D O G P O E T

Well, I guess there IS that Stone Cold guy…

Exchange on the street, on my walk to work:

Man walking towards me: “SIR! DO YOU LIKE WWF WRESTLING??”
Me: “Um, no.”
Man: “WHAT??”
Me: “NO.”
Man: “WHAT??”

Hedwig has been on repeat on my CD player at work (quietly) since I bought it this week on payday. (I know I am seriously behind on this phenomenon, forgive me.) I’m almost afraid to shut it off or change it, like something terrible would happen if I did. I bet she’d like that.

A lawyer working (volunteering?) on behalf of the National Gay and Lesbian Task Force emailed me with some suggestions of people/groups to contact regarding the discrimination against my mother’s partner. I’ll just take each step carefully, and see where it leads me.

Cute bodybuilder boy has been fielding each of my fly balls as I try to figure out ways NOT to get naked with him (am I a twisted soul, or what?) My latest attempt was to inform him of my HIV status. He wrote back, “We talked about that before I think, I am + too. ” Silly me. It seems I have a date tomorrow night. I need a haircut and a new body by tomorrow. Any suggestions?

Coincidentally, a package arrived from Lee yesterday. A framed photo of my mother, her dog and her cat under each arm, smiling so wide. The same photo that was on the alter during her service, the one I couldn’t look at for very long. In her card, Lee writes that she’s received well over 150 cards from friends, strangers, co-workers, etc, expressing their sympathy. The fact that so many people thought so highly of her makes me proud, makes me want to emulate her, makes me angry that she’s just…gone.

I had worried that without my mother as the glue holding our odd little family together, my brother and I would drift away from Lee and her kids. But as we talked on the phone yesterday, I sensed a connection that was new, that was raw. She said the hardest days came after the house emptied of family and friends and she was there, alone. I told her about me crying as I watched the Olympics, which made her cry. Right or wrong, our new connection is the bitter, sharp-edged absence of my mother.

Oh God how could you NOT blog it?

Adrenalin

This guy makes me laugh out loud (in an entirely good way). This guy is too good to me. I guess men ain’t all bad.

I woke this morning at six, quite suddenly. Something about the night of my mother’s death, something I’ve only mentioned once, in passing, hooked into my bloodstream, churning out adrenalin and pushing me out of bed.

My mother and her partner were together for nearly 20 years, following my parent’s divorce. Lee and my mother stuck together through times I thought would surely tear them away from each other; they raised four children from elementary school through college, they traveled the world together and ran marathons and volunteered and created a home that’s still the envy of us kids. They stuck it through when my mother began to exhibit signs of a serious neurological problem, stuck it through when such symptoms were not yet classifiable, when my mother was fired because her work had deteriorated (keep writing, Michael) and when for several months they thought it might be Parkinson’s. They stuck it through when the diagnosis was conclusively ALS, a much more serious and cruel disease. And they stuck it through as my mom’s body began to shut down, as the muscles that controlled her swallowing and speaking failed, taking away her voice and her ability to eat. They stuck it through as my mom had two surgeries; one for a stomach tube and the other for a tracheostomy. They stuck it through as her legs gave out, necessitating a walker then a manual wheelchair and then an electric wheelchair. They stuck it through as all her muscles gradually stopped working and my mother was confined most days to the bed they had moved downstairs from their bedroom. They stuck it through until the very last second, when my mother’s lungs could no longer sustain her, and she died, surrounded by friends.

Enter the Hennepin County (MN) coroner, who came to the house, filled out his paperwork, and then refused to release my mother’s body to her partner of nearly 20 years because she was not considered “next of kin”. He left only because I was on my way from the airport, and only after posting a cop car outside the house.

I know the coroner was not to blame. I know there are laws, and he was following the law. I know there are many hurdles facing any opponent to these laws. I woke this morning wanting, somehow, to fight. I don’t know how to do this, but I will find out. If you have some advice, let me know.

I never wanted to be part of your stupid group anyway…

Then again, at least I’m not a teenage girl.

Men

I woke and stumbled around the house feeling scattered, wandering into rooms forgetting things, my head about five seconds behind my body. I walked out of the house with Louie and realized I left the leash inside, etc. We walked to work in the warm sunlight and I tried to shake off this sense of dread I’ve had, recurrently, since my mother’s health first went south. I’m feeling behind on life and frankly, tired of trying to meet it half-way. I simply want to retreat, escape, slip away in a puff of smoke.

I’m realizing that the cute bodybuilder boy’s invitation to get naked sometime has me nervous because it’s an invitation to a performance, one that’s been out of my repertoire for awhile. I’m flattered and interested and yet scared to go there, scared because I don’t want a performance; I want a union of sorts. I’m scared that the minute someone touches me with something resembling compassion, I’ll break down and never return. I guess I’m more scared of engaging in something that’s purely physical, without the compassion; something I’ve never particularly desired.

Okay, isn’t that enough information? Shouldn’t I just stop analyzing and just live for a few minutes? Hah! As if.

