Round Eleven

Came home from Folsom St Fair this afternoon for a few minutes before dinner with the Studly Couple, and checked my email. There was one from my father, one that I only scanned briefly before closing it and saving it for later. There were a couple of sentences that bore a hole into my stomach and messed with my insides, kept me anxious, on-edge for the rest of the night.

There was one moment, however, that helped. I was scanning my usual blog roll and came across James’ entry from a couple of days ago, and his compliment blew me away.

I’m not above flattery, if anything I just want to return it a thousand fold. Which means, of course, he’s