologized under his breath, and continued packing. I could sense he was just as horrified as the rest of us, but somehow it seemed as though he didn?t care. Frantically, I scrambled down the stairs, past the body, and grabbed him.

"I saw a fly."

"What?" He stopped suddenly, and turned to face me.

"A fly. It was under your pack, and when you took it off, it flew into the room somewhere."

"Shit. Nobody move," he said, and everyone did as he said. He began to walk around the room. I ran into the restroom and pulled off my shirt. Standing in front of the mirror, I examined my shoulders, and found a small, red bite mark. There was no way to tell if whether it was an insect bite, but I began to panic. I ran out of the bathroom.

"I think... I think I?ve been bitten." Everyone turned around, and my friend turned with something clenched in his hand.

"It?s okay, I got it." He opened his hand to reveal a flattened fly, the same one I seen escape, earlier. A sigh of relief passed around the room, but I was still scared shitless. Everyone began to leave, and I pulled my friend aside.

"What do I do if I?ve been infected?" I asked, frantically. He motioned for me to quiet my voice, and pulled a weathered notebook out of his sack. By the time everyone had gone, he handed me the notebook.

"While I was down there..." He paused, and looked around. "I got it, too." I looked down at the notebook in my hands. "Those are the notes I took from the tribespeople who helped me get through this. There is a lot of wisdom in those pages. I know it by heart now, so I don?t need it. Here. You take it. Read it." He grabbed my hand, and squeezed.

"I?m sorry," he whispered before heading out the door. Over the next few hours, I reluctantly cleaned up the mess, stopping occasionally to vomit and wipe tears from my eyes. When it was done, I sat down in the dimming twilight, stunned at the day?s events. The notebook was lying on the table next to me and I picked it up to read what words my friend had written. What I read was horrifying.

The tribespeople had learned to live with this disease, mostly by learning ways to avoid becoming infected. Inevitably, though, people did become infected. They had a special name for the event, the precise moment when someone caught the disease, although I don?t remember it. There was a ritual ceremony to commemorate the moment. The infected person was given a list of ten rules or suggestions he should do, now that he had become a ticking timebomb with no visible clock, and although I remember reading them in the dream, only a few of them come to me now.

A few points described the symptoms of the disease becoming active, and what to do to prevent infecting others. The one point that stands out most in my mind, however, is the atmah -- a life journey, or quest, one must undertake once he has the disease, and he cannot wait another moment to begin. The inflicted must leave at once, ignoring all belongings and responsibilities. The exact time the disease will become active always varies and can never be predicted, so the person must take full advantage of the time he has. The ultimate goal of one?s atmah is known only to the person, himself. It is a deeply personal and spirtual journey.

Upon reading this, I realized I had to leave. I had to do what I had always dreamed of doing -- of traveling, of seeing the world, of being things I?ve always wanted to be. I had to begin my atmah. Frantically, I began gathering my things, but remembered the point of ignoring all worldly posessions. Confused and frightened, I wondered if I could do it. Could I really leave all this behind? The thought of dying like that dog petrified me. While wondering, I realized I was wasting time. I had to leave. Now.

I took a deep breath. And woke up.

posted Monday, March 26, 2001

Prideful Martyr

I spent a large portion of the weekend with my ex-boyfriend, Eric. We are making the fabled "let?s be friends" attempt after breaking up in January and things seem to be going pretty well, despite the fact that I dislike him in many ways. My aversion to Eric is, however, completely unfounded; that is, I have no reason to dislike him, as he has been nothing but generous, kind, patient, and interested in me. Therefore, I?ve faced my own insecurities -- whatever they may be, since I haven?t pinpointed them yet -- and have attempted to do the good thing. After all, he?s made an effort to do so on his part.

After dinner and drinks with friends on Saturday night, we made a quick visit to the Hide & Seek where we danced and I watched several boys attempt, rather unsuccessfully, to pick him up. Although I claim to be fully past our relationship, part of me seethes with jealousy when I notice any interest from him in someone else, or vice versa. Perhaps it?s male instinct rearing its ugly head. Maybe it?s my anger at not being hit on. In any event, I played it off, and feigned happiness for his popularity.

Sunday found Eric and me walking the dogs in Bear Creek Park -- an activity I?ve wanted to do with Sumo for a while now. It was a good walk, and conversation was plentiful. We talked about virutally everything, from pet care to dating interests, from new technology to simply being lonely. I felt a connection developing. A few points during the hike, I even visualized a passionate convalescence in which previous misdeeds were disavowed and we were reunited in an embrace, followed by the inevitable, movie-screen kiss. Eventually, one action or word would eliminate that fantasy and jerk me back into reality, confused and annoyed.

Looking back on the weekend, I did have a good time. Rather than analyze the reasons behind my bête-noir, however, I?ve come to understand that I can put judgement aside, accept other people, and enjoy their company. I realize that I may not find Eric palatable as a boyfriend, but that by accepting him for who he is, and even accepting the things I dislike about him, I may be able to like him as a human being and he may be able to do the same for me. Only time will tell, but we may have honestly and simply found a way to make this aftermath-friendship work.

posted Tuesday, March 20, 2001

Time Travelling

It came out of nowhere, really. I turned the page and there it was: a ticket stub for "As Good As It Gets." I don?t even remember seeing that movie. Fingering the paper between my thumb and forefinger, I thought it was strangely soft as thought it had somehow captured the humid air between its fibers. I wondered who I had seen it with and how old I was (there was no year, only a month and a day -- January 15th to be exact). I smiled at the $3.50 price and sighed, thinking I sounded like an old man reminiscing about the good ol? days when prices were reasonable. I tucked the ticket back into the book and continued reading. I had reclaimed a piece of myself -- even if it only represented a two hour movie.

posted Monday, March 19, 2001

All Systems Go

I?ve done it. I don?t know how I managed to pull myself together after the hell I?ve gone through these past few weeks, but I?ve done it. Looking back, I suppose I shouldn?t have worried about it, since -- after all -- I?ve never fully lost all control of my life. Either way, my engine is back on the tracks and is pointed in the right direction. It feels good. Real good.

My compiler project is really the only ball and chain I have to deal with right now, since work and my other classes have really stepped aside to let me focus on it. I?ve temporarily shut down my other website and have stopped going out on the weekend; two major time-consuming activities in my life. There is one other activity that seems to have filled the rest of my free-time, but it?s of a more personal nature (and if you can gather what that activity is from such a vague description, you?re more of a pervert than I am).

I?ve pretty much lost contact with the outside world, including many of my friends, and I?m hoping that this temporary estrangement I?ve imposed on myself is a good idea. After all, being unsocial can become a bad habit; I know, because I?ve lived it. Other than my father and Sumo, I?ve been keeping to myself, and I think that was a stalwart in picking my life up off the floor. This, of course, means virtually no dating has taken place over the course of the past few months, and the quiet on the love front has been nice, but distracting.

I suppose I should document a small scare I had last week concerning a certain VD. After a brief, relatively anonymous encounter with a boy I met from Los Angeles, I came down with a cold and quickly noticed a small abnormality where one certainly shouldn?t be. Looking up several informative sites on the internet turned up a novice diagnosis of what could only be an STD. I was horrified, needless to say.

In the course of a few hours, I had not only looked up support groups and dating services, I had also scheduled an appointment with my physician to have it checked out. I was determined to accept my misfortune as a hand dealt by fate for some greater purpose. I believe I went through all stages of grief in a matter of forty-seven minutes. After registering with several sites and finding a few potential people to talk to about my newfound "problem," I went to bed thinking my life, as I knew it, was changed forever.

The doctor?s office was empty, and I was admitted as soon as I stepped into the waiting room. Relieved, I spilled my guts and dropped my shorts. No doubt my doctor was taken by suprise that I had done so much research and was resolute in my acceptance of this disease. He took a brief look at the goods, and quickly denouced my claim. It was not an STD.

"What do you mean, it?s not?" I asked, almost defiantly. "Are you sure?" He nonchalantly scribbled in my records and cleaned up, noting that my "abnormality" was a common irritation and would disappear in less than 24 hours. I stood there with my mouth open. Wait a second, I thought to myself, I should be relieved.

As I walked out to my car to return to the world of paychecks and networked computers, I couldn?t help but feel disappointedly happy. I was disappointed that I had gone through all that torment and frustration and pain, only to come to accepting something that was completely imaginary. I was happy, of course, to realize that I was -- indeed -- clean and undamaged. I burst out into a fit of laughter, followed quickly by an outburst of tears. I came so close to throwing everything away for a few minutes of pleasure. So close.

It?s scary to think where that road may have taken me, but at this point, I have my engine pointed in the right direction, and it?s time to see where it will take me. No looking back. This time, I have a good lesson tucked under my belt. I know how to avoid being derailed by this monster in the future. Now, let?s see if I can use that knowledge to my advantage.

posted Monday, March 12, 2001

Snowbound

The scene outside is magnificent. Snow slowly melts under a cloud-speckled sky, but despite the sun?s relentlessness, everything remains blanketed. It reminds me of Schwarzwald-like depictions in a Red Robin Hood book I had as a child. I feel equally blanketed; my mind and body, alike, feel muffled. It?s the feeling of wanting to remain in bed, but restless after sleeping too long. My body is begging attention and my muscles are anxious to move. Scrambling toward the safety of a schedule, my mind desperately seeks a spot of sunlight to melt this blanket away. Not that this snow isn?t beautiful, but it has overstayed its welcome. It is time to start the engine of routine.

posted Friday, March 9, 2001

Beast of Kind

Good Lord, I?m letting it slip. I feel as though I?m wrestling a serpent, thrashing wildly, my hands on its slick torso threatening to loosen. I can?t readjust, I can only maintain grip and hope that they won?t let go. I have to lose myself in daily routine. I must, or else I?ll let go. Silence -- the quietness of the day -- slides along the surface of this bubble of stress that has expanded around me. Realigning myself is turning out to be harder than I anticipated, because in order to regain my footing, I must immerse myself in that silent monotony. After a deep breath, I realize I?m not afraid or worried. I?ve gotten it back in the past. I?ll rely on history.

10:18 a.m., ice shatters under the pressure as my pick digs in, cold spray dusting my face. I raise up and grip the handle. Canyon wind ballasts my body from the south, up through the gulley, and I cautiously release my right foot. Ca-chink. I look down and readjust my grip. The sight of the ground, 200 feet below, sends a ripple of sour adrenaline through my hands and neck, and I quickly focus on driving my hooked foot into the ice wall. My grip loosens, and I slip. A flash of white ice and white sky is all I see before I somehow regrip the handle of my ice pick.

