Progression
My mind is spinning. When I called home about an hour ago, Lee told me that Mom was progressing, and that it was time to plan my trip home. She didn't offer more advice than that, just telling me that anything I decided would be okay. Mom has become more unresponsive, and the morphine is now regular. The service would be held a week from Saturday, and I am waiting for my boss to come in so I can talk to her about leaving, and about how to cover this workshop that is starting on Monday. Making a list of things to do before I go, including checking my account balance to see if I can afford the airline's "emergency fares", which aren't a discount at all, really.
Later...
I found a round-trip ticket online for $285 leaving tomorrow, if you can believe that. So I'm taking it. Work will cover me. The ex will watch Louie. Tonight I'll cancel any appointments and pack. Here we go.
6:18 PM | link
Wednesday, January 30, 2002
Offerings
Below (or is it before?) are two poems from my early twenties. Both about failed relationships (the best fodder). I'll try to just leave them be, without comment. It just seemed a good idea to include them.
7:18 PM | link
This Body
I.
What would you like me to tell you?
I have my things. A bed. A desk. Second-
hand clothes. Coffee and milk. We pour water
in a pan on the radiator. The dishes are clean, the
light spreads out across the floor, fleeting. My plant
has died from the cold through the window. A wool
blanket at night, a clean towell in the morning.
There are things to confront: the stories we've heard,
the mutual friends, the rooms of dry
air that chaps your lips. You spent years with a man,
a French intellectual, a professor across the country. A
handful of men, like colored stones, tossed up, scattered.
Men will offer parts of themselves, needless and crucial.
Impressive lies, a house for the summer. A voice,
carbonated, expectant. A boy with bright enough eyes.
So I'm here, with my thin youth. No house, only
one degree. What would I give you? Only poets
read poetry. The stories you've heard, about the
things I've done, are nothing. A bare torso, maybe,
an ex-boyfriend. I hear these things. My anger tilts
the world on its side.
We've left small towns, small places, to come here.
The things we've done are small. Our frosted
breath on your windshield, the museum artwork we
forgot to look at. A table littered with powdered cocoa
and teabags, your knees resting against mine.
I would like to write you ridiculous letters.
I would like to leave the city with you.
Instead, I grip your shoulders through
your overcoat. A restrained smile, a parting at
an elevator, a street corner, your idling car.
The winter afternoons are rounded by dark and snow;
a quick daylight, a hastened twilight. I sent you postcards
with other people's poetry, and have passed hours with
playing cards, losing games of solitaire:
ten on jack on queen on king.
February will pass. I've bought you
tea and your dogs lay on my cold feet there in your house.
I touched your knuckles, your palms, the tips of your fingers.
An hour for lunch, food wrapped in plastic, juice from glass
bottles. Between your words I stare at the hollow of your neck.
I would like to tell you this.
II.
One man looked at another man,
one set of calluses against another,
the sins that banished us from the gardens
of other people's heavens. On clear mornings
they place wafers on wet tongues. This is the body
of Christ, they say. This is the body of heaven.
Our heaven. King of kings. This is the body.
What would you give for that?
How would you prove your faith?
This is the shame of teacup people;
my shame at every night I never
slept alone; a tongued-open palm, a bright-eyed
boy who fed me cigarettes and grocery store champagne,
several months of shared sins. This is shame, what
you've handed me. This is the body, full of guilt and
red anger.
The windowsill ivy climbs my bedroom walls.
The snow, melting, runs off the
neighboring rooftops and at night I read the chapters
of Genesis, Exodus, Leviticus.
Their heaven demanded certain sacrifices, demonstrations
of affections, atonements and confessions. So, you've said.
What do we do now?
The scattered collection of men have all had their hopes,
and, left alone, they have called themselves fools. Is that so
uncommon? Even saints dream of sin.
Drunkenly, you remarked my youth was beautiful.
Plato was happy to lose the tyrant of his youth.
Eventually we've given each other nothing of value.
Content, faithful. Like I was never even there.
This is a demonstration of willful affection.
This is the body that I would become, the body
I would fold myself into and sleep, next to you and
your dogs. This is the body and these are my calluses.
This is my world-tilting anger and my desire knotted.
This is my thin, fleeting youth, these are my stories of sin
and my smile at your smile, jack on jack on king on king.
(c)1996 Michael McAllister
7:15 PM | link
There's a Man Who's Been Carrying Around My Hands
The traffic on LaSalle filters in only one direction,
exhaust rising in late February,
the sky overcast and thin.
On Sunday mornings I've pushed back the covers
and have rearranged each of my vital organs,
to distance myself from the day. Heart behind
the lungs, hidden within my stomach.
There's a man who's been carrying around my hands
as if they were his alone. Each Sunday morning
he runs them through his hair and sorts through
his closet for clothes to pull on.
He shaves with them,
dials my number with them,
drinks wine with them.
His skin is coffee and milk, heat within my hands.
There's a man who's been carrying around my hands
and when he picks apart each button on my shirt
I undress myself in front of him,
the curtains parted,
thin sky close to the earth,
the traffic continuing without us.
