feliz cumpleanos

I’m looking for a way into this and I can’t find it.

Sitting down to write an “important” post is an exercise in futility. And if there’s anything I’ve learned over the last year, it’s that it’s all about the process, baby. Just write, and let the rest take care of itself. So, write. Right.

A year ago I was a little less happy than I am today. I was living in a flat in the Mission with three other guys, three other dogs, two cats, no privacy. One of my roommates, who was also a co-worker, was an emotional black hole who sucked the energy out of every room he ever entered. We didn’t like each other much (he actually got fired yesterday for time card fraud or something and I can’t say I’m torn up over it). Those of you who’ve been stopping by this little campfire for awhile know the rest of my litany of pain and trouble: i.e. early sobriety, HIV diagnosis, my mother’s terminal illness. She was clearly near the end. I was depressed and out of shape. I hadn’t written much in the last six years.

Then I received an email from a friend with a link to his new online diary. Though I had read, off and on, the blogs of two other men for the past couple of years, it was my friend’s email that inspired DogPoet. With Blogger I didn’t need to know HTML or how to build a website. When Blogger asked me for a title, I put two odd words together in the hopes that no one else had a blog called DogPoet. To be honest, I have only one poem about my dog, but I guess that’s enough.

And so it began. Back then I would get two or three hits a day. I remember the first day I got thirty hits! Most of them were people in Saudi Arabia who didn’t know how to spell the word “lesbian” when Googling. Jonno graciously linked me when he saw that I intended to stick with it. I figured out some basic HTML, linked to a few blogs. Maybe four or five. A couple linked back. And it grew from there.

DogPoet, you saved my butt last winter. You were there when my mom died. You went with me to Minneapolis for Christmas and then later for the funeral, and you kept me company. You let me write some stupid shit sometimes, and helped me grow up a little along the way. It was always you, my constant companion, and to you I cried and laughed and threw tantrums.

And it was you, my gentle and perverted reader, who kept me coming back. I couldn’t let two or three days pass without a post. And many of you linked to me (oh, how giddy I got, each and every time) and many of you wrote to me and encouraged me. I met some of you in real life, and I know I’ll meet some more. I get many more visitors than email, though, so if you need a reason to say hello, you’ve got one. Say hello.

During this year I moved into a wonderfully quiet apartment with my own bathroom, a view, and plenty of street parking available. For much less money than I was paying in the Mission. I started working out again, lost some fat, gained some muscle, went out on a few dates. I celebrated two years of sobriety and recently started sponsoring two men in AA, which basically means they call me everyday and I listen for long stretches of time, saying “uh huh”, “right”, and “you’re doing great.” I signed up for a writing class through Berkeley extension that I will finish on Monday. I somewhat gracefully handled an unrequited attraction for my friend Ski. I’ve made some great friends along the way who keep me company, make me laugh, and challenge every single notion I have about being a grown-up. I bought a car. I paid off my credit card debt. I kept my job through four or five rounds of lay-offs. My t-cells are high, my viral load is low. I’ve successfully handled depression, with a lot of help. And damnit, DogPoet, you got me writing again. Yes, I can look back now and I have a year’s worth of posts, some stupid, some not so stupid. It’s helped, more than you’ll ever know. I have this feeling, no, fuck that, it’s faith, that life is just getting better and better.

Today DogPoet turns one. Which is, like, eighty-four in blog years. I hope you’ll stick around.

No, but this song does…

I’m warning you now: navel-gazing therapeutic bullshit ahead.  Click elsewhere if you can’t stand trainwrecks.  With that said, I want to openly declare my present love for music, people, and writing who aren’t afraid to show their hearts.  Cynicism will be the death of all art, unless there continue to be people who fight the good fight.  More creators and less critics.  Who would we be without the expression of honest emotion?  A cog in the corporate wheel, another film critic, a consumer.  All I want to do lately is read, write, listen to music, hike in the woods, and fuck.  Yes, really.

“Despite what your high school English teacher may have told you, literature does not make us or our society better. To be seduced by fiction is to live at cross-purposes with most of the really important things in life. I’ve never entirely succumbed to a story without blowing off housework, neglecting social obligations and flubbing career-critical deadlines.”