Catching my breath, I stop to reel in a breathtaking view. I am alone. And it is beautiful.

posted Sunday, March 4, 2001

Reason #15 to Hablas Español

I?ve decided to reduce the amount of meat I eat, so today, I stopped by the local Turbo Taco to see what they had in the way of authentic Mexican, vegetarian cuisine. To my dismay, the menu was in Spanish (they weren?t kidding when they say "authentic" Mexican food). Asking the boy through the drive-thru speaker didn?t help much, as he didn?t seem to speak a word of English, so I gave up trying to ask about items on the menu and try to decipher the words myself.

Adovada Burrito, Pollo Burrito... Lengua Burrito. That sounds close to "legume," I thought. I could tell the drive-thru boy was becoming impatient, so I ordered, blindly and paid $2.00 to the surly face behind the window.

"One Lengua burrito." I took the bag and pulled out into the parking lot. I was starving. Ripping open the paper parcel, I stuffed the burrito in my mouth and took a huge bite. That?s funny, I thought to myself. There is meat in it. Upon further mastication, I realized that it was definitely beef of some sort, but it had a strange, soft, chewy texture. I looked down at what I had bitten into.

A wave of nausea washed over me as I realized I must have mistakenly ordered some sort of cow organ delight. "Lengua" sounds like "language." Oh shit, this must be cow tongue! Now, I consider myself a fairly reasonable person when it comes to food, and I?ll try pretty much anything. But there was something about eating a piece of an animal that helped it digest food that really put me over the edge. I chewed the remaining chunks in my mouth and gulped it down with a large chaser of Sprite.

I chided myself for being so closeminded, but quickly got over it. Tossing the remaining tongue burrito into the garbage, I headed next door to the Taco Bell where I was rewarded with a 95¢ bean burrito. I should have taken Spanish in high school. Who knows, maybe someday I?ll learn it. But until then, I?m going to stick with places that speak English (or at least have a translator on hand).

posted Saturday, March 3, 2001

Shifting

Returning from New Orleans on Ash Wednesday held a sense of passage for me. Although I?m not Catholic, I feel as though I?ve entered into a certain period of asceticism, and a blanket of calm has subdued my usual energy. It could be a residual effect from the binge drinking, but I think the principle, itself, holds a more powerful sway over my motivation.

Recently, I?ve noticed my attitude and responsiveness to other people has been on the downward slide. It started with Eric. I can?t blame it entirely on him, but while I was dating him, something happened to me that I can?t quite put my finger on. I stopped talking and closed up, but I don?t know why. I?ve spoken with many friends about my recent decline (or shift) in attitude and positive energy, but wasn?t able to come to any conclusion. This is a mystery that my mind is savoring by the moment; it begs to be solved.

I adopted a dog because I hoped that an animal would help me get back in touch with the humanity I?ve lost. The tiring hours, long nights, and endless frustration that come from training Sumo only seem to have succeeded in pushing me in the opposite direction. I?m crabby and upset most of the time. I also notice that whenever someone asks me how I?m doing, I reflexively respond by saying "Fine," without a question likewise. It?s not like me.

I feel like I?m changing, but I feel the same. I?m shifting into a new persona that is still identical to the old me, but a different shade. If I lose this part of myself, I know I?m done for. It?s the part of me that has mourned the loss of every other piece of myself along the way. It mourned the passing of childhood wonder and of expectation and parental omniscience. It?s the part of me that cares. If I lose it, I will be oblivious to any future disintegrations within myself. I will continue shifting into darker shades until I blend into the shadows of inhumanity.

I?ve been dismissively grasping in the dark for an answer to why I?ve been fading away from myself, figuring I?d have a handle on it in no time (I always do). Now, I?m starting to get worried. My grasps are becoming more frantic by the day. It?s like misplacing something and calmly believing you?ll recover it without much effort, only to realize shortly after that you?ve truly lost it. You frantically excavate furniture, piles of laundry, knicknacks, and books, desperate to find it.

Experience has taught me to calm down. Retrace my steps. Where did I have it last? Perhaps this calm that has settled over me is a good thing; it will help me think more clearly. As I curl up in bed, with Sumo by my side, I try to wash away the dirt from my mind. Inevitably, unconsciously, I reach out into the space within my head once more for an answer, but come up empty-handed.

Before I fall asleep, I shift a bit more into the darkness.

posted Thursday, February 15, 2001

Toothbrush

The drawer slid open with a hoarse resistance, guiltily displaying its secrets. My breathing halted momentarily as a sudden pang of red rang through my stomach. Kurt?s toothbrush looked up at me from its hiding place.

It had only been four months, but still the thought of him lingered like the aftertaste of a prerousal dream. I reached inside and brought the toothbrush into the light. It was still in its plastic casing, as though it had never been used. Memory begged difference.

I looked down at Sumo, gazing back at me with questioning, dark eyes. I would never have gone looking in the drawer if he hadn?t recently found my current toothbrush a tasty chew-toy. Reaching down to pat his head, I laughed to myself. A wave of giddiness washed over me, as I suddenly realized the implications of using the old toothbrush.

Toothpaste smeared easily from the tube onto worn bristles and I looked at it for a moment before running the head under the tap. I regretted not smelling the brush before using it. The idea of the scent ? old toothpaste and saliva ? sent a warm swell through my body. Sighing, shrugging, I stuffed the brush into my mouth.

Kurt wouldn?t be needing it anymore.

posted Friday, February 9, 2001

Lost In Dreams of Daily Routine

Lithely, I leap up the stairs by two?s. I feel every muscle compacting, contracting, easily. Reaching the landing, my breath is recaptured and I move about the house, resuming the day?s monotony with a certain sense of giddiness. No one knows my daily routine. Not a soul. I love to yell and scream and sing in the lovely baritone that wells up from my chest, often vibrating my vision ? all at the top of my lungs. No one has ever heard me, or at least that I know of (I would fall deathly silent at the first inclination of an evesdropper). The time I?ve spent alone this past year has done amazing things for me. I?ve reclaimed myself, in a way. I care for myself more. I?ve discovered my inadequacies, my faults, my downfalls ? and I?ve forgiven myself for them. A quick thought skips through my head and tags me lightly into laughter. Picking up a basket of warm laundry, I smile because I can make myself laugh, and because the the humid air that rises from the clean clothes smells good. I bury my face in a pair of jeans that aren?t mine, and wish that the owner were behind me, his arms around me. If only he could see that I was finally happy. I could make him happy now, I think to myself. I will make him happy, someday ? whoever "he" turns out to be. I suddenly wished that someone had heard me bellowing, seen me cavorting about the house. For a flash moment, I thought that I could run outside and yell to the world that I was ready, that I was filled to the brim. But I remained where I stood, because I realized that the more I grow, the more I have to grow, and I chuckled to myself. Setting down the basket of clothes, I picked up singing where I left off and returned to my laundry to be lost again in the calm seas of routine.

posted Thursday, February 8, 2001

Somnolent, but Unwavering

The hours between 11 p.m. and 9 a.m. are supposed to be magical. Tonight, I?ve obviously lost my mojo because these hours ? which are usually my most creative ? find me drained. Physically, emotionally, and creatively exhausted. I want to capture these days in words, but am at a lack of thought, and I worry excessively that they are slipping slowly away from me. Over-analysis of the happiest moments simply kills the euphoria. Letting go is a conscious act that alerts me to the fact that I?m truly enjoying myself, and it becomes a conundrum of thought that actually prevents me from fully letting go. In the end, when I turn to my writing for catharsis, I face a blank, threatening page. Perhaps my dedication to my schoolwork is sapping away the motivation to write, and in many ways, that is an honorable priority. But, somehow, my writing calls and chastises me for ignoring it for so long. After all, a day without writing is a day lost forever. Thus, the daylight hours I devote to homework, the gym, working here and there, and putzing around slowly melt into night. By the time my creative hours arrive, I am too exhausted to take advantage of them. Sleep calls. Perhaps I should take advantage of it. Tomorrow will find more creative juice for me.

posted Sunday, February 4, 2001

Weekend Synopsis

Typical gay weekend. Friday night at the Hide and Seek with Eric and Mike. Saturday at Tracks with Dave, Damen, and Arthur. Lots of alcohol. Totally fun. Totally expensive. Totally not me. Oh, hell. Who am I kidding? I enjoy the club scene just as much as the next fag. I love the music, the lack of conversation and clothing, the lights, and the escape. Although I?m paying dearly for it today, and quite possibly the next couple of days, I really am glad I was able to get out and party a bit. Normally, I would have a lot to say about this topic, but tonight, well, it?s just not coming to me. Time to hit the sack.

posted Thursday, February 1, 2001

Seredipitous Sanctity

There are three of me. Not in the evil-twin sense, but rather a trinity: three seperate entities, one individual. I am the Spectator-Narrator who observes all, occasionally from a biased standpoint, but rarely intervenes when the other two start to quarrel ? and believe me, they quarrel more often than not. They are the Greater and the Lesser. Not "more" or "less" in terms of importance or size or power, but of mindset, goals and orientation. They are a yin and a yang of opposing, but similar, energies.

Today, the Greater and Lesser sides had a dispute over who should take control of the day?s schedule. It began as any dispute ? over minor, daily routine ? but quickly escalated into an all-out brawl. The fight had an unusual outcome, however. You see, normally, I can tell who has the better grip on the steering wheel and sometimes, but not often, the Greater gives into the Lesser for various reasons, and vice versa.

The remarkable part was, however, that while yin and yang were arguing, someone else took over the controls. It was as if an invisible fourth party had entered the bridge and simply took command without the Greater or Lesser knowing. It was pretty slick, I have to admit. I sat there, slackjawed and staring, while the day?s chores seemed to auto-pilot.

Lesser finally noticed and complained in an annoyingly high-pitched, but excitable voice: "If I don?t go shopping, this freakin? Gap gift certificate is going to burn a godamn hole in my pocket!" Greater sat with his arms crossed, and ignored Lesser. After all, the auto-pilot was doing pretty much what Greater wanted, so he decided not to complain.

As the day wore on, I began to realize that this fourth party wasn?t a persona at all, but rather an absence of persona. It was an ingrained, reflex response to various, daily stimuli that created an auto-pilot of responsibility. It couldn?t be swayed by the arguments of Greater or Lesser, and it would maintain control of the helm as long as there was something to be done.