(c) 1996 Michael McAllister
6:28 PM | link
K-Holes on the Dancefloor
Morning. It's a newer, brighter day and I have four less teeth in my head. (The oral surgeon actually called them wizzies, as in "I know we're backed up, but I've got four wizzies to pull here). They deemed my mouth important enough to call in the star resident, rather than a student (thank God) and actually offered me the option of IV sedation, and despite my desire to be as out-of-it as possible, I chose the laughing gas (no, I didn't laugh) because the sedation would have required a new appointment, and considering my Mom's condition, I wanted to get it over with. So I'm home now, with my pain meds, my penicillin, and a few rented DVDs. Workshop or no workshop, I'm gonna give myself a sick day.
I broke down and rented a few episodes of the first season of Queer as Folk. And well, I dunno. It's neither the best queer show I've ever seen (that would probably be Pee-Wee's Playhouse), nor is it a sign of the Apocalypse. The whitebread characters and the heavy-handed issues made it hard for me to get sucked in, but I'll give it a couple more episodes. The too gay-friendly Mom prattling on about crusing, while dressed in "Got Lube?" t-shirts and P-Flag buttons rang a bit false, and I winced when Ted had his brush with GHB (has anyone on TV ever taken GHB and not passed out, had a seizure, or been raped?) However, his date's abandonment was realistic. Nothing like passing out to ruin a gay boy's party. In my time at the clubs I've seen countless poor boys abandoned by friends when the drugs hit too hard. I've driven home boys whose friends couldn't be torn from the club to help. Ah, the heady days of drug abuse and fabulousness.
Anyway, I'll admit a fascination with Brian's character because he does all the things I could never do, and gets away with it. He's the type who can walk through life, damaging all he touches, unconcerned with the repercussions. As I mentioned once before, sometimes I wish I could be that un-selfconscious. But only for a minute or so.
As this site states, the Meyers types like myself (INFJs), "... yearn to live spontaneously; it's not uncommon for INFJ actors to take on an SP (often ESTP) role." Not that I'm a devoted "type" ( I don't place too much emphasis on astrology, either), but when I came across sites like these, they described me perfectly. Anyway, not that you asked. Speaking of that, I sure wouldn't mind hearing from some readers now and then. Hit the "Mailbox" link above, and tell me about yourself. Or don't. I'm gonna keep this up, either way.
Jish asked me to say HI! to my webloggers webring neighbours.
http://birdhouse.blogspot.com; to the left of me: A GRAVEROBBER FROM HIPSVILLE.
http://damnthepacific.com; to the right of me: DAMN THE PACIFIC DOT COM.
1:11 PM | link
Tuesday, January 29, 2002
Let the swelling begin...
10:11 PM | link
It's like 9/11 all over again, except it's, like, financial, and it's in Houston, and....oh, nevermind
The other day as I was channel-surfing, I came across a news interview with a former Enron employee who, having been fortunate enough to land another job as a receptionist, started an "Enron Relief Fund" for other former co-workers. She said the stories she had been hearing about their woes pushed her into action.
"Some of them had to actually, like, go on food stamps, and it was, you know, humiliating."
Anyway, all disbelief aside, won't this be an interesting little story to follow?
(Notice me calmly not acknowledging my upcoming surgery today? I am a rock. I am an island.)
12:29 PM | link
Monday, January 28, 2002
Release Me
Due to tension over tomorrow's surgery (be thankful I'm not presenting it in streaming video on the Internet, a la Carnie Wilson), I've decided to treat myself tonight to a 12 step-free evening featuring the decadence of fried chicken and The Anniversary Party. Hey, it's got Parker Posey and Jennifer Beals in it. It's a cold and rainy night here in the city, Louie's on the bed with me, and I've already stocked up on pudding and ibuprofen for post-surgery recovery. (Hopefully they'll give me something stronger, but not "habit forming") I will absolutely NOT freak out about this. I won't. I WON'T.
11:18 PM | link
Um, like, what's my motivation?
I don't have an agenda for tonight's campfire, which may be lucky for you.
I didn't even know I had an agenda last night until I started writing. But today, I'm just a little quiet, probably out of stress. Mom's condition at home hovers at that fine line between life and death, and Lee now has friends staying round the clock. I've got this oral surgery to get through on Tuesday, and I woke today with some bronchitis. I swear, I get stressed and my body starts to backfire. Plus I have this workshop I'm coordinating at work about to start next week and I don't even know where I'll be day to day. Considering the circumstances, I'm finding it hard to be motivated at work. I just want to get through this. Escape, in every sense of the word, is just about all I can dream about. I wish I could convince myself that everything will be okay. I suppose I know it will, but it doesn't keep me from worrying.
1:05 AM | link
Sunday, January 27, 2002
Nude+gay+l(i)sbians*+teens
Ah yes, those young, free-spirited l(i)sbians*, naked and dancing. How I miss them so.
Well, however you reached the campfire, I hope you find something to enjoy, especially the l(i)sbian*-seekers from Saudi Arabia. I do it all for you.
