I bet they all don’t know the side I got to see last night…

When I came home tonight, the door was wide open. Loud music (somebody covering Cher, covering someone else, I believe) blared from within, and every light in the place was on. A bluish cigarette haze hung in the air, cutting in half the forms of dozens and dozens of unfamiliar partygoers moshing in the living room. Michelle Kwan spun in an endless loop on the television, my dog was eating chicken wings off paper plates left all over the floor. The toilet had flooded, spilling out into the hall and soaking the Art Deco rug that had been a gift from a cherished friend. Cigarette butts littered the entire house, bottles of cheap beer balancing precariously on the edges of tables and counters, and in every bed a collection of naked and tattooed bodies writhed about, lubricated with bottles of olive oil leaving wet sticky circles on the nightstands. I stood in shock, surveying the mayhem. “Who are these people?” I wondered. Then it hit me. They’re all your friends. Well, er, welcome.

There’s Nothing You Can Find That Cannot Be Found

Woke late from a dream this morning that Ski had come home and we hugged, and it lingered, and eventually our clothes just…disappeared and he was showing me two tiny new tattoos he had done, one being a ridiculous little flower on his neck, like something a ten-year old girl would draw, and it made me laugh and I told him it was beautiful and I did all this while never letting go, even when other people came in upon us, I kept my arms wrapped tight around him until I woke up.

I’d like to think that I am pretty content figuring out how to be single again, but then at times I get like Hedwig, reflected in the magnified side of a vanity mirror, whispering it’s clear I must find my other half…

But let’s take it down a little ladies and gentlemen, dim the lights, sit on the edge of the stage and keep it real for the moment. This ain’t love, folks, it’s limerence.

Scratch my name on your arm with a fountain pen…

After I wrote yesterday, Ski called me from his parents’ house in Jersey and told me that his father had died while Ski was on the plane. The similarity of our circumstances was hard to ignore, I tried to offer whatever paltry condolences I could, telling myself not to get worked up and make these occurrences mean something more than they do. That’s all beyond my control, and rather than make the loss of a parent the basis of a relationship, it’s probably more appropriate to just assure him he has a friend. (in opposition to this is the other voice in my head, fed up with being appropriate, throwing dishes and lip-synching to Morrissey please please please let me get what I want this time)

Twitch

The work week ended with me emotionally drained and my head so overstimulated from poor event planning, misbehaving dogs, and ignored grief, that I came home and played video games until midnight.

Whereupon I woke this morning to the sound of my own dog throwing up in the corner, and unsuccessfully tried to will myself back to sleep. I stumbled in a foul mood to the kitchen for paper towells and coffee, only to find the thermos empty. I opened the freezer for my secret stash of bad canned espresso and discovered that my roommates not only emptied the can, but put it back in the freezer as some sort of loser fuckhead stupid joke.

So feeling grimy and unsocial, I walked with Louie several blocks to the closest coffee shop that serves decent cofffee, and though I once before talked with romanticism about this neighborhood joint, this morning the ten-minute long line full of hipsters ordering macchiatos and breakfast bagels just made me boil.

Outside the Tattooed Monk calls me on the cell, wondering why I haven’t called yet to make plans for the day, and it’s all I can do to plead a severe case of isolationism, and retreat to my little room for more video games.

Now it’s late afternoon, I’m over-caffeinated, underfed, I have twenty dollars for the next five days, and my eye has been twitching all day.

This year just has to get better. There’s nowhere left but up.

But my self-pitying is cut in half when I learn that Ski, my friend and the only man I’ve wanted to date in the last year, gets a call from New York that his dad has taken a turn for the worse due to the tumor on his brain, and R needs to go home, two weeks after I made my own trip home. I call him and get him at the airport, where his plane ticket and checkbook have been stolen and he is just now, hours later, about to board the plane. Oh sweetie, wouldn’t I love to take all that crap away from you now, I’ve had so much lately that a little more couldn’t hurt. You’re loved, more than you know, more than I’ve felt I could say.

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.

When You Were Mine

Three days back now and I’m not quite sure what I am one hour to the next. Work still needs working, of course, and I went to my first 12-step meeting since I’ve been gone last night, and saw friends and acquaintances, some who knew and others who didn’t.

I don’t know what I expect, from myself and others now. A dark mood carried me for awhile last night and then gradually lifted as I left the meeting and waited for the bus with my sponsor. There’s the selfish part that wants everything to stop and mourn with me, and the grown-up part that knows life always goes on, and do you want to join or stay put? I’m questioning my job again, wondering if I’ll always be some sort of administrative assistant my whole life as I tinker on the fringes of art-making, or if there’s something else I’m supposed to be doing. I’ve been told that big decisions shouldn’t be made following the death of a loved one, and quite honestly I wouldn’t know where to go from here. It seems wrong to continue these days working and living as though nothing has happened, yet my mother was not the type to cry in a corner and sleep all day. She kept moving, always, and that intensified as her disease progressed, and I made assumptions about her fear and a need to outrun Death. There has to be a middleground, and so I promise myself not to pretend that I’m happy when I’m not, nor will I retreat from life.

(soundtrack: track 15 of Moby’s Play, on repeat)

Valentine’s Day and another choice: resent the day and the love others have, or wish them well and throw a coin in the fountain: may that happen to me again, someday.

“Children are playing
at the end of the day
Strangers are singing
on our lawn
It’s got to be more
than flesh and bone
All that you’ve loved
is all you own”

-Tom Waits, “Take It With Me”

Tearjerk

Back in SF and back to work. More craziness here than I need. But due to the fact that I was gone over a week, I feel obliged to return full-force. At least it’s good to be back, warmer weather and the ex will drop off Louie tonight, I’ll take him out for a walk.