The strange part was that the productivity which resulted brought me a great amount of satisfaction and happiness. Even the Greater and Lesser couldn?t complain, once the day was over. I wondered, how much happier would we be if we delighted in the simplest, most mundane activities and chores? A quote I once read, turned over and over in my mind.

"The simplest and most effective way to sanctity is to disappear into the background of ordinary, everyday routine."
--Thomas Merton

Quietly, suddenly, it came to me. I had realized that, without even trying, I had found a secret to an inner peace I never knew existed. The quarreling had diminished, and the arguing, conflicting drama within my head had subsided. A knowing smile slowly spread across my face. And when I turned around, they were smiling, too. With our newfound peace, we settled in for the night and I was content. All of me.

posted Tuesday, January 30, 2001

Night Visit

Lisa?s face was damply illuminated by the light next to her hospital bed, one arm slumped over the top of her head. Her eyes appeared closed, but as we walked in, she spoke our names.

"Guys," she said, groggily. "Hey Eric, Mary Beth. Hi Mike. Chris, thank you guys so much for coming." Her husband, Dave, stood up to greet us. I extended my hand.

"Hey, thanks for coming by." He shook each of our hands and we took places around Lisa?s bed. I noticed her squeeze her left hand. Click. A monitor attached to her IV began to mechanically administer her morphine and she shifted under the sheets to make herself more comfortable.

Somehow, I felt a schizm between myself and the rest of the group. We were here, bonded by this common friend, but they were older, more established, more human. I joked with them and conversed lightly with Lisa, which made me feel a little better.

Looking back, I realized they made an attempt to include me. Looking back on looking back, I now realize that I was a part of things. I just didn?t feel that way.

Avoiding Eric?s eyes, I bled myself into the forefront of conversation and partook in his usual attempt to lighten the room. In half-jest, she asked us to stop making her laugh. I wondered if it was possible for Eric.

In my mind, I nodded to her: "I know how it is, Lisa. He makes you laugh until the stitches pull -- until you come apart."

We left our wishes for health at the door and drifted out of the hospital. I hugged everyone, and waited to leave while Eric said his goodbyes. He walked ahead of me, without an embrace.

"See ya, bud." Good-bye.

posted Monday, January 29, 2001

Ad Hoc Mapping

Treading the path in front of me, I take a side-long glance at the outskirts of the known terrain. The edge of wilderness taunts me, but simultaneously tempts me with its promises of fun and love and boundless riches. My life is sketched out in front of me in the form of this path I have dedicated myself to following, and it?s a great route, don?t get me wrong. I mean, I have everything I?ve ever wanted or planned on having, but some primitive ego urges me to deviate into the risky, uncharted jungles of the Unplanned and Untamed. Is this desire to risk our lives and security for excitement and adventure inborn, or is it nurtured through our culturally conditioned mindset of low expectation and complacency and fatalism? An ancestral urge to break out of these mentally dulling prisions we?ve erected around ourselves? "I?m so proud of you." The words write themselves in smoke across my mind. They?re my dad?s words, but often-times I wonder if they?re also my own -- the mental line I chalk up my path with to prevent myself from crossing over into the wilderness. I keep myself in check with Microsoft Money and Franklin Covey Planning Systems and make substance of this path laid out in front of my feet. But, I know that by allowing my urges to be muffled by comfort and blissful ignorance, I will continue to blindly, deafly place one foot in front of the other. That, by far, is my greatest fear.

posted Thursday, January 25, 2001

Quiet Life

Quiet, calm, still. Albert Einstein once noted that the monotony of a quiet life stimulates the creative mind. It illuminates the senses and stirs the imagination. There?s a button in my mind that I press down to quell the storm. I sit in stark white classrooms, blue chairs-attached-to-desks, white walls, white ceilings, white floors. I shuffle through paper memories in a storehouse of my mind, reading, seeking a record of a more peaceful time and come up unrequited. These Days of Bustle whirl me about, paper seeds and debris whisked around my face in spheres of chaos, but I have my salt-shaker, trusty, in hand. One day, I?ll thank myself for finding that spot where I can mute -- mute the wind, mute the cold, mute the daylight. Walking outside, I carefully fit my arms through the straps of my backpack. The green maples that line the street scatter sunlight onto the ground below. Silkily, clouds shift in a windless sky. Silence is clean. Quiet, calm, still, beautiful.

posted Tuesday, January 23, 2001

Addictions and Whatnot

The pounding, diva-laced music, winds its way into my veins and further into my bones. The attraction to this beat seems to be inherited along with the gay gene, since I know of only a few homos who don?t throw their arms in the air with glee at that first, bone-jarring, soul-vibing, blistering, synthesizer bass-line. Maximum volume. In a rush of pseudo-drug-induced euphoria, my eyes roll back into my head and chills rush up my neck and down through my arms. My head and torso sway in opposite directions to the beat, my arms carve patterns in the humid air. Dance is a drug. Beat is an easy master. In slavery to the rhythm, I dance, yet as a ring-leader is in control of his whip, I am in control of my every movement. Confidence overwhelms the senses, and the beat is continued into the night, led on by the unconscious pleading to Never. Let. This. Feeling. End. But, as all good things do, the feeling gently, softly, quickly subsides. The touchdown is easy. The memory fades to a pale matte in the back of my head, and I return home to restore the desire for another fix, another dance.

posted Monday, January 22, 2001

Attempting to Commit

The weather is pretty dreary outside -- the light is muted by the overcast sky like flourescants in a Walmart. I hate to say that it reflects my feelings toward writing, but right now my motivation to journal is just as muted. Not writer?s block. Just a dull version of itself. O?er the holiday break, between semesters, I was really anxious to get this site off the ground, mainly because I only had so much time before spring and compiler design. Now that I?m fairly into the swing of things, I?m going to work on a redesign and hopefully it will bring back my creative motivation. Perhaps I will post some older journal entries to keep the daily habit in motion.

posted Monday, January 15, 2001

Back to Life

There's something about Mondays — even faux-holidays such as today — that make me dread waking up in the morning. Maybe it's the gooey mournfulness with which I bid adieu to the weekend or the steep climb of the week ahead.

I slip out of the covers and begin my daily routine, eyes half-open. Morning Edition plays in the background as I complete daily preening and cleaning, mental organization blocking out the radio. I have a routine. That further contrasts loss of a carefree childhood, screams of an invisible transition into a world of responsibility that doesn't care if you're ready or not.

I notice I'm surrounded by adults. Few friends are even college-age, let alone students. Is this how it works? One day you're playing cops and robbers with friends in your back yard, and the next you're discussing dental benefits with those same friends over a water cooler. I always pictured some sort of dividing line, not this hazy gradient between.

A kid in a grown-up's world. I shed that skin a little more each day, losing the wonder and curiosity, sheding tears that dry to jaded expectations. The daily routine begins, yet again, on another Monday, but will this week be any different from the last? Today, I will plan little and expect even less. I want fate to surprise me.

posted Sunday, January 14, 2001

Dreams, Dead and Otherwise

Scott was sitting across from me. His hair was longer and straight, and he wore a heavy grey ski jacket, appropriate for the ski lodge where we were sitting. His presence was rather unusual, and I sat speechless, observant. His hand was on mine. I knew why he was there ? it was a dream, after all ? but I pretended not to know, or even care. The apology came genuinely and thoughtful; soothing to the palate, it was sweet and softly pleading. I turned my head away and threw a crass reply with practiced lips. Scott wasn?t the type of person to allow his desires to be hindered by my childish resistance, and flinched, continuing unscathed. He wore down my barriers with his acid tenacity, and I pulled away. Melting out of the dream and into my down comforter, I pulled away because it was what I wanted. I refused to let my head convince ? dare I say, outsmart ? my heart into accepting what it wants out of mere desperation. And although I become disheartened in my wait for rescue, I won?t accept anything but the real thing. I won?t delude myself or lower my standards for a watery, fantastic replication of the real thing. I?ll be steadfast. I promise.

posted Friday, January 12, 2001

Waiting

The story of my life could be summed up in one general statement: I?m waiting. The direct object of that waiting, however, is variable and greatly unknown, ranging anywhere from financial stability to wistful, romantic projections. The harsh incandescence of flourescent lighting illuminates the library where I write this entry, naturally while waiting. This time for Eric. As much as I attempt to wrench my grip, painfully, from the steering wheel of life, the sensible Chris consistenly intervenes, soft voice subtly grating: "Straightforward, stable. Just wait." He gently removes the nervous, cold fingers that have gripped the help and holds them until they warm to a morose beige. Calmed and steadied, I continue to type.

posted Wednesday, January 10, 2001

Fixes

I've been fighting off a cold for the past couple of days. On top of that, this is the last week of my winter class so I've been studying for the final that is this Friday. Sickness and finals do not make a very good mix.

For the sore throat I've had, the doctor prescribed me some darvoset, a mild narcotic-slash-muscle-relaxant. Honestly, the damn stuff doesn't do anything but put me to sleep. I pop the hot-pink pills and about half-an-hour later, a liquid, red warmth spreads from my hands and my mouth to the rest of my body.

I can see the appeal narcotics have. You lie there and everything is perfect. Not one part of your body is uncomfortable. You feel warm and dry (even though you may be sweating). Your breathing is slow and relaxed. It's almost like being in that well-rested state after a long night's sleep.

Unfortunately (or not) I just couldn't find a way to become addicted to narcotics. I have a very non-addictive personality. I usually stop drinking alcohol after to or three beers. Heck, even shopping gets boring after eight or nine hours. It's said that addiction is partially genetic and there's been addiction in my family. I seem to have been fortunate enough to escape from that genetic cage.

In some ways, however, an addiction is the ultimate romantic notion, to put everything on the line for that next fix, devoting your entire existence to one thing.

posted Monday, January 8, 2001

Subtle Realizations

"I don't know," Nick said. "Right now, I'm happy just being where I'm at... and being able to sleep a lot."

The sun reflected off the right side of his face, over his shoulder, his crossed arms. Letting out a slow breath, the stress and worries of late seemed to lighten with a simple exhale and I though that I could very easily lose myself in the soft variations of light cascading around us. For a moment, I let go of my drive to do everything at once. I let go of the hope that enlightenment would turn out to be like instant coffee.