Today marks the one-year anniversay of Diane Whipple's death. The dog mauling case created quite the sensation last year as it dredged up all sorts of lurid stories involving sleazy, unlikable lawyers adopting a white supremacist prison inmate (named "Cornfed") who helped them run a killer dog breeding operation, and with whom they supposedly were to create a bizarre sexual union. The case also made news when the victim's lesbian (yes, that's right, with an "e") partner won a court ruling to allow same-sex couples to file wrongful death lawsuits. While one of the two dogs was put down immediately after the attack, Hera, the female, has been kept alive in a tiny kennel at the city shelter down the street from my office for the last year. My boss at the animal shelter became the de facto dog behavior expert, called in to evaluate Hera and share her findings with authorities. And while she found the dog to be threatening and unpredictable (and this is a woman who has worked with thousands of dogs), the dog has been kept alive by misguided "animal rights" activists, who are so loony they believe that our society (which we've created, remember?) has a big, free, happy place waiting for such animals. These are the same nutcases who sent my boss hate mail because she dared to suggest a dangerous animal be put down. The only humane thing to do with Hera is to put her down, and it should have been done a year ago. Maybe these animal rights activists can focus their efforts away from such catastrophes, and instead concentrate on helping teach people how to raise happy, well-adjusted, social dogs. Cuz God knows, we need the help.
I swear (yeah, I know I'm ranting), it's the people that drive me absolutely nuts. I don't know how my dog trainer co-workers do it everyday, patiently counselling potential adopters on how to socialize and integrate a dog into their home comfortably, when really all they intend to do is throw it in the backyard, alone, and call it a good life. And believe me, when it comes to dogs, everyone thinks they're an expert. Especially if the last time they had a dog was when they were, like, five.
Dogs are highly social animals; their nature is to run in packs, and to deprive them of the company of their family, to be thrown in the backyard or garage alone, is plain and simple torture. And then you wonder why they have behavior problems?
And if you're intending to get a dog for "protection", have some extra cash for your new property insurance rates, and put your lawyer on speeddial, because you may just be the next in line for the great American pasttime: the lawsuit (see above).
And don't get me started on the recent hyped-up theories regarding "alpha" dogs and hierarchy, and how to teach your dog that you're the alpha in the family. Rolling a 125-lb Rottweiler on its back at a dog park surrounded by dogs (this really happened) is a pretty damn good way to get bit. And then, that's usually when you decide you've done all you can, and you drop Fifi off with us. Let me tell you, I've seen it all.
Oh, I don't know why I'm bothering you with all of this, you're obviously not the kind of trash I'm talking about, and if you were, you probably ran screaming when you saw the word "l(i)sbian*" at the top. Then again, maybe not.
*no, I don't particularly want to encourage more l(i)sbian-seekers here. We're all out.
3:44 AM | link
Friday, January 25, 2002
Brought Before the Blogging Committee
-All right, let's go through this one more time. You claim to have been "out dancing" on the evening of April 5th, 1971, but we have eyewitness accounts that place you in a hospital in Stillwater, OK, plainly being born.
-I have never set foot in Oklahoma, ever.
-Apparently you were carried. You left before you could walk.
-I did?
-Yes.
-I did. Wait, it's all coming back now...
-Let's see here (scanning notes)...various residences in Missouri, Wisconsin, and then finally Minnesota.
-Oh God it was cold.
-Your parents split up.
-I had nothing to do with it.
-Apparently they then both came out of the closet.
-I may have had something to do with that.
-Let's see...one heterosexual younger brother...
-The Black Sheep.
-And some "step-brothers and sisters", once your homosexual parents found new, previously-married lovers?
-They were such brats.
-You have resentments?
-They went to private school. Does that count?
-We'll get to that later. So, good grades...
-Thank you.
-...possibly masking an inferiority complex and a crippling desire to please...
-Well, that's presumptuous.
-...and a blossoming little booze and drug habit?
-I was 14. We were a little crazy.
-Drunk on wine coolers?
-It was the 80's.
-You wrote...poetry.
-I was sensitive. Still am. Look, am I gonna get locked up or what? If I end up as someone's bitch I'm gonna...
-Let's see...graduated in the top...eleventh percentile of your class?
-Fucking Physics.
-Accepted with scholarship to a little school in Florida no one's ever heard of?
-It wasn't Minnesota. Look at my finger...that's frostbite!
-Lots of personal drama ensued.
-Greatest time of your life, my ass.
-Majored in sociology.
-My third choice.
-Had your heart broken a couple of times, didn't ya?
-How many damn blue index cards do you have there, anyway?
-Let's see...undergraduate thesis, a return to Minneapolis...
-I'm a secret masochist. Is that in there?
-Poetry slam champion?
-It was the 90's.
-Big fish in a little pond.
-Wait, was that a question?
-...hmm, fell in love again...
-Yes...I feel more...deeply than others.
-I won't touch that one...moved together to San Francisco?
-With nothing but a dance belt and a tube of chapstick.
-Let's see...rejection from acting school...
-Goddamn primadonnas.
-Leading to a crytal methamphetamine problem?
-I was a little tired.
-Your basic recovery story...
-It seemed to be the thing to do.
-The dissolution of your relationship...
-...
-...hmm, more writing and acting...
-Nothing pornographic. Well, maybe once...
-Which brings us to blogging.
-It does?
-There are several issues with your, er...application to blog.
-Nobody ever said I needed a license.
-New restrictions. Inappropriate linkage, navel-gazing, lawsuits; that kind of thing.
-Naturally. When can I expect an answer?
-We'll call you.