Mom’s service was… pretty amazing. Lee did a great job of planning it out, and the speakers captured so many facets of her. What emerged, through their stories and the others I heard from her friends and co-workers who approached me, was that Mom consistently went out of her way for others, supporting them and befriending them, never drawing attention to herself. She once ran a race with a slower friend who was just starting out, keeping her company and encouraging her along the 10K until the very end, where she fell back a bit and let her friend pass the finish line first.

I was a big mess. I suppose I should be grateful that I could cry (a lot) and not be cut off from my feelings, but it took quite a few seconds up at the podium for me to hold onto my voice and even then I lost it. Lee picked out two Broadway tunes for the solo vocalist: “What’ll I Do?” and “Somewhere (There’s a Place for Us)”. Made me cry just hearing the titles.

What can I say? I’m going to miss her so much, and the world has lost such a good soul that it seems it should slow down for a bit and take notice, but it won’t. Words fail me. But this is what I said:

Things I Learned from My Mother
Work hard for your dreams.
Stay in school.
Animals are sources of great love and companionship.
The examined life is the best life.
It’s never too late to strengthen your bonds with others.
Read books.
Travel the world.
Climb mountains.
Run, farther that you thought you could.
Surround yourself with good friends, the kind that will stick with you through the best and worst of times.
Love can be hard, but it’s worth fighting for.
Saying “no” can be hard, especially to telemarketers.
Life isn’t fair, but never give up.
Above all, treat others with respect and compassion. When you do, you will be loved, more than you ever imagined.

The following is an excerpt from Manuel Puig’s “Kiss of the Spiderwoman”

Following the death of his cellmate, Valentin the revolutionary dreams that he is reunited with his beloved.

“-Yes, this is a dream and we’re talking together, so even if you fall asleep you don’t have to be afraid, and I think now that nothing is ever going to separate us again, because we’ve realized the most difficult thing of all.
-What’s the most difficult thing of all to realize?
-That I live deep inside your thoughts and so I’ll always remain with you, you’ll never be alone.
-Of course that’s it, that’s what I can never let myself forget, if the two of us think the same then we’re together, even if I can’t see you.
-Yes, that’s it.
-So when I wake up on the island you’re going to go away with me.
-Don’t you want to stay forever in such a beautiful place?
-No, it’s been good up to now, but enough resting, once I’ve eaten everything up and after some sleep I’m going to be strong again, because my comrades are waiting for me to resume the age-old fight.
-That’s the only thing I don’t ever want to know, the name of your comrades.
-Marta, oh how much I love you! That was the only thing I couldn’t tell you, I was so afraid you were going to ask me that and then I was going to lose you forever.
-No, Valentin, beloved, that will never take place, because this dream is short, but this dream is happy.”

Midnight Radio

My friend Crowman, whom I’m staying with through tonight, has built a sizeable collection of gay-themed DVD’s, so this whole week has provided ample opportunity to escape through film: Three, count ‘em, three viewings in two days of Hedwig and the Angry Inch, one of Moulin Rouge, and my second viewing of Trick which I like simply because it captures that giddy sense of infatuation when you first meet someone who might become a part of your life. I remember seeing it awhile back, about the time I was going through my break-up, and feeling kind of…excited, that I might get that chance to feel that way again about someone, to have that initial thrill and goofiness. Despite all my talk, I guess I still want that.

Mom’s service is tomorrow. A snowstorm is expected, but this is Minnesota, and snow never keeps anyone home. Three more days, then I can go home. Just talked to my boss, who says it is clear in my absence the amount of work that I do, and how much I am missed by my co-workers, not only because I make their jobs easier, but apparently they kind of like me….or they don’t hate me. Something like that.

Hey, I can talk to Mom again, at least in a somewhat nebulous way. I doubt she surfs the Internet in heaven, but maybe she can hear me, watch over me. Mom, I’m keeping busy, I haven’t exactly dwelt on your absence, but that’s coming. I hope you are free, and happy, and reunited with your parents and your dog, and I hope you can see me. Unless I’m having sex, then I hope you can’t.

I Love Billy Bob

I think I’ve finally finished the program layout for Mom’s service. There have been so many small, minor changes and numerous people to organize and commit, and it’s a delicate operation, but I think it’s done and acceptable to Lee and hopefully the minister. Lee has pushed hard to make the service as un-”religious” as possible, while also honoring Mom’s spirituality. I think it’s a good balance.

My brother flew in tonight, he and Lee’s two kids and I went out for pizza and beer (well, I drank soda) at the Leaning Tower, which was smokey but low-key enough. Managed to have a few laughs, mostly about stupid celebrities. Alone, my brother and I didn’t talk much, but it was a pretty comfortable silence. I honestly have so little to say now, I mostly just want to be quiet, and be left alone. Four more days here, trying to fulfill responsibilities and see relatives and mourn, somwhere in there. I don’t exactly want to head back to work right away but I don’t have much of a choice; I’ve been gone a week already, and the workshops I was coordinating have already had a huge disaster when the keynote speaker got his dates mixed up and failed to show. I’m glad I wasn’t there.

Meet with the minister tomorrow a.m., get a haircut, hit Kinko’s in there someplace, have dinner with Dad and it sounds like his mother and brother are coming, then try to get squared away to both move over to the motel and do the service on Saturday. I’m broke, I can’t afford these plane tickets and motels. Time for bed.