Life has gotten me down recently. I've been caught up in so many little problems that I unintentionally create for myself. Maybe if I started taking myself a little less seriously I'd be able to relax a little and just enjoy the moment. The reflex to maintain control and dignity at all times has seriously undermined my ability to enjoy myself on even the simplest occasions. It's even inhibited my ability to maintain a decent romantic relationship.

"See ya later," I called over my shoulder as I walked away. I waved goodbye and felt the sunlight through the large windows of the Annex resting on my back. I lost myself in the moment. Instead of worrying so much about the future, about the judgements of others, about the harsh judge in my own head, perhaps I would let go this time. And with this release, perhaps I would gain a bit of sanity and contentment.

posted Saturday, January 6, 2001

Pseudo-Genesis

In the beginning, there was a void. Because all beginnings mark a change and because any said change affecting a void is the instantiation of something material, the void was no more. Where there was nothing, now substance existed. Although not phenomenal on any scale, it was a beginning. However, from a different angle ? the perspective of the void ? this is the end of nothingness. As T.S. Eliot said, "What we call the beginning is often the end and to make an end is to make a beginning. The end is where we start from."

posted Tuesday, January 2, 2001

New Year, 2001

With a kiss reminiscient of apple-juice bubbly and a not-so-loud bang, I rang in the new year at a luxurious estate in Denver owned by the Coors family. Besides being the first year I've ever had someone special to kiss on that midnight countdown, it was also the first time I've actually attended a real New Year's party. The mood was jolly, alcohol freely flowing, and besides the ugly naked guy who took festivities to heart by parading around the indoor hot tub in the nude, we all had a great time.

posted Friday, December 29, 2000

Corporate Theater

Increasingly popular trend: the holidays are a time to spend with the family, inside a large dark room, ignoring each other for hours on end. That's why, this year, our family spent a couple of evenings screening Castaway and What Women Want. Not my idea of quality family time, but whatev.

Both movies are relatively entertaining and offer quick getaways from reality, posing interesting scenarios. On the other hand, the corporatization of the movie industry has definitely shown itself in the guise of plots, the first movie being basically a two-hour FedEx commercial and the second, based on an advertising agency whose top clients include Nike, Leggs, and Tampax. That's why seeing Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon last week was such a relief. No brand names, slogans or logos to be seen. A breath of fresh air. Not to mention the movie, in and of itself, kicked ass. Literally.

So much of our popular media leads me to believe that our society demands homoginization and pre-processed-plastic-wrapped entertainment. The commercial invasion of movie theaters is somewhat disheartening because I always used to consider movie-going an upgrade from watching commercial-laden television. Now it seems every movie has become some sort of stage for corporate propaganda.

As long as the masses continue to file into the theaters, this trend will continue to grow. Hopefully the backing for independent and foreign films will also continue to grow. Someday we will see a welcoming of new talent that isn't backed by the newest dot-com. And perhaps that day, big companies will realize that big money may buy our time on television but will never buy our hearts, minds, or desire for originality and creativity.

posted Thursday, December 28, 2000

Good Boy

I took the day off work to join two friends on a snowboarding trip to A Basin. The base was a scant 32 inches and, although we had a few decent rides on what little powder there was, they decided that it wasn't enough and eyed a roped off area marked "Closed" in large, red letters.

I was a good boy, however, and skirted the roped area through some steep moguls to meet them at the bottom. By the time I reached the base, a red-vested patrolman was waiting for them as well. I sat a good 500 feet from them while he lectured them on avalanche safety and possible fines along with a night in jail. Not good. Two clips of his wirecutters and their day-passes were revoked.

On our way home, random thoughts went through my head. What if they had caused an avalanche? It wasn't very crowded, but imagine suddenly being pummeled and buried alive, slowly suffocating under the blinding mass. No warning. And, suddenly, the fragility of life was a weight too much to bear.

I looked around for ways to escape the car, should our transportation suddenly become a tumbling, snow-bound death-trap, hurtling over the edge of the mountain highway. Squeezing my fists, I took a deep breath and calmed myself. Why worry about such unlikely tragedies? It occurred to me that I spend so much time worrying about what might happen that I never enjoy the moment, and so I leaned my head against the window and let myself fall asleep. An enjoyable nap. And the bus stayed squarely on the road.

posted Tuesday, December 19, 2000

Bored Games

Since my junior year in high school — not coincidentally, the same year I discovered alcohol — I've played this game whenever boredom would rear its ugly head. I call it, "Who Wants to be a Porn Star?"

You see, I have a really bad habit of cruising. That shouldn't be too unusual for a guy my age. I also happen to have an affinity for porn — again, not very suprising. Put these two together and whenever I'm waiting for a flight at the airport or peddling away at the gym, I subconsciously pick out the two, best looking guys in my direct line of sight and — POOF! (I'm referrring to the sound, not myself) — the locale spontaneously turns into the set of Chi Chi's next shoot. Want to learn how to play?

First, American porn is ridiculously formula so if you're a Yankee lad like myself, this is very easy. Designate strict roles that should not be confused and name your contestants "Top" and "Bottom." That's all there is to it. If you're feeling kinky, throw in some leather, slings, fisting, you name it. Start the clock and watch 'em go. Who said porno didn't have a constructive role in the healthy male psyche?

posted Thursday, December 14, 2000

Shedding Water

I stumble in from the 20-degree weather, the sun setting behind me as I shut the door. I want to shake myself, remove this fat of stress that has congealed around my head. Three quick movements and I have an open beer bottle in my hand. My coat hasn't even hit the chair.

Seven semesters down, one to go. I can do it. Piece of cake. So why am I so freakin' upset about the direction my life is taking? I guzzle down the rest of the beer, run downstairs and get on the phone. Plans made, I clean myself up — more than I've done all week: shaved, trimmed, exfoliated, showered, deodorized, moisturized, dressed. I sit and wait to be taken away.

posted Thursday, November 30, 2000

Being. Period.

A great thought came to me while driving — as great thoughts often do — and it occurred to me that I am very close to fulfilling my potential as a human being. What I mean to say is that every day, I am getting a little closer to the person I have always wanted to become. I am living the life I want to live. I am happy. I am free, in all respects. I am content. Almost enough to make me want to stop everything and stay this way forever.

I breathe in the cold mountain air and it spikes my brain with an intensity to match the flaming sunset clouds. A whir of life buzzes in my head, clockwork and chaotic simultaneously.

posted Monday, November 20, 2000

Crash and Burn

Sometimes I think that if I just close my eyes, I can float through this mess unscathed. Catching up on my school work is proving to be a little more tricky than I anticipated and my personal life is starting to burn small holes all around me. I'm not in the red yet, but if I don't do something soon, things are going to start falling through.

Maybe if I just close my eyes. But then I stop and open them. These hardships are normal and who would want a life without hassle and worry and a little rejection? At first glance, living a carefree, utopian life would seem ideal. We would never get hurt, rejected, or fall down but without tragedy and violence, hardships and stress, the world would be a pretty bland place. There would be no opportunity for humility, grace, bravery or valor.

So. My daily affirmation for today is this: gracefully accept the blows that life deals you. Believe it or not, they enrich our lives and strengthen our character. Besides they make a perfect excuse to go shopping. Not that I need one, I'm just saying.

posted Sunday, November 12, 2000

Los Angeles, Day 2

I'm writing this post from Santa Monica Boulevard in West Hollywood, also affectionately known as WeHo, in the cozy confines of a little cafe called the WeHo Lounge. The weather is beautiful and so are the people. Not suprisingly, there are a ton of "model scouts" perambulating the area. I've been warned that "I'm looking for models," is a line 95% of the time.

Jonno was nice enough to humor a call from me last night and as much as I wanted to see Kian while I was out here, an unfortuante turn of events has prevented me from doing so. After a short walk through the city, I returned to find my rental car gone. Who would steal a Ford Taurus in LA? Well, the answer wasn't what I was expecting: my car had, in fact, been towed and slapped with a $40 parking ticket in a permit-only—and highly-obscured, I might add—parking spot. Alas, the better part of my day has been spent tracking down my transportation.

Touring the bars on Santa Monica has proven to be a little disappointing, although I did have a good time. The lights and music are great in all of them. After spending a few hours spent posing with a beer bottle at Rage, I headed over to Mickey's. It was crowded but the vibe was darker, older. After making a round or two, I ordered a drink from the bartender and, while surveying the crowd from the bar, I spotted Patrick dancing on a box in the middle of the dance floor. Whether it was club lighting or not, he looked hot. Then again, I always have a thing for strippers, but we cruised each other, me assuming he was crusing me for a tip, and I passed it off with a smile.

I moved to the dance floor and lost myself in the darkness, closing my eyes and imagining myself somewhere else. I was brought back to LA by a hand on my waist.

"Hey, are you gonna be around for a few minutes?" It was the dancer from earlier. I nodded, and he left towards the back snapping the bottoms of his boxer briefs with his thumbs. He returned fully clothed and I danced my way over to him with my hand extended. We shook and introduced ourselves.

"Would it be to forward if I gave you my phone number?"

posted Wednesday, November 8, 2000

That Look

She gave me that look. You know. That look that says, "I would love to get to know you better." That look that you give someone on the double-take. It made my stomach drop.

I was sitting in my car at a stoplight and as I watch cars round the corner, this beat up pickup truck turns in my direction. We locked eyes. She was my age. Cute, too. Maybe the kind I'd be interested in dating if I were . . .

The right corner of my mouth smirked upwards, awkwardly, and she smiled back. Her eyes never left mine and then she was gone. I felt all warm and dizzy like someone had socked me in the face. What the hell was that? Could I possibly be attracted to a girl?

I've never tested those waters in my life, always knowing I was simply attracted to guys. Now I'm wondering if part of me hasn't woken up yet, hasn't made itself known, or been left behind in my fervor over dick.

posted Sunday, November 5, 2000

Eric

Fat fluffs of snow drift lazily to the ground, the first real snow of the season, and the change in weather is so apropos considering the changes in my life of late.

Denver was calling me so I made the trek to go clubbing last night. It was a good idea because I met someone I had been cruising for quite a while and it's funny how things seem to fall into place when you follow your heart but play with your head.

Kurt is at Westpoint this weekend for a football game and I should start seeing other people. Of course, it didn't happen. When I met Eric last night, I realized things between Kurt and I are over. Why would I be looking if I were happy with Kurt?

The light through the trees plays kaleidescopic patterns on my bedroom floor. I get lost in the sea of shapes and rerplay the final moments of the night over in my head.