3:54 PM | link
Thursday, January 24, 2002
I Wanna Be Sedated
Had my first appointment today at the dental clinic. It's part of a school, actually, which could make one a little nervous when you're facing as much work as I am, however everyone treated me well and no one told me that I would go to hell for avoiding the dentist for the last couple of years. Ahem. However, I have to have oral surgery next Tuesday to remove some impacted molars that are causing me the pain. The broken tooth seems to be lower on the totem pole at this point. I think, too, that the grants that fund the clinic will help cover some of the expenses, although I must confess I feel like a bit of an imposter since my numbers are so good, HIV or not. I wish I could have had the surgery today and just gotten it over with. I'll have a local anesthetic and nitrous oxide, so I'll have to find someone to drive me home then. I was kind of hoping they'd just sedate me so I could sleep through the whole thing. Oh well. Did I say the dental student told me I had some nice teeth, all things considered?
Enough about me. Aren't you sorry you asked?
No urgent news on the home front. Mom just gets a little weaker each day, and she's had some morphine a couple of times today. So she is not uncomfortable, and they are working closely with hospice to make her final days be at home and comfortable. I told Lee about my surgery. Life will not wait for things to get convenient. I must admit, with her getting weaker each day, I wonder if I will even be in town on Tuesday. I guess we'll just have to see. It seems appropriate that everything has to happen all at once.
I've been cancelling plans and staying home all week due to the stress and the pain. My first line of defense is almost always to shut things down and retreat for a bit, gather some information and my thoughts, then deal. I haven't been getting my usual stress-release at the gym, nor at any AA meetings.
Look, I made his link page!! (um, scroll way down..can you see it...in the fine print...yeah, there) I'd feel like the Prom Queen, except for the fact that there's so damn many of us. Ah, little did I know, back in those AIM chatting days, that you'd become the linked-stud that you are today. Well, you certainly deserve it.
5:03 PM | link
Wednesday, January 23, 2002
Backstory
This morning's update is that Mom seems less perky today than yesterday, and that she can't even raise her arm anymore. Lee seems to think she is fading, but slowly; slower than we might have expected. She's so strong. Have I mentioned that before the ALS, she and Lee had run at least twelve marathons each over the years, had traveled to Indonesia, Alaska, Africa, had climbed Mt. Kilimanjaro? Have I mentioned yet that it angers me that she somehow deserves it less than some couch potato? Nobody deserves this, I know. Still.
It's uncomfortable being here and waiting for things to get worse. Two years ago, shortly after her diagnosis, I went home for six months, intending to help take care of her. This was before I got sober. It was a truly dark period in my life, drinking alone in my little studio apartment near their house, trying to pull it together enough when she needed me. As it turned out, they didn't really need my assistance much. Between Lee's training as a nurse, and their large circle of devoted friends, her care was more than covered. And eventually she told me, after I brought it up, that she wanted me to go back to San Francisco and live my life.
And that was only the beginning. Between then and now I got sober, ended the five+ year relationship, moved out, started a new job, and tested HIV-positive. Have I said here yet that I have not told anyone in my family about the last? In light of my mother's struggle, and the fact that I am so healthy, it seems inappropriate to raise the issue. I talked to my brother last night, and he told me that he is splitting with his girlfriend who I met over Christmas. As he told me last night, the writing had been on the wall, but he didn't want to bring it up for the same reasons I've kept my silence about the HIV.
The absolute hardest part of her deterioration has been the loss of a family confidante, the woman who I thought of immediately whenever I got good news or enjoyed some success. I lost that almost two years ago when the dementia began, and yet she is still here with us, alive yet profoundly different. In a selfish way, I have struggled so, trying to accept the loss of my mother while acknowledging that she is still alive. I haven't been the best son all the time. I let weeks go by without calling, because the confidante is gone, and because her inability to communicate made one-sided phone calls painful.
However, in searching within, I know that by now I have told her everything I've wanted to. And all the words distill into an essence that spells out "I love you." There isn't much more to say beyond that.
1:03 PM | link
Tuesday, January 22, 2002
Four References to Television, and other important matters...
Not much has changed since last night. Mom's not worsening, just very very weak. I'm tired, slept poorly last night and spent much of the day full of dread. Work provided some distraction, but there's some event planning that I can't bring myself to do. Julie the Cruise Director, I'm not.
So I'm just checking in by phone occassionally to Lee or whichever friend is over at the house. I cancelled plans to stay home in case they need to reach me, which I'm happy I did since I'm pretty much good for nothing at the moment.
Have I said that I can't cry on my own? I need the catharsis of television to do that for me; i.e. I cried tonight watching an old Annie Lennox performance on SNL, and then later when Jimmy Smitts character died at the hospital in NYPD Blue reruns. Thank God I'm not home when Oprah comes on, I'd lose any semblance of integrity then.
Needless to say, I haven't composed any words for Mom's expected service, nor have I come across the perfect poem to read. I just don't want to.
10:36 PM | link
Writing Assignments They Never Gave You in School
Shortly after my last post, Lee called me from Minneapolis to tell me that Mom is having another very hard day, like the one over Christmas. Her voice broke a bit when she was talking. I wasn't sure what to say, the unspoken sentiment being, is it serious enough for me to fly home again? We agreed to talk in the morning. Apparently it's not pnemonia, Lee says it seems like Mom's just tired, and that, like her other muscles, her lungs are having a difficult time functioning. (See here if you are curious about ALS).