“You Read Your Book and I’ll Read Mine”

By JUDITH SHULEVITZ

I feel I am living at cross-purposes with most of the really important things in life.  The irony being that they’re not important; the job, the bills, the social upkeep.  I keep fantasizing about escape, which is really a fantasy about death, or a kind of death at least.  Not the morbid kind; just the unrealistic.

My mind is in a strange little orbit lately.  My first year of sobriety was basically about survival; getting clean, breaking up with the Ex, starting a new job, testing HIV-positive, watching my mother’s health deteriorate knowing there wouldn’t be a cure in time to save her.  I kept holding on through it, held on through her death in February.  I cried at her memorial, for the first time in months.  Now it seems like grief is under a single layer of my skin; welling up after all my successful avoidance.  I never felt my break-up; not really.  It was a matter of details; finding a new apartment, packing, moving, AA meetings at night.  I never shed a tear over him.  I didn’t think about him.  Sometimes I would marvel over the sheer absence of drama.  He’d come over to get the dog and stand too close and smile that let’s-fuck smile and I couldn’t care less, couldn’t want him less.  Now it feels more like a dead clump of cells in my heart.  Me; the guy who tattooed a heart on his sleeve.

Attended a dinner party for the man whose dog I watched last week.  His boyfriend made faralitos and placed them all around the backyard and we sat out on the patio in the cool night until long after dark, the lights glowing around us.  A couple of other writers attended, and the conversation was easy and fun.  Louie sat near the closest hand of food at all times.

My friend was plugging the Campfire, so if any of the dinner guests are reading this, welcome.  I made a remark that night, which is true, that I am grateful to be writing again.  So grateful I could cry.  If you were to stand near me for long enough, you’d most likely end up drenched.

Oh, hell.  Others say it better:

“Seriously, Tommy, yeah.  I believe that love is immortal.”

“How is love immortal?”

“I don’t know, perhaps because life creates something that was not there before.”

“What, like procreation?”

“Yeah, but not only…”

“What?  Like recreation!”

“Stop! You come in here crying and you want to recreate with me!” (pause) “Maybe just…creation.”

When Search Results Attack

I owe some of you an apology. After “l(i)sbian” (my intentional alteration of a ridiculously common misspelling of the word for women who dig other women), the most common words entered into search engines that in turn list my site are, in tandem, “HIV” and “dating”.

Now, each time one of you stumbles upon the Campfire in hopes of, I don’t know, personals, advice, testimonials, etc, I feel like a gay boy version of Linda Hunt. You see, I haven’t really been dating. I think I may have entered “dating” as a keyword for Yahoo or Google when describing my site, but you have to understand that I imagined my newly-single life would be peppered with various social invitations, parting glances, dance card vacancies, and back-seat fumblings. A self-fulfilling prophecy, if you will. But you won’t.

I’m not ugly. I can carry on a conversation. I’m on somewhat familiar terms with midweight dumbbells (hah! aren’t we all?). I have a job, a dog, a checking account, deodorant, new shoes, and a quiet yet charming personality. I can drive a stick shift. I don’t dance like a white boy.

I tested positive a little less than a year ago. I’ve been on three dates since then; the most recent was two months ago. All lacked a certain spark. And given the year I’ve had, my Members Only baggage may have seemed a bit cumbersome to the casual observer. Not that I called them again, either.

I’ve had some challenging times lately. Because there were many mornings when I preferred a dark bedroom and Tomb Raider 3 over getting up and taking a shower, my health care professional seemed to think I needed a little, shall we say, assistance. Other people call them drugs. Little pills that, after weeks (and weeks) of patience, whipped the grey veil from my head so that I could see the world a little more clearly. I’ve tried many varieties, alone and in combination: Prozac, Paxil, Serzone, Wellbutrin, Remeron. I’ve discovered that the most effective pills also chip away at my poor libido. During Major Life Changes, this wasn’t really a bad thing. Putting “horny” on the back burners was liberating. That way I didn’t wind up in disgraceful situations with questionable characters. At least, not as often. Don’t get me wrong; when those three boys got naked (individually, of course), I quickly got naked too. Everything functioned just fine.