"Hi, you're Chris, right?"

I turned around and hoped I didn't look as startled as I felt, but a rosy feeling of triumph welled up in my chest as I rounded to face a handsome, well-dressed guy of about 25 (later, to be discovered at 30).

"Yeah, Eric, right?" We shook hands. His handshake was firm, warm and his hands were calloused. It was the first time I had ever spoken to him yet I had known who he was for a little over a year. Eric had dated a club-acquaintance of mine for about 9 months before breaking up in early July.

The meeting seemed inevitable, whether due to familiarity or something more sublime, and the date was made. At the moment, however, I need to work things out in my life before I start anything new. The snow brings with it some answers. I've discovered that winter has the ability to bring people closer together or push a person into solitude. Experiece has taught me that I can handle either.

posted Friday, November 3, 2000

Memory Taking

Until recently I had despised taking pictures. Everywhere you travel, tourists flock to snap photos, developing little pieces of paper that represent memories of people, places, their experiences, but it always seemed rather defeating because, in the frenzy and preoccupation of getting that perfect picture, weren't they missing the experience itself?

Photos seemed like trophies to me, a way of saying, "Been there, done that." Forget whether there is any meaning behind the picture. I needed meaning behind my images, since, what good is a memory of scrambling to the top of a cathedral to get a picture of the town square if you don't bask in the experience of being there, breathing the air, feeling the rough-hemmed stone under your fingers, talking to the people, enjoying yourself?

I used to feel high and mighty about not needing to take pictures, experiencing my travels without having to worry about my camera, film, angle, lighting, subject matter, flash, or whether I was making a dumbass out of myself by balancing on a statue for a memorable shot. As the years passed, however, the mental pictures didn't last but faded. I reluctantly and cautiously purchased my first camera. Now, when I travel, I take my camera with me and I'm not ashamed to snap photos and, although I'm not impervious to the desire of snapping the perfect shot, I'm still able to separate my photo-taking from my memory-taking. Use them together, that's my advice.

posted Thursday, November 2, 2000

Fated for Failure

I was eighteen when my parents divorced. It wasn't a big deal since they had bickered, fought, bitched and argued for longer than anyone wanted to tolerate, and so we were all happy once it was over.

Four years later, I am still wondering if my relationships in life are destined for the same fate. I have trouble developing lasting bonds with other people. The longest relationship I've been in to date is the one I'm in right now and it seems to be on the downhill slide. Have I just been unlucky? Do I suffer from the effects of living a life of failed relationships?

Looking back on my short-lived dating life, I realize that I've darted from one relationship to another, never really going anywhere, never really knowing what I was looking for. I'm sure that's natural for someone my age. The more it happens, however, the more worried I begin to feel.

One of my bad habits is a tendency to break up with someone before anything serious develops. My friend Dave tells me I'm only in it for the chase and that once I get what I'm after, I lose interest. We all want what we can't have.

Then again, perhaps my ideas of successful relationships are wrong. We have been conditioned to put the monogamous relationship on a pedastal. Maybe success can be redefined by the individual, but I want a committed relationship, both sexual and social committment. A lot of people believe this type of traditional committment is unnecessary for "success" and perhaps this is my youthful idealism raring its ugly head, but I think that gay men are capable of having successfully monogamous relationships and that it's something worth striving for.

A sense of urgency set in a few years ago and I carry it to this day; although I'm only 21 and should have quite a while to figure things out, I feel as though I'm losing time. I know I can't hurry love. No, I'll just have to wait. But I want to fall in love with someone who can know me as I am now. As I age, I see pieces of myself melting away—my idealism, naivete, wonder, honesty.

Perhaps this self-centered nature is my downfall. And I'd hope to see my path with an objective eye if that is the case, to know if the blame lies with me, to know exactly where and why I fuck up and know what I can do to fix it. Sometimes the overwhelming implications of cultural and social conditioning make me believe that ignorance is bliss. But, who ever wanted ignorance?

posted Thursday, October 26, 2000

Well Deserved

His ear was right next to my mouth. Kurt was in my arms, sleeping soundly, snoring softly. It would have been so easy to say it while he was sleeping and I stiffled a laugh at the thought of re-enacting a certain Pretty Woman scene. Just say it. Just say it. Just say it.

But I couldn't do it. Not because I didn't feel it, but because I'd never said it before and wasn't sure how it would sound coming out of my mouth. I sighed and went to sleep.

I'm leaving tonight. I deserve a vacation and I don't mean that lightly. Over 70 hours have been dedicated to a lab project that was due this morning and I had two midterms Tuesday. With everything culminating to a final breaking point this morning, I am ready to carry the momentum with me to New Orleans.

So, with that said, I bid a fond adieu to you, dear reader. Take heart, I'll be back before you (or I) know it. Life happens with such subtle ferocity — and overlooked velocity — it's amazing our lives don't fade like flashes from a camera. Hold on to every second. Don't let it pass you by.

posted Monday, October 23, 2000

Overload

With all that's going on in the world, it's a wonder we're still living. Famous words of Erykah Badu. I listen with a careful ear to the news of violence in the Middle East. What would happen if we just ignored it and left them to their own devices?

I throw my bookbag over my shoulder and swallow hard, making my way into a chilly headwind. Bracing myself for the weather doesn't do any good, as the cold is born of insecurities within. I have so much to pay attention to, so much I want to pay attention to, and so much I should pay attention to, but just don't have the energy or resources or time. Information overload.

It's as though my entire week is culminating at a climactic, pinnacle point this week: I have two midterms to study for on Tuesday, a Neural Networks project due on Wednesday, and an Operating Systems project due on Thursday. I'm leaving then for a week and I still have to pack. My relationship seems to be at yet another turning point and I have a queue of upkeep piling up behind me.

Whatever happens this week in the world, this swelling ought to have a significant release. A positive release. Maybe this release of positive energy into the system will have a butterfly effect on the momentum of history. Then again, probably not.

Perspective is always skewed in the eye of the storm.

posted Friday, October 20, 2000

Mister Clean

I like clean. I need clean. As a matter of fact, the other day, as I was reflecting on this idea of cleanliness I realized that it manifests itself in a rather unusual way: when I need motivation to go to the gym and work out, I repeat to myself, "I am clean."

It never really struck me as odd but it works in any case because as soon as I start tossing that idea around in my head, I am filled with the motivation and desire to pump myself up, and believe me, when I'm done working out, I am anything but clean—a situation quickly remedied by a scalding shower and the frothy lather of antibacterial detergents.

I briefly considered this as an early sign of obsessive-compulsive behavior and, frankly, it scared me. I began to obsess over whether or not I was OC. Then I realized that my worrying was probably compounding the matter and decided to leave it alone, but to this day, I am a firm believer that one can never be too clean.

posted Thursday, October 19, 2000

Button-Fly Begone

For the first time in two years, I'm wearing a pair of zipper-fly jeans. Not for any reason other than the fact that I picked them up at the store yesterday without examining them. I've forgotten what a miracle of science the zipper is. Not only can I walk confidently without having to worry about drafty breezes where they're not wanted, I've also effectively shaved five seconds off the time I spend in the restroom.

posted Wednesday, October 18, 2000

Born to be Lazy

You know, it's surprising I'm not obese. Besides working out at the gym a few times a week, I am the epitome of laziness. I work in front of a computer for 8 hours a day, go home and sit either in front of the television or the computer until I have to go to bed, and then I sleep.

I think it's starting to get to me. As Freud once stipulated, humans have three basic needs: the need for survival, the need for sex, and the need for productivity. Although I'm being relatively productive as far as work is concerned, I feel slothful and tired. I need physical productivity too.

There have been several times in my life when I've considered dropping everything and becoming a construction worker or river guide. Granted, these things would become boring and routine as well, no doubt. Somehow, though, I'd feel better if I didn't have to drag my butt out of bed to sit at a desk all day.

Maybe it's time for a vacation. Speaking of which, only seven days until I leave for New Orleans!

posted Monday, October 16, 2000

Say What?

Driving to work this morning, I noticed a bumper sticker on a car ahead of me displaying a Denver Bronco's logo and the title "World Champions." At first this struck me as funny. I mean, sure they won the past two Superbowls, but c'mon, "World Champions"? Somehow, bumper stickers like this suggest to me that the driver of the car feels, in some way, superior because he is a fan of the winning team.

Although it makes sense in a very limited sort of way, the idea just started to piss me off. THe arrogance that sticker suggested astounds me. And it's not just the hot-headed ego we boast in often pointless, professional sports that amazes me, but the superciliousness that we display in every aspect of our culture from foreign relations, to the environment, and commercial enterprising.

I know that sometimes it's difficult for people to get past their inbred, sibling-rivalry one-upmanship, but to the driver of that car and the rest of the world that refuses to grow up and see beyond the end of their noses: "Get over yourself."

Okay. This is me getting over it right now.

posted Monday, October 9, 2000

Weekend Update

As the clock ticks down to midterms and my vacation, I am becoming increasingly distracted. On top of that, I have had to maintain this relationship and some semblance of a social life, to boot. Verdict: success, thus far.

Friday night, Kurt had a marching band competition which I attended with Lindsay. I think both of us nearly wet our pants with excitement, as neither of us have been around so many uniformed men at one time.

Saturday was less eventful, as Kurt and I went to a house party at Leif's that was quickly becoming an open invitation for a drug raid. We said our goodbyes and went home to hang out.

On Sunday, Kurt further proved that he could one-up me in just about anything as he slept a record 15 hours. We watched "Remember the Titans," which was predictable but entertaining. All in all, the weekend was a long-awaited chance for me to catch up with him and convince myself that I'm definitely with the right guy. Although it's true that absence makes the heart grow fonder, I've also been known to get unreasonably jealous and suspicious when I don't spend every waking minute with him. I'm learning, slowly.

posted Monday, October 9, 2000

Mystery Brownies

Escaping the confies of my apartment to attend class, I was surprised to look down and discover a heavily wrapped parcel at my doorstep. Opening it for a peek inside, I discovered a pie tin wrapped in tin-foil, wrapped in plastic, wrapped in a grocery bag. Contained within was a pile of richly-smelling, fudge brownies.

I wondered who could have left them, recalling that my next-door neighbor's door had slammed earlier as though someone had opened and closed it quickly. It must have been the new girls that moved in next door. I smiled to myself, the thought of girl-crushes and secret-love-brownies running through my head. But suddenly, the smile disappeared from my face.