So it may be a long night ahead. Nothing like being thousands of miles away to intensify those feelings of powerlesness. I am feeling rather stoic, though. Life seems so, complicated, I guess. For lack of a better word. I wish I could be more descriptive, but the words are failing me. I love my mother, fiercly, but I want her suffering to end.
Just got a message from her minister now, suggesting that if I want to say something or read something at her service, to start thinking of what I'd like to say. (i.e. sum up your mother's life and what she meant to you in a few words, starting....now.)
Time to do a little soul-searching.
Good Night.
12:51 AM | link
Monday, January 21, 2002
Free+pics+of+gay+boys+crying+in+pain
Someone reached my site by typing the keywords above on Yahoo.
Hmmm. And what would have made them cry, I wonder? Rumors of a Buffy cancellation? I just can't imagine.
The Tattooed Monk is seriously considering returning to being a monk. And I do mean a real monk. He was in a Benedictine community before, and told me he's pretty sure he's going to find another one, or maybe even start his own. He's done a good job of sublimating his sexual desires, he said, so isn't too concerned about that aspect. Ah, I'd miss him. He's certainly been the most helpful to me in dealing with my mother's illness, considering he's got so much experience around dying. Maybe he could start a monastary in the Castro.
We went and saw Gosford Park with this young co-worker of his yesterday. The boy (he was like, 25 or something) was very quiet and seemed less than thrilled that I was there. I got the impression he wanted the Monk all to himself, so he ignored me in that 20-something way. (I get to say this because I am 30 now, and so much wiser). It was nice to see Helen Mirren in the movie, though. Her work in Prime Suspect is so amazing, I miss that series.
Bearbait loved the movie if only because he noticed that every object in every shot was relevant to the period. He's like that, that's his industry. I imagine all these art directors in Hollywood saying to themselves, "I got to get the right silverware, or else some fag is going to notice."
Oh yeah. Happy Birthday. I can't remember if I've ever read all the words.
7:45 PM | link
Sunday, January 20, 2002
Yes, Virginia
Ugh I have shin splints now. According to Runner's World, "shin splints most often can be captured in just four words: too much, too soon." Well, you don't have to get all snotty about it. And I like the treadmill. Guess I'm gonna have to ease down, or find another way to sweat.
A friend of mine told me he's had some work accepted by Poetry. If you know anything about prestigious lit mags, you know how hard it is to get in there. He knew I understood that, and so was therefore thrilled to be able to tell me. I think I did a good job of congratulating him, with my heart. It's too easy to let the bitter competetive unsucceessful writer take over. Still. I do believe it's been six years or so since I wrote a good poem.
Saw Under the Sand today, a beautiful and damning English/French movie about a woman whose husband disappears while she naps on a beach during their vacation. She (Charlotte Rampling) engages in some rather unhealthy denial after the months pass and it's clear he's not returning. I actually kept thinking of Krzysztof Kiesloski's Blue when I saw it, which has to be one of my most favorite movies ever. Seeing Juliette Binoche transform through that movie was a vision I won't forget. One of the reviews of Under the Sand compared it favorably to Blue, saying the latter had "art house pretensions" but I don't care, I loved it.
Rampling's character recites Virginia Woolf's suicide note in the film, and it struck me. I need to read more of her. I can't pretend that writer suicides aren't intriguing to me, and so many authors that I admire (like Michael Cunningham) admire her. Her note to her husband read:
'Dearest, I feel certain I am going mad again. I feel we can't go through another of those terrible times. And I shan't recover this time. I begin to hear voices, and I can't concentrate. So I am doing what seems the best thing to do. You have given me the greatest possible happiness. You have been in every way all that anyone could be. I don't think two people could have been happier till this terrible disease came. I can't fight any longer. I know that I am spoiling your life, that without me you could work. And you will I know. You see I can't even write this properly. I can't read. What I want to say is I owe all the happiness of my life to you. You have been entirely patient with me and incredibly good. I want to say that - everybody knows it. If anybody could have saved me it would have been you. Everything has gone from me but the certainty of your goodness. I can't go on spoiling your life any longer.
I don't think two people could have been happier than we have been.
V."
Knowing at least a sliver of that pain, I am struck at how things have changed, and yet how they haven't. There are treatments for depression now, and yet the popular image of depression is so inaccurate, so harmful, that we are still so far from saving the people we could. And what I identify most with her is that part that wants to spare others any pain or suffering. How to explain that when in the depression, death can seem the easier solution, even for the loved ones. That desire to spare others the sight of such ongoing suffering. It's an incredibly selfish act, yes, but that misses the point. It's only selfish to those untouched by depression.
This must all sound a little too scary. I'll just say I'm not going anywhere. But there have been times when it's been the simple fact of my mother's slow dying that has kept me here, for leaving life in the face of her pain would be the ultimate in selfishness. There continue to be days where I question the value of everything, and come up short. There are many days where I just hope that some pure moments of joy return. I guess you could say that I have faith they will, but I cannot imagine the form.
Ah, it's good to at least write these words.
2:31 AM | link
Friday, January 18, 2002
Endolphins
I can't get an appointment until next Thursday a.m. In the meantime, my molar will have to wait. I was gripped with such irrational fear over the whole thing that I could barely get out of bed this morning. Fortunately this place seems to have its own HIV-related dental clinic, so I can only hope the care will be good. Be gentle with me. Please.