I realized I lied a little when I wrote awhile back that Ski was the only man I had wanted to date over the last year. I failed to mention that I had also cultivated a crush on my other best friend, the Tattooed Monk. Sobriety has changed me, changed the way I’ve grown into relationships. I used to see guys a little more black and white: if I thought you were hot, I’d do my best to seduce you, quickly. Becoming friends wasn’t a comfortable option, therefore if I couldn’t seduce you, I avoided you. My friends were not people I wanted to sleep with.

So sobriety comes along and everything changes; I become friends with the two men I most desire, hoping something will develop but not pushing it (much), trying to accept with each day the growth of a friendship. In each case the attraction was mutual, making it more confounding and yet more beautiful, in a way. Beautiful that I could become a friend to each, confounding because I was finally attracted to two amazing, humble, compassionate men with big hearts and yet in each circumstance, when I finally said I wanted more, I was let down. Gently enough, I guess; not a hard rejection, just a not-right-now rejection.

In the months since each rejection I’ve become closer to both. I didn’t run away or avoid either; I just tried to show up for each one as the friend I assured them they had. With Ski I guess I haven’t given up hope that something else would develop. With the Monk, we were becoming such good friends that I’ve tried to accept him as is. During this time he’s done a lot of soul-searching and has decided to return to a monastic way of life (I mean that literally, not figuratively) and so has become celibate in the process.

Last night the Monk and I grabbed some take-out and went back to his place. It was hot and stuffy in there, and as he has done several times before, asked me if I minded if he stripped to his t-shirt and boxers. I say “no” if only because I can’t say “yes, I do mind”. As he undresses he says “I probably shouldn’t say this because I’m celibate now and it could seem like I’m teasing you, but there have been times I’ve thought about seducing you.”

Hmm. Men. I just don’t know how to win.

(authors note: if you liked this entry, you’ll love queerscribe’s today, too. Funny world.)

The Glory of Technology

Well I’m off to therapy now, my first session in literally a month due to my trip home and the various Monday holidays we’ve had. Surprised I could make it this far without therapy? So am I. It should be interesting, giving him the update over the past month. I leave you with this, in case you were wondering what happens when old powerbooks die. (Hint: They don’t go to heaven)

The birds ate my bread crumbs

Funny, the Tattooed Monk and I discussed yesterday my desire to seek out a mentor (or plural) now that I am writing again; I mentioned going for an MFA and he suggested going directly to an author instead, offering some payment for creative guidance. I don’t really know where I am going or what I want, it’s all still hiking without a compass.

When Reptiles Attack

I know you’re not particularly keen on hearing about my general sense of malaise today, my feeling that I’m still playing catch-up with life and failing since Mom died, nor about my sudden paralysis in the face of a possible sexual encounter with a cute bodybuilder boy. Instead, I have a feeling you’d rather hear about an iguana used as a projectile weapon.

Kiteless, content

Today was a spectacular day in San Francisco; tall cloudless blue skies, warm bright sun, a clear view across the bay, people spilling out of buildings and cars, bears standing three deep outside Starbucks, people’s third-hand copies of porn videos selling five for a buck at corner rummage sales, boys sipping wine out of plastic glasses on Kite Hill, where I wandered with the Tattooed Monk now that he’s returned from a week-long retreat at a Trappist monastary. It’s good to have him back. I told him about the Campfire, for some reason I’ve been so reluctant to tell my “real-life” friends of this effort, but I worried more that he would find out some indirect way, and considering the fact that I discuss him, even with only an initial, it was important to me to make sure he was okay with it all. And he was, happy for me that I am writing again, trusting enough of me to say that he knows I speak of him well, in all circumstances, but especially in writing. We sat on a bench overlooking the City and beyond to Oakland and farther, the ground below the bench eroded away so our grown legs dangled like children’s over the grass.

On our walk back down the hill we stopped and walked through an apartment for rent and open for viewing; the rooms bright and airy. We talked about moving in together, as he plans on staying in the City for another year before he joins a monastary, and he called the landlord and discussed the particulars. The rent was a bit steep but “manageable” (which means if you don’t live in SF, don’t ask me how much it was, because I don’t like it when people faint around me) but they’re looking to rent it in a week, and currently I have a crappy credit history as I try valiantly to clean up the wreakage of my past. So it’s probably not meant to be, but thus begins my search for a new place; either a studio alone or an apartment with a roommate (like the Monk) whom I like.

We ended up back at his place, with a rented copy of Bully, the disturbing latest output from Larry Clark, who directed Kids. It was not quite the way to end such a beautiful day, but the tragedy of these kids’ lives made me appreciate what I got: good friends, a great dog, a heart, a roof over my head, this Campfire, a conscience. What else do you need?

So wrong

Oh it’s so inappropriate to post stuff like this, isn’t it? But I have to brag a little. Cute bodybuilder boy from last night sent me an email when he got home: “Nice seeing you tonight… looking sexy…. let me know if you wanna get naked sometime ” I guess he is pretty flexible concerning his rules. Lucky me.