I have moments, though, where from this vantage point I can look around me, and see how sex makes the rest of the world go ’round. And sometimes I feel left out. And I wonder if I’m out of the game. But then I’ll be ordering dinner at a restaurant with some friends and a studly shaved-head boy with big dark eyes and a Harley t-shirt will walk by and look at me for a second longer than necessary, and it quickens my pulse, stops my breath, stirs the nerves south of my stomach.

It’s actually pretty refreshing. My libido doesn’t demand more than it’s fair share of time and energy. When I see a hottie, I know he’s a hottie, not a Plastic Boy disguised as a hottie. I have patience. I’m walking around with this faith. Can you believe it? I just know I’ll be all right. It’ll happen again. I don’t develop bloodshot eyes and carpal tunnel syndrome from “five more minutes” chat room visits anymore. I don’t waste away in a club with an overpriced cover, and I don’t have fleeting encounters that leave me vaguely disapponted. I have this crazy idea that if I just continue living my life, I might run into someone interesting.

Which doesn’t bode well for those of you thinking I have something to say (or show) about dating. No gratuitous nudity here. I have a simple life; adjusting to loss, cleaning up the past, forging friendships. I don’t know if I have enough to give someone else yet, but I’m not worried. It’s coming. Or he is. So to speak.

Being Normal

My doctor calls last night, having read in my records that my mother died. I assume my psychaitrist recorded that in my notes. I have a crack team of specialists handling my physical and mental care, but I’m pleasantly surprised at his empathy. He’s a good man. He also tells me that my latest lab results are in and my T-cells are now up to 1100. That’s an amazing number. “Whatever you’re doing, keep doing it.” I continue to feel like an HIV imposter.

25 Minutes

-I’m wondering where you are fitting the HIV into your life, what does it mean to you?
-(long pause)…It don’t dwell on it much.
-(silence)
-It’s funny you should ask that, I was just thinking about it. The other day I was talking to a friend of mine who was positive, who got it when his boyfriend fucked around and brought it home…he’s angry about it, betrayed. Me, I’m not angry, I just know I got it from my own actions.
-(silence)
-Honestly, I worry more about the dental work I’m getting done than I do about the HIV.
-(silence)
-I guess…I guess I don’t want it to be a part of my identity…you know, how some people make it a big part of their lives, they construct their identity around being positive. I don’t want to do that.
-(silence)
-It seems like a waste of time, or energy, to think about it. I mean, I have it, that’s all behind me, you can’t go back.
-(pause) I’m wondering about the difference you made between you and your friend, you spoke of it as though you deserve it more than he does.
-(silence)
-Yeah, I know. I don’t know.
-(silence)
-(long pause, then a smile)
-What’s the smile for?
-I feel like you’re not saying anything because you think that I’m in some sort of denial, and you’re waiting for me to acknowledge it.
-(shakes head) No, I’m just listening.
-I mean, my numbers are really good, I guess if they weren’t, I’d think about it. And I’m not really having a lot of sex, so it doesn’t come up. (Maybe I’m not having sex because of all this crap)
-(silence)
-(sighs) I can’t seem to keep my mind on one thing.
-Yes, I’ve been trying to follow your train of thought and it seems uncertain.
-I have a headache.
-Did you have it when you came in, or did you just get it now?
-I had it when I came in, but it suddenly got a lot worse just now.
-(silence) If you could do anything with this session that you wanted, what would it be?
-Honestly, I’d just go home.
-(long pause) Well, I’m okay with ending early if you want.
-Yeah, I can’t think. I just need a good night’s sleep I think.
-Okay.
-(long pause) Okay then. (gets up) Thanks, I’ll see you next week.

Dirty Laundry

We can all breathe now. Then again, maybe we can’t.