To burn off nervous energy I spent my lunch hour at Gym #2, the hetero one (well, mostly). It's like a wet dream in there, machismo hovering in a thick cloud over the weight room. Walking distance from the UPS hub, and count 'em, three Airborne Express and two Fed-ex trucks in the parking lot. Hence, delivery men. Mucho delivery men. Watching a hoochie mama in a thong walk into the free weight area is like seeing a lamb dropped in a wolf den. Us gay boys are like a secret shameful society in there, "Yeah, I know you're one. But don't be obvious about it."
Such a refreshing change from Gym #1, which is so gay ghetto it's more obnoxious than the machismo.
After my half hour on the treadmill my endorphins came back and I'm a little more ready for life again. And I do believe I've replaced five pounds of fat with five pounds of muscle. Good boy.
5:44 PM | link
Television for Women
How tragic is it to find yourself crying as Loni Anderson recounts the story of her father dying of cancer on a Biography special on the Lifetime Channel?
Anyway, my doc gave me a referral for a dentist that I'll call tomorrow a.m. I'm still freaked, I hate going to the dentist. I'm worried I won't be able to afford even the most rudimentary work, despite my insurance. Kids, don't try crystal at home.
My "date" stood me up, too. Not that this is an ideal time to be starting relationships. Hi, yeah, nice to meet you, my mother's dying, I'm HIV-positive, my anti-depressants are killing my libido, I'm about to have oral surgery and I'm a recovering addict and alcoholic, so can we have coffee instead of a drink? No, not even poppers, sorry.
Now that I got the whining out of the way. What's your excuse?
12:41 AM | link
Thursday, January 17, 2002
Grin and Bear It
Saw Ski last night at the big 'ol Wednesday meeting (aka Show of Shows, aka the New Wednesday Night Lesbian Meeting). I've been a little reluctant to call him since I got back. Partly it's because I haven't called anyone much since the New Year and partly it's because I know I'm still infatuated. I hugged him outside and he smelled good and I wanted the embrace to last longer than it did. Later we smiled at each other across the room a few times. Darnit. No matter how much time elapses, that one still gets me. I asked him about his Dad after the meeting as he, the Tattooed Monk, and I walk into the Castro and he said that the tumor came back and grew twice as large in only 6 weeks or so, and that they've pretty much given him 1 to 6 months left to live.
I don't exactly know what two grieving people can do for each other. Grief seems to be something you just ride out, alone. You can have companions on the ride, but the grief itself is your own, nobody carries it for you. Yeah, I'd like to take care of him, and yeah I'd love to be cared for in return, but the kind of affection I feel for him may not be mutual, and of that I'm simply scared. So I do nothing, hoping that if I somehow make it through these endless days of anticipatory grief, I'll somehow be rewarded for my trouble. But I know that's not how it works.
Appropriately enough, I have tenative plans with Michael tonight, but I haven't heard from him since Sunday. I called him last, so... (so JUNIOR HIGH, dork)
I'm full of fear today because I need some dental work (actually, I need thousands of dollars worth of dental work) and due to bad childhood teeth and my years as a practicing speed addict, I am paying now for the past. Anyway, I need a dentist ASAP, so I'm looking into it. Maybe I can find someone through my doc who specializes in treating people with HIV. Wish me luck.
1:01 PM | link
Tuesday, January 15, 2002
Well, Yeah, but that's what ATM's are for...
Last night at the gym I head into the locker room to change back into my street clothes and there's this young blonde guy on his cell phone in my row of lockers. Being young and blonde, he didn't exactly grab my attention, but since he's only a few feet away I am priveleged enough to overhear his half of the conversation, or at least some of it. He's talking to someone when he gets another call, and it takes some verbal maneuvering to clue the present caller in to the fact that he's got another call. Then he clicks over.
"Hello?"
-(long pause)
"Who's this?"
-
"Hi, Steve, this is Brian"
-
"Oh, just chillin'. " He turns away from me and starts to lower his voice.
"Where are you?"
-
"something something in the Castro. Yeah."
-
"um, blonde. something and Dutch."
-
"21"
-(long pause)
"Well, we could do that, but you'd have to wire me the money."
-
"I know, but I've done that so many times and ended up getting screwed so..."
At this point I leave. I take a backward glance, only to see his back, all huddled over the phone. He might not have been 21, but he was young. On my long walk home I picture him at work, kind of. I imagine all the potential clients, horny and broke, wishing for free love.
1:25 PM | link
Monday, January 14, 2002
Wings
My entries are growing sparse, reflecting a somewhat empty interior space the past few days. I'm not sure what's wrong with me.
Lots of time playing Tomb Raider this weekend. I've played TR2 and 3 so many times that they've become habitual. Anyone want to buy me TR4 or 5? My birthday's in April (5th).
Talked to Michael last night when I forced myself to get on the phone and return some calls. I was in the mood to roll around some more, but he was sore from going to the gym and running all over SOMA all weekend. Imagine that. I was a little bummed. But it made me wonder again what I think I'm looking for.