What if they are poisoned brownies left by an evil stalker? There was no note or label to indicate their safety or nutritional content, no knock on the door to indicate the gift, just a tin of brownies on my doorstep. Very suspicious indeed.

I carefully carried them inside and set them on the table. They looked very innocent just sitting there, filling the room with their warm aroma and I wondered how such diabolical thoughts could have ever crossed my mind when they smelled so good.

I shrugged and grabbed a few before heading out the door. If I was going to die in class from boredom, I might as well speed the process with some delicious, poisoned brownies.

posted Saturday, September 30, 2000

Mental Masturbation

My mind is encumbered by the week's weight, homework, company re-org, and social frustration. Maybe it's the weight of simply becoming an adult—a transition that seemed would come so naturally only a few years ago. Now I'm at a pinnacle moment in my life where I feel a decision should be made about what I want my life to represent and what I want to achieve. I have everything I need: a budding career, money, a steady relationship, a good education, and possibilities. God, the possibilities.

I first picked up an issue of AdBusters last summer, while visiting Andrea. Not many drastic changes occur in my life, but looking back, I realize that I was a changed person the minute I picked up that magazine. I have since subscribed and acquired every back-issue. I still haven't figured out whether I like the magazine or not. I want to agree with their stance on anti-consumerism, anti-globalism, and anti-corporatism. I am the antithesis of everything the magazine represents, however. I am swiftly becoming a corporate pawn. I own a fuel-inefficent SUV. I shop the Gap and support Phillip Morris subsidaries such as Kraft and Nabisco. I am a stout Democrat. I choose plastic at the grocery store and don't recycle.

Sure, it's great that I realize these things and think about them and their effects on society and the environment, but I see myself headed down a spiral that I may not be able to stop once I'm in. Will I be able to appreciate the large quantities of money I make or grow accustomed and callous to a cushy and wasteful lifestyle? Will I be able to stop my inbred materialism before it gets the better of me?

Questions such as this put me in an ackward position. On one hand, I want to do the right thing for the environment and society by leaving my materialist lifestyle behind and donating my time and money towards reform and peace movements. On the other hand, I want to succeed in our society and have an easy life. At this point, I feel I could choose either and be relatively suited for success.

Home greets me with open arms and I sulk into my bedroom where I throw myself onto a large, expensive bed with a down comforter. My coat is left on my Pier One nightstand. Blindly, I fumble for the remote and switch on my Sony television, flipping through a number of the 500 channels I receive via satellite. I close my eyes. I need to escape.

posted Monday, September 25, 2000

Reset Plan

I was rebooted this morning. Someone went into my head and pushed hard, depressing the button labeled RESET, recessed deep in the crevice of my corpus collussum. I actually had a dream last night that I was shot in the head, twice, but was walking around normally as though nothing happened. I woke up with a pounding headache.

My boyfriend, Kurt, called last night. This is a guy that wouldn't even respond to my emails a little over a month ago and is now calling practically every night. Throw in the previous night's encounter with Jay and you have one confused puppy. It's always been this way, there are no in-betweens; I'm either forced to choose between multiple guys or there are none.

So, with today as the beginning, I'm starting the Test. It will be quick and painless. I will stick with my decision. I'm hoping that sharing this decision will force me to make good on it, as my fickleness feigns fortitude forthright.

posted Sunday, September 24, 2000

It Was the Alcohol

I was dancing in the middle of the floor when I felt hands around my waist. I pushed them off. It was a guy I had met before named Thomas. I rolled my eyes. This is what I get for going out. I said hello and gave him a hug, which he responded to by flashing a teethy grin, his breath vapid from beer and vodka.

"Youlookgreat," he slurred. I thanked him with another hug and that's when I saw the boy out of the corner of my eye, drifting lazily behind Thomas. "This is my friend Jay." He grabbed my hand and put it in Jay's.

"Yeah, we've already met before," Jay said, shooting me a smile. And we had. About six months ago. I told him how cute he was and never got the chance to get his number before leaving and hadn't seen him until tonight.

"Yeah, I thought you looked familiar," I said, shaking his hand firmly. We danced together and soon they disappeared into the crowd. I wanted to follow them, to talk to Jay, to see if I was dreaming or if he really was as cute as I remembered. I have a boyfriend, echoed the familiar voice of conscience in my head. Don't do it. Forget about it.

So, I danced alone, with my friends. The night wore on and I made my way through the bar when that familiar hand slipped around my waist again. It was Thomas.

"Youlooksogood," he slurred. He had obviously had more to drink since I first saw him and he was holding onto me for balance. I thought I would take the chance.

"Are you and Jay seeing each other?" I asked.

"No! No, I'm totally single," he said enthusiastically, flashing me that toothy grin again and squeezing my shoulder.

"I was wondering because I think Jay is really cute and was wondering if I should say anything to him." I removed his hand.

"Oh!" Thomas exlaimed, "Right on! Go for it, he's a great guy."

"Cool," I said. "I mean, I talked to him six months ago, but it never went anywhere."

"Things with Jay never go anywhere. He's really shy," Thomas said between dunks of a Corona. "You're gonna have to push it if you want it to go anywhere."

"Thanks, Thomas." I walked back onto the dancefloor and rejoined the group. Jay was in his own clique dancing away. He looked great in his green Abercrombie shirt, tucked into khaki's, bottomed out with leather hushpuppies. He had sideburns too, which was a change since six months ago. God, I wanted to talk to him, but I hesitated each time. What if he avoided me six months ago for a reason? I decided to risk it.

"Hey, I never got your number the last time we talked," I said to him, coming up from behind. He turned and smiled with a how-you-doin.

"Yeah, I'll have to give it to you before I leave tonight," he replied. We danced together for a short time and eventually made our way out to the patio where we stood in 30-degree weather making small talk.

"I have to be honest," he said. He looked me straight in the eye. "I have a boyfriend. He moved to Austira for a year, though, so I'm not sure where things stand between us. I just wanted to be upfront about that." I chuckled.

"Well, since you're being honest," I said, smirking, "so do I."

"You're just as bad as I am." He laughed.

"Yeah, I figured, since you were being honest, I should be too." I crossed my arms. I told him about Kurt and our situation. We agreed to hang out sometime during the later and talk about our 'situations' further.

Before he left, I told him I'd call him. He responded with a "definitely" and took off without even a glance in my direction.

A million thoughts ran through my head. I wondered if I did the right thing. I wonder if this is considered cheating. I've never cheated on anyone before. I don't plan on doing it, either. We hadn't done anything wrong, so I decided I would wait it out and see where things go. The night ended on a good note as I said goodbye to my friends and went home alone. Why can't these things be easier? I asked myself.

Alana Davis' voice echoed a soft reply in my head: Don't ask for the world on a plate... cause you just might get it.

posted Friday, September 22, 2000

Regularly Scheduled Programming

Exhaustion sets in over me like a blanket. I've been gazing at this screen for over twelve hours now and my eyes have begun to unfocus. Looking up, the room swims; it is a blurred, splotchy watercolor. I really haven't had any reason to go home because Kurt left for the Utah game this morning and my friends are either saving money or preoccupied. So, here I sit, still at work.

I was considering bringing my webcam so I could get a live feed with the T1 line we have. It wouldn't be as interesting as the stills I've been taking lately, but it would allow me to truly make the transition from a web presence to a web exhibitionist. Wait. Is that what I'm really aiming for here? I can't remember.

Have you ever cried at work? Everyone was crying today in my office, even some of the guys. I didn't cry. I'm a tough guy. But anyways, the reason everyone was bawling like little babies is because my manager turned in her resignation and left today. It was quite a shock because everyone believed she would be sticking around, not to mention she was the best boss this department's had for years. Maybe this is a good thing, though. Not only for her, but it leaves an opening for the new manager that will look like Jan-Michael Gambill.

As for me, I'm pretty much cemented into my position here for another two to three years. Did I mention I got new business cards? The coloring is Bone. And the lettering is something called Silian Grail.

posted Friday, September 15, 2000

Blogger Front

I stumble in on a blustery Friday, hair mussed, smelling vaguely of musky barbeque smoke. My jacket gets tossed on the floor as I land in my chair facing the computer. It hasn't been on in a while. Blogger's split-screen savior has been calling me.

Sorry I've neglected you, echoes the apology in my head. I should confess, I'm a fickle boy. It's surprising I've managed to maintain this site as long as I have considering my lackluster track record of committing to activities. Can I blame my fear of committment on being a Sagittarius or is it because I'm a guy? And now, I'm maintaining a blog and some semblance of a relationship. Maybe I'm finally growing up.

Do you remember when we were all starting our blogs? Do you remember the buzz of activity, the excitement, the feeling of unbridled potential? Do you remember presuming all bloggers were genuine and well-intentioned? Do you remember the moment you realized they are all real people, that the blogging community isn't the utopia you once dreamed but a reflection of the worlds we live in?

I went for a walk through Blogger the other day to see if I could recapture that feeling of wonder again. I want this to be the escape it once was. School is killing me. Work is making me restless and change abounds. Will I know the moment I go insane? Will I have any indication of a downward spiral or will I slip into it unknowingly?

posted Monday, September 11, 2000

Daily Renouncements

1. Drugs
2. Alcohol
3. Sex

posted Wednesday, September 6, 2000

Worked to the Bone

I've only been sitting here for four hours, but I can't take it anymore. I'm tired of working. Plus, it doesn't help that I sit here all day with a permanent hard-on. If anyone knows why this is or how to fix it, please tell me. I've tried everything and nothing seems to work. They should make some sort of anti-viagra. Anyways, I need a break. What better way to do it than blog?

posted Wednesday, September 6, 2000

Feeling the Filling

The dentist's drill is still ringing in my ears, the high-pitched bleeps and whirs echoing through my head, vibrating my jaw. If you close your eyes and let the drugs go to your head, you can almost hear the tiny alien voices trying to communicate with you.

I got my first fillings today. That's right. I had a cavity. Whew... I feel so much better now that I've said it. I've gone 21 years without having a single one and always assumed I'd never have one because I take pretty decent care of my chompers. My downfall happens to be a bad habit of grinding my teeth while I sleep. I'm forced to wear a hideous, plastic night guard that makes me look like i'm on my way to a boxing match every night before I sleep.