I read with interest the Tin Man’s decision to retire from blogging. And I must say, each reason he listed is something I’ve questioned, in the short time the Campfire’s been burning. I suppose the issues blogging raise aren’t too-well formed yet for me, but I can sense their growing forms. The issue of living vs. living-while-continually-thinking-in-the-back-of-your-head-of-how-to-blog-the-events-of-one’s-life, for example. Or whether or not blogging can enhance or kill one’s other forms of writing. I don’t have a fraction of the readers he has garnered since the beginning of his blog, so the issue of airing one’s laundry in the eyesight of hundreds of people isn’t critical to me yet. However, the question of how much or little to say; which people to mention and which I shouldn’t; whether I should or shouldn’t talk about being sober, HIV-poz, a freak; whether I should continue being truthful and maybe too sentimental or rather go the way of being glib, clever, and slick; all of these I question daily. But not for too long, because the longer I do, the less I’m inclined to write, and that was the whole idea, to keep writing. And something about putting it up where anyone can see, something about a semi-anonymous audience, something about being a part of an odd little subculture has helped me keep writing, which is the point. For now.

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.

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?

Holiday Hospital Cheer
Transcribed: “I’ve got an hour to kill, having discovered too late that the little neighborhood store that sells stuff like sugar skulls and tin angels for the Christmas tree is closed on Mondays. So I’m sitting outside SF General Hospital as the sun sets, waiting for my doctor appointment. Twin Peaks and the Sutro Tower standing silhouette, the hills are dark paper and pinpricks through them gleam. Long strings of headlights flow down the hills in thin rivers. The trees along the hospital roads are lit. My breath rises. People trickle out of the buildings, for a moment some of them look where I’m looking, and then turn and smile at me.

“I’m feeling a little mute, maybe I blew a fuse after the last entry. Maybe it’s that when I called home yesterday, Lee told me that Mom’s not doing well. Very weak and tired, the brightness in her eyes dimmed. I’m glad I’m going home.”

Later. T-cells 909. Viral Load 170.

On the bell curve of his patients, I’m much better off than most. I could go for years without meds, he says, cautiously optimistic. I’m so healthy, in fact, that we just sort of smile at each other, not much to say.

Most uncomfortable moment: When he asks if I’m having sex. I say no. He says how long has it been and I have to think. Hard. A couple of months, I say.

I get the third Hepatitis B vaccine shot, all caught up there. I catch the 33 going back to the gym. On the bus there’s a girl in her twenties with bleached blonde hair. She’s wearing a surgical mask and hopital clothes, like pajamas. She’s wearing platform shoes. A tube snakes out of her bandaged arm and wraps around her wrist. She pulls out a compact and powders her nose and the cheekbones above the mask.

Ski leaves for New Jersey the same morning I leave for Minneapolis, early. We make plans to take a cab out to the airport together. I haven’t flown since August.

Poz
Just when I thought Sandra Bernhard had lost her edge, her show at the Warfield tonight tore the shit up. I laughed so hard I cried and sweated in my dumb sweater up there in the balcony with all the other gay boys. Despite a last-minute jab at AA (such an easy target, I mean, c’mon, who in their right mind would choose to sit in a church basement on a folding chair drinking bad coffee on their nights off? We do it cuz the shit works. ), she manages to win me back by pulling our her rendition of “Little Red Corvette”. And besides, anytime she talks about Stevie Nicks she makes me fall out. Like a Gypsy. Like Rhiannon.

On my lunch hour went and got my blood drawn. My numbers have been good, hope they stay that way. It’s odd to be a statistic, to be on the other side of the fence. To write my undergraduate thesis on AIDS as a negative boy, and now, several years later, to carry “it” around with me. To be one of the young ones, the ones who should have known better. I don’t think I expected that the words “DD Free, UB2″ would have the affect they do on me today. If half of this city is positive, there are a hell of a lot of guys playing dumb, keeping secrets, or just plain hating who they are. Cuz too many pretend they are negative for the numbers to add up. Why don’t safe sex campaigns work better? Because we don’t understand sex and sexuality; the drive, the pull, the thing that makes us do the things we do, in that heat, in that dark, blissful space between two people. I don’t understand it. It’s power knocks me speechless.