I used to be a rather depressive romantic, back in my early twenties when unrequited love was a great poetic issue. Hence the depression, and my reservation at returning to that territory. But romance, love it or spite it, can keep one tethered more tightly to each day. We all know it. Some people want to fill the world with silly love songs. And what's wrong with that, I'd like to know?
I tell myself to accept life's harsh realities, and not to gild the lily. But where's the poetry in that?
I can picture a monastic life for myself. And then I hear a song, Springsteen singing "Valentine's Day":
"I'm driving a big lazy car
rushin' up the highway in the dark
I got one hand steady on the wheel
and one hand's tremblin over my heart
It's pounding baby
like it's gonna bust right on through
And it ain't gonna stop
till I'm alone again with you"
5:23 PM | link
Friday, January 11, 2002
The Make-Out Room
It went well, I'd say.
He came over to the house (nice face, a few pounds heavier than in his pic, but that doesn't bug me much in the short term) and we walked over to the Valencia corridor, and wandered into a tapas restaurant. The food was good, but the portions were small and the brownie cake at the end needed a small pick axe to consume (it blew, he said, later)
Anyway, he's a nice guy, in his forties, from Rhode Island (sexy East Coast accent). His name is also Michael. He's got a good sense of humor and picked up on the fact that I'm in recovery pretty quickly. Has his own apartment in SOMA but is looking for both a different job and a different apartment.
I realize that I am writing a bit dispassionately about this.
We came back to my place, where all three roommates and the various animals were up and about. Edie spooky-barked at him as he came in the house, and J pulled her back into his room. So I show him my room, introduce him to Louie and Bryant the cat, and pretty soon we are making out on the bed while the cat climbs all over us and the other dogs are barking and people are walking up and down the hallway. It was pretty funny, actually, and we laughed. I have to admit, it was very very nice making out with him. We got pretty riled up but left our pants on. He's pretty hugely endowed, and I was not quite ready to go there, shall we say. He told me he was respecting the line that was unofficially drawn, although I hadn't said anything about it. But it seemed to be a good rule, and we made out some more, leaving the rest for later. He left by ten. I think we'll see each other again this weekend.
I don't really want to be one of those men other guys always complain about, which is another way of saying I don't forsee a committment to this guy, although I could be proven wrong. In the light of day I don't know what I want, but in the heat of the moment I do. The challenge then is to live in a way that honors both, if possible. And not to be an asshole about it, either.
1:38 PM | link
Thursday, January 10, 2002
I have a date tonight, someone I met online, and I'm nervous.
I feel out-of-practice and unsure. Unsure if I'm up for this, unsure if he (or I) will live up to our pics, unsure if I'll have something stuck in my teeth. I kind of let the easy momentum of chatting online carry me on to an actual date, and I'm wondering if I meant for any of it to actually happen. As one friend will testify, I kind of prefer the literary relationships.
Oh well. Here goes.
7:59 PM | link
Tuesday, January 08, 2002
Thank God for Michael Jackson
Last night at Gold's I am finishing up a half-hour stint on the treadmill, when all of a sudden, 'Wanna Be Starting Something" comes on over the speakers, and it's like a shot of adrenalin, carrying me the last five minutes with a smile on my face. Ma ma say ma ma saw ma ma mu sah, ma ma say ma ma saw ma ma mu sah. I don't care who saw me, I was singing along.
While I was writing yesterday's philosophic novel, I managed to burn out a pot of rice on the stove. How fitting.
Today, in therapy (yes, I go) I talked for a long time, filling him in on my trip to Minneapolis and the "crisis", and then he asked me after a long pause how our time could be best spent, with our sessions just giving me a chance to talk, or as a way for him to help me find ways to cope with "life", as it were. But after a minute I realized that I'm NOT drowning in misery or depression. I don't really need rescuing, because I have myself pretty well taken care of. This blog has helped tremendously, I think, providing a focus and rewarding myself with hard evidence that I AM writing again.
Tonight, as I walked home from the gym, I passed by Mission Dolores and they had set twenty-three small Christmas trees (all under 5' tall) out on the sidewalk, one after another, in a long string down the length of the sidewalk.
2:12 AM | link
Sunday, January 06, 2002
Kill the Buddah
TV I’ve watched in the last 24 hours:
Poltergeist
Children of the Corn
Nightmare on Elm Street, Part 3: Dream Warriors
Prom Night (Father to son: “C’mon. For a guy who’s so fast on the disco floor, you sure are slow.”)
I love scary movies. I just wish they’d make em better.
Last night after the candlelight meeting, the Tattooed Monk and I stroll slowly through the Castro. He’s aware enough to see that I’m not quite all there. As we pass the bus shelter on 18th St, something catches my eye. Someone has torn out a page of the phonebook from the payphone nearby and has fixed it to the plexiglass window of the shelter with a piece of gum. On it, they’ve scrawled “KILL ALL FAGGOTS”.
Maybe I am grieving, if only a little. This isn’t quite depression, it’s probably sadness. I look out at the world from an interior alcove, unwilling, I guess, to engage much. It was good to talk to TM, as he realizes the dilemma of a slow dying; the world won’t validate your loss until the actual death takes place. In the meantime there’s some other kind of existence to experience; one slightly removed from the ongoing reality surrounding you.