I'm terribly self-conscious about this because, as it happens, I have a tendency to drool. A lot. Having a huge, honkin' piece of plastic in my mouth doesn't help. I literally have dreams of being in a swamp. Therefore, I probably don't wear my night guard as much as I should and will probably end up waking one morning to find I have no teeth left. This also causes me to have nightmares about waking in a swamp with no teeth.

posted Thursday, August 31, 2000

Talk the Talk

Relief bleeds through my head like spilled beer through a cheap bar napkin. Kurt and I talked on AIM yesterday. Nothing profound—mainly small talk and catching up on the past two weeks—but it was good to know that there was still some sort of connection. One or two things were said regarding my escapade with Will. It's funny how your mind dramatizes things that you know would otherwise be insanely inane. I pictured us talking, discussing our most intimate feelings for each other, and finally embracing in a swell of empathy. Before you vomit, consider everything that has happened in the past week, and then multiply that by ten to account for the gay drama gene. Either way, we seem back to good and my faith has been restored to its former, shaky self.

posted Wednesday, August 30, 2000

Un-Progress

Two days. No word from Kurt.

I spent Monday night with Will talking things out. I don't really think it helped any because Will isn't the type of person who talks things out but rather ignores problems and hopes they'll go away. He sat on my bed for a good hour while we made chit-chat. I felt like a shrink.

"So, you know things between us can't work out." I watched him look around the room, avoiding all possible eye contact. A long pause.

"Yeah," he replied, softly.

"I have a boyfriend. You have a boyfriend..."

"Yeah."

The whole reason I had spent the weekend with him was because he needed a friend to talk to after a fight with his boyfriend of some number of years. They broke up, supposedly. And thus, the kiss between us. Now the only problem was, neither of us was truly available, so airing out what happened was a necessary step in order for us to remain friends. Could we even be friends after what happened? That line had been crossed and now we sat across from each other like shy first-graders, digging our toes into the ground.

"What do you want?" I asked him. Again, he paused for a small eternity.

"I don't know what I want, that's the problem," he said, glancing at me for a split second and then looking away.

"Because I'll tell you what you want. You want to pursue this thing with me, while maintaining the security of the relationship you currently have." I felt like I was lecturing myself. "You can't do that, you know."

"Yeah, I know," came the whisper.

Here I was, sitting and telling Will how it was and it dawned on me that I wasn't only referring to his situation but mine as well. I twas like talking into a mirror. I knew what the situation was and I knew what I had to do, I just needed to talk it out. We made our goodbyes and I told him I'd call later on in the week. Then, I went to bed.

I wonder if I've pushed Kurt away because of this. I know he's busy, but when you go from talking to someone every day to not hearing from them in a week, your mind starts to make things up. I've slowly started to let it go and maybe that's a bad thing, but I really need to be focusing on other things anyway, like school, for instance. It's my last year and after I graduate in May, I keep thinking that these things will be easier to maintain. I hope they will be, at least.

posted Monday, August 28, 2000

One Kiss

Does one kiss make me a bad person? I kissed Will last night.

It happened in the car after drinking three pitchers of beer and I know that's no excuse because I've always been a strong believer in the idea that you can control your actions no matter how fucked up you are, but it certainly lowered my inhibitions. It wasn't very long, maybe 15 seconds. My hand reached for the doorhandle, mid-kiss, and with a quick goodbye, I bolted. I left him in the car looking somewhat confused and in a window reflection, I watched his tail lights as he sped away.

Running up the steps of my apartment, my breath came in short, forced gasps. I shut the door behind me and fell against it. Tears surged forward, but I bit them back. I had to do something. I had to talk to Kurt. I threw off my jacket and stumbled over to my computer.

What the hell am I gonna say? I thought. Then another voice in my head responded: Don't write him now, you're drunk. It's going to come out all wrong.I punched out a quick email ignoring the noise in my head and the spinning room. I wanted the email to hit him hard, shake him and make him realize that I'm waiting for him. I wanted him to know how I went out with Will and secretly pretended he was Kurt. I wanted him to realize that HEY! I have people who want to get with me, but I'm turning them down because I think I'm in love with him.

My hand shook as I cautiously held the cursor over the "Send" button and closed my eyes. A million fears were running through my head like a stampede of three-year-olds. What if he freaks out? What if he gets scared? What if I never see him again? What if he laughs at this? Fuck it. This is the way I feel and I'm going to tell him because I'm sick and tired of playing these games.

Click.

posted Friday, August 25, 2000

Twisting the Knife

I work with a woman named Joani. She was diagnosed with lung cancer today, and it's pulled a shroud of sadness over the office because she is a wonderfully personable woman and everyone cares for her quite a bit.

I just walked by the back patio and, looking out the window, I saw her sitting, smoking a cigarette. I don't know why I care, because I've seen her sit out there every day for the past two years but something inside me just burned when I saw the smoke escape from her lips. I wanted to run outside and shake her.

"What's wrong with you?"

She has breast cancer, too. I wonder why she doesn't take better care of her body. Why don't most people, for that matter? We dump so many poisons and carcinogens into our mouths, every day, eating artifical sweeteners, food dye, chemicals, and fat. They wouldn't be so bad in moderation or if the majority of people would actually exercise or take a hike in the evening instead of plopping down to watch television.

My opinion is changing about issues such as "Big Tobacco's" responsibility to the people. Physical addiction or no, you have control over your actions and choices. It's just a matter of degree and how important it is to you.

posted Thursday, August 24, 2000

Touchtone Savior

Kurt called me tonight. It's funny how something as simple as hearing his voice can make everything okay. All it takes is one word from him and I'm 16 years old again with stars in my eyes. The whirlwind of doubt and torrents of suspicion that rage inside my head subside instanly like these autumn storms we've been having.

I'm not going to see him for a month. The military is his life, and I've accepted that, but I don't understand how anyone in our generation can possibly stand that kind of control over one's life. I certainly couldn't. They're practically treated like third-graders.

I want to know where this is going to go. At the same time, I don't. I want him to be happy and I want to be happy with him, but I know the two can probably never exist simultaneously.

At first, I was excited at the possibility of "bagging" a cadet. When I visit him in the dorms, he even makes the freshman greet me in the halls. There is a certain seductiveness in his authority, the way his uniform fits. Perhaps that's why I've been so infatuated with him.

Military uniforms are virtually a unanimous fetish for gay men. The uniform is decorated with honors, implying that the wearer's worth has already been proven. It also implies inclusion, appealing to many gays exposed to lifetimes of disdain and exclusion. The uniform represents authority and protection.

It's a destructive preoccupation, admittedly. After all, the military is war and death and conflict; it is society's attempt to fight fire with fire, but it is a necessary evil.

It's different now, because I realize that my wanting him has nothing to do with the military. I don't see those things when I look into his pale, green eyes, when I run my fingers through my hair, or feel his lip brush against my shoulder. Not when he whispers in my ear or jokes with me on the phone. I don't see those things when he stands in front of me, dressed in Air Force blue, hands gloved in white, rifle slung over his shoulder.

When I look at him, I don't see anything but what my mind is convincing me to see. He's not a cadet anymore. He's just the man I want to run away with.

posted Wednesday, August 23, 2000

When It Rains, It Pours

I know I said I'd try to avoid clichés but it is such a good reflection of my life right now. I am constantly complaining about not having a boyfriend (or any love interest, for that matter) and I think all my nagging pisses off the fates, who toss me random boys left and right to shut me up. It would be a likely conclusion after examining the cycles my life goes through.

Kurt and I have been together now for two months, give or take, and things seem to be going fairly well. The key word here is "seem," as appearances are deceiving. I'm unhappy because I never get to see him due to his military status.

Today, I talked to one of my friends, Will, who I've known for a while and, admittedly, have crushed on since last semester. Will is cute. Will is sweet. I want to hang out with Will, and Will wants the same, if you catch my drift. Then, Kurt's face appears somewhere in the back of my head. You know the part, the one that dreams of white picket fences and believes in gay marriage.

I hate this because I don't want to choose. Choosing implies judgement and judgement—in these cases—ultimately implies that someone is going to get hurt. I hate that. I thought I knew what I was looking for in another guy and right when I'm sure of what I want, I turn around and get smacked upside the head with something else.

I can be a player. Or, I can say no to Will, and wait to see if Kurt is as committed to us despite his military career. Or, I can bank on a feeling I have that Kurt isn't, and see where this thing with Will goes. Or, I can join a monastery. And believe me, that monastery is looking mighty good right about now.

posted Saturday, August 19, 2000

The Cell

Great movie. Interesting plot, great imagery, incredible camera work. The theater was packed, making it difficult for Kurt and I to find seats. When we finally sat down, I realized I was seething with frustration. Not at the difficulty, but at the fact that there were so many people there who had the same idea as I did.

Should I have been surprised that something, which was so appealing to me, would be just as appealing to everyone else? Why was I having such a hard time with that? I suppose I anticipated being part of a small, unique group of people who would find such a movie interesting. Then, it hit me: I was upset because I realized I was just like everyone else.

The conundrum is that, in our search for originality and creativity, we fail to see that our footsteps are falling on a well-trodden path. Nothing we say or do or think or like is ever original. And in that light, the world seems somehow less colorful. That is why true orginiality is paramount. Clichés should be avoided whenever possible.

posted Tuesday, August 15, 2000

Resistance is Futile

As of September 1st, my integration with the Corporate Collective will be complete as I leave my entry position of "Intern" and become... dun dun DUN... a "systems programmer." Of course, this is not without the usual perks of recruiter wooing, such as paid lunches, signing bonuses, new cars, estate titles... oh, ahem. I keep forgetting this isn't The Firm At any rate, my salary has received a healthy increase.

I debated telling them I was gay. I've worked here for over a year-and-a-half and they still don't know. Not that I hide it or anything, it's just that no one has ever asked. I still believe that it's something they should know now that I'm a permanent member of the group, as the majority of the empployees are quite open about their marriages and personal lives. I feel a little like I'm cheating them by introducing them to my boyfriend as my "friend." I feel like I'm cheating him. I feel like I'm cheating myself.

Only time will tell. Things usually don't work out the way I plan, but we'll see. If it's meant to be, I suppose it will happen.

posted Sunday, August 13, 2000

Knock On Wood

I never get sick. This is a phrase I say often, but never followed by a rapping of my knuckles on wood, as the wive's tale goes. On the rare occasions I do get sick, they are fast-and-furious. Case in point: this weekend. I was sick for two days and on the second day, I was admitted to the hospital.