What I can see, lately, is that I’m envious of others, the ones who seem to blithely walk through their days unburdened; gregarious and earnest, the world is their playground. It’s like how straight boys seemed to me growing up; they moved and engaged with the world as though it was (and it was) made for them. I’m envious, but as I told TM, I wouldn’t trade it for what I’ve got. It’s certainly been a crazy kind of life for the last couple of years: a life extinguisihing through drugs and whiskey, giving that up for the raw ache of early sobriety, the end of my five year relationship, testing positive, gradually losing my mom over the course of months and months. And yet. I wouldn’t trade it, for it’s mine.
The Monk has lost both parents, has helped a boyfriend through his dying, and now has a sister and another ex dying; both from cancer. Why is it, I asked him last night, that some of us seem to get more than our fair share of grief and suffering? He told me he’s stopped long ago trying to figure out what a fair share is. Believing that God only hands you as much as you can take is to believe in a sadistic God. One who parcels out pain like a game. Instead, he said, God does not create suffering, but walks with you through suffering. If you want to believe in that God, that is. And I do.
I do envy the gregarious. I wonder if I carry this life a little too heavy around the shoulders. It helps, though, to have this campfire.
Looking back on this, I feel obliged now to temper my words a bit. In the wake of wars, of AIDS, of what we’ve come to call “September Eleventh”, my own suffering pales. Of course, I want to say, my burden is lighter than those carried by others. I don’t mean to be saying “Look at all my pain.” Rather, I want to join those other voices that have asked, since the world was young, “Why do we suffer?” and “How do we make it through?”
Maybe that’s why I like scary movies.
6:23 PM | link
Friday, January 04, 2002
"Happiness is not a destination, it's the Journey"*
I've been trying out various templates for the Campfire, trying to fit the mood while also retaining some of the more extensive link listings that the obnoxious templates have. I'm still novice to HTML, so templates have to suffice for now.
I'm at a loss the last few days as to how to write, or what to write. I feel a little empty, or maybe just detached. I'm on the edge of engaging in all of my classic depressive behaviors; isolation, lethargy, silence. But I've hit the gym the last three days, if for no other reason than I'm a little disgusted at the weight I gained after starting the Remeron and the lack of exercise I got in Minneapolis. I don't necessarily feel hopeless, which is the worst aspect of the depression. Hopeless, no. Confused, yes.
Somehow I feel cut off from myself, that I am just existing; unwilling or unable to engage in my friendships, in work, at home, etc. Mom's crisis, for lack of a better phrase, has left me a little confused as to how to proceed with life now that she has grown a bit stronger and continues to live her own life. I guess I had convinced myself that the end was near, that by now I'd be grieving an actual death, rather than resuming my usual routine. I feel stuck between the two, unable to grieve yet also unwilling to pretend that everything is the same.
It's okay, though. Campfires gain strength from silence.
*inspirational poster tacked to the wall of my childhood Sunday School classroom
7:07 PM | link
Tuesday, January 01, 2002
Happy New Year
Back in SF now. Hanging around in Minneapolis was beginning to feel a little too morbid, i.e. writer-as-vulture, so after a three and a half hour delay at the Minneapolis airport I land in a drizzly, dark San Francisco, happy to be home.
The first thing Bearbait says as I hug him at the baggage claim is "I see you've been eating."
Pause for gasp of betrayal. Bitch.
You try sitting around a house in ten degree weather while a never-ending procession of family, friends and neighbors drop off food rich in carbs and sugar, I want to say.
Instead I let it simmer on my backstove for awhile, and ask him to take me to The Ex's, where Louie's been staying. It's good to see my dog again. Traversing the terrain I have lately, it's been lonely without companionship.
Monday I go into work and pretend that I care for awhile, slowly digging through the pile that has accumulated on my desk. I'm getting wanderlust, and the trip to Mpls only made it worse. I daydream about packing up a car with Louie and driving through parts of America I've never seen, camping along the way. I never really picture anyone with me, simply because everyone I know has to work for a living. Including me. I burn a bit, wishing America would carve a little place for grieving out of its shape. America, Open for Business. Indeed.
Last night the Tattooed Monk, some friends and I go out to Green Gulch Farm, a Zen Center off of Highway 1 on the way to Stinson Beach. It was a beautiful place, tucked down amid the trees near the ocean. A couple hundred people gathered in the meditation hall for what I've never done; a four-hour sitting meditation before midnight. Luckily it was divided up by segments of 25 minutes, followed by small breaks. At ten we broke for a quick meal of noodles and miso soup, then took lotus candles (colored tissue folded around a floating candle), and set them adrift in the pond outside the meditation hall. Very California, I know, but it was kind of perfect for where my head was lingering.
After the final hours of meditation, we gather around a bonfire outside, and people throw scraps of paper into the flames, upon which are written dreams or fears. I scribble something about my mom's suffering, and about wanting clarity for my direction in life, and it burns quickly with the others.
Before I left Minneapolis, I sat with Mom alone for a bit. I told her that I was glad she was doing better, that she'd see the New Year and a bit more of life. "But I know it must be frustrating being trapped in this body, and if you want to go, I want you to know that it's okay, you can go if I'm not here, and I'll be okay," which may or may not have been very convincing, as I cried throughout. She reached out her weak, stickly arms and I pulled them around me for a bit.
3:18 PM | link