I'm fine now. Checked out the next day with my meds, all systems go. Pretty weird. It was a weird case of strep that lasted 48 hours. I hate to say this, but I sometimes wish I got sick more often, just because I'm a whore for sympathy (well, any kind of attention for that matter). I am proud to say that I received five bouquets of flowers, eleven cards, a box of candy, two boxes of green tea, and a pony.

posted Monday, July 17, 2000

Arizona

The state was hecka hot and we had nothing but problems with our flight coming home. I'm glad to be back. Although I dreaded going on this conference, it turned out to be pretty decent, relatively entertaining, and surprisingly educational. For instance, I learned that it is a bad idea to wear brand-new Banana Republic masons for three days straight in order to break them in. I have also personally realized the cliché that absense does indeed make the heart grow fonder.

posted Monday, June 26, 2000

Smoking Kills, Chap

My friend, Natasha, recently came back from a year studying in London. Apparently, English cigarette warnings are a little more blunt than their American counterparts:

Smoking Kills.

None of this pansy-ass, Surgeon General crap about how smoking "may", "in some instances", "possibly", "cause damage." The strange thing is, however, that despite these warnings, practically everyone in Great Britain smokes and there's not the big controversy over "Big Tobacco" and industry corruption as there is over here. Maybe the companies here could learn some lessons from that honesty and make a buck or two.

posted Thursday, June 22, 2000

Hottieboy Update

Every class, I make a little progress with Nick. Not much, mind you, but any advancement is good. Last night, I was determined to spill and tell him I'm gay. After all, as Tara says, if he and I are going to be friends, I should be myself. I couldn't do it, though. The thing that amazes me is that I'm able to tell people all over the world through my website, yet the courage eludes me when it comes to these types of situations.

Leif, Nick, and I were discussing the latest homework assignment and Nick mentions all the trouble he's having so I did what any hard-up, gay man would do for his gorgeous, straight friend: I told him I'd be glad to help him out. His response: "Yeah, I'll definitely have to come over to your house one of these nights so you can work on this with me." Yow! He just invited himself over to my house. Naturally, I nodded my head like the little doggie in the back of the car window.

For the second day in a row, I offered to give him a ride to his car and, on our way over, we discussed weekend parties. My plan was to ask if he had a girlfriend, get an answer, he'd ask me the same question back, and then I'd lay it on him: "No, I'm gay." That seemed logical. Unfortunately, things didn't turn out that way, his response being, instead, "No, I don't have a girlfriend right now. I'm sick of girls. I want a challenge, but I don't want the hassles of a relationship right now."

Is it okay to read between the lines here, or is he merely stating the honest truth?

posted Tuesday, June 20, 2000

Mental Dialoge of Late

God, Nick is so fine. Where should I eat lunch today? Nick seems so straight-acting, but he's so goddamned nice to me. I could try Taco Express, I've wanted to stop by there since they opened last month. I haven't had any Mexican food for a while, either. I should just go up to Nick and confess my adoration. I hear Taco Express has really great burritos with cilantro and guacamole. Then again, I might freak him out and I wouldn't want to do that because we're working on this project together. Did I remember my homework today? If I go home to check, I'll be late to class and won't get to sit next to Nick. Maybe I can grab something to eat while I'm at home and save some money. God, Nick is so fine.

posted Wednesday, June 14, 2000

Musical Chairs

I am convinced fate is playing a part in my life right now. I walked into class today, determined to sit next to Nick and as I walk in, I chicken out and sit next to Leif. Well, it turns out the chair is broken, so I nonchalantly get up and move up a row to sit in the empty chair next to Nick, making sure to whisper to everyone as I walk by that it's broken.

I'm smooth. We start talking. I choke on my water. After coughing and spitting water on the desk, people three rows behind me are asking if I'm okay. Somehow, I manage to regain some semblance of composure and ask if he wants to work on the semester project with me and he says, "Sure." I have yet to get the digits, but that's definitely in plans for Monday.

posted Wednesday, May 31, 2000

Cherry-Limade Sports

I just wet myself. Okay, don't get excited, it just looks like I took a leak in my shorts. The problem with eating at Sonic is that you're in your car and a large cherry limeade doesn't fit in the cup holders so you have to fit it between your legs. See where this is going? Needless to say, as fate would have it, the stem of the cherry happened to get caught in the edge of the lid and very sensitive parts of my body were doused with very cold, very cherry-limey goodness. I think car makers have got it under control though. After all, cars keep getting bigger and bigger every year not just to accommodate today's fatter Americans, but also to fit today's larger, 64 oz. soft drinks. Think there's a correlation here?

posted Sunday, May 28, 2000

You Know It Is Bad, When...

Online chatting is beginning to take over my brain. I caught myself starting to incorporate chat lingo in everyday, face-to-face conversation when talking to a friend yesterday and instead of laughing at a joke he made, I mumbled "LOL." We both stopped in shock at what had just come out of my mouth. I think this is a sign that I need to take a break from the computer for a while. That being said, I'm off to party down. Happy Memorial Day!

posted Friday, May 26, 2000

Questionable Intentions

Everyone I talk to tells me that I should be more than a little suspicious of Josh's frequent trips with his rich friend Brett. Per Josh's understanding, Brett is in love with him but Josh has explained that their relationship will never progress further than friendship. That being said, they continue to travel together, Brett absorbing all expenses. The paid trip to Cancun doesn't seem strange to me, but then again, I have a different perspective on it than most of my friends. I've had rich, older friends before who've taken me on trips, snowboarding, etc. in the name of good company. That's not to say they didn't have other things on their mind, but there was no pressure and they certainly didn't act any less than respectably. I'm hoping that Josh is telling the truth and that Brett is taking him on trips with good intentions.

posted Thursday, May 25, 2000

Miracle by Onion

I volunteered to work at the local soup kitchen this weekend. The manager—an old, weathered black man—came up to me and, with a twinkle in his eye, said, "If you wanna see a miracle, stick around."

It was right out of Touched By An Angel. I wondered if there was any validity to that remark. Maybe this was a sign from God. Perhaps my volunteering was an act that would set off a string of events that would bring about a small miracle in this mountain town, cascading down through society, touching people of all cultures and nations, and ultimately bringing about world peace. I figured I'd stick around like the old man said and see if maybe magic really does happen like in Sitcomland.

Three hours and two-hundred chopped onions later, there was still no miracle. Looking down at the massive mountain of chopped bulbs in front of me, I suddenly realized I had performed a miracle: effectively chopping an onion a minute for the past three hours. I wiped away the tears from my eyes. The twinkle in his eyes must have been from the onions.

posted Friday, May 12, 2000

Dream

I am in a hotel room with a person who stole $20,000 worth of checks. I have no idea who this person is, but he is trying to kill himself by setting himself on fire. No matter what I do to stop it, he continues to burn. Before he dies, I grab a check out of his hand and ask if I can have it. It is a blank check for $2000. He furiously attempts to pursuade me not to take it and that if I did so, I would regret it. I protest that I need the money. Frustrated, he explains that the check needs to be cashed by a particular bank and if I do not fill it out correctly, I would "be sorry."

I run out of the room. A friend is waiting for me at the bank and when I show him the check, he gets an evil glint in his eye and I know not to trust him. He explains how to fill out the check, and like a machine, I do as I'm told. As I hand the check to the bank teller, I am suddenly falling from the sky and into the ocean.

A loud voice rages in my head: "If you want the money, here is what you must do. You are in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean. Your only means of survival is a bottle of Coca-Cola." A bottle materializes in thin air and kerplunks into the water in front of me. The voice continues: "There is another bottle in Nebraska. If you can reach it within 24 hours, the money is yours."

Frantically, I look around while treading water. I am in the middle of the ocean, with nothing but sky and water to the horizon. The bottle of soda slowly pulls me into the depths. I begin to swim.

posted Friday, May 5, 2000

Contagious Creativity

It was Freud who wrote once that whenever he made a discovery, he found some poet who had been there before him. There is no doubt that the action of creation is very similar to the act of dreaming. Anias Nin recognized this as well:

The difference [between dreaming and creation], however, is that [creation] includes an activity that has been difficult to analyze. It is not only the power to summon an image, but the power to compose with that image. The second faculty of active creation is what is mission from the use of drugs. Drugs induce passivity. Passivity, like the passivity of India induced by religion, is destructive to both human life and art. Why should we want to penetrate this realm of creation, of dreaming? Because it contains the key to a knowledge of ourselves. Journaling has a subliminal influence, much in the same way poetry does. It influences by contagion, empathy, like music.

posted Monday, April 24, 2000

Radio Transmissions

When I was 16, my first boyfriend and I went on a snowboarding trip together. We had been together for about six months and I didn't know it at the time, but I was madly in love with him. It's only now that I realize this. Anyway, he had this great idea to take along walkie-talkies with us on the slopes in case we got separated on the runs. We drove separate cars to Vail and, after the weekend was over, I drove back to my home and he drove back to Boulder. I looked down at the floor of my car as I was pulling into my driveway and noticed that I had accidentally kept one of the radios. I figure I would give it back to him the next weekend. That weekend passed, along with a few months, and that radio stayed on the floor of my car — my car hardly ever getting cleaned, you see. Soon, spring approached, he graduated and moved to California, and I stayed behind as I still had two more years of high school left. We lost touch, as he moved from place to place. We haven't talked since. Somehow, I've managed to hold onto that walkie-talkie. It sits in my nightstand next to my bed, and I keep it on. Every few weeks or so, I change the batteries, wondering if someday, I might get a random transmission from its orphaned twin. I've moved on and don't keep it on as a way to hold onto him, but in a romantic sense, I feel as though it's keeping part of me alive that I don't want to lose.

posted Sunday, April 23, 2000

Easter with Ethyl

Imagine waking up Easter morning still drunk off your ass. I don't think I've ever done that before. Now that I think about it, it's the first time I've ever woken up drunk, period, which is really odd because it's common knowledge that I'm not much of a drinker. Needless to say, I went to church out of guilt.

My family goes to the third largest Presbyterian church in the world, which is funny in and of itself, but they had the church decked out for a huge ceremony, including crowd control, bouncers, and priests running around with headsets attached to radios. It was like the local dance club had taken over. After the sermon—which seemed to go on for eternity—we rushed for the door. My roommate said she was pushed aside as some lady rushed outside and lit up a cigarette the minute she was out of the door. I don't smoke, but this morning's service had me jonesing for something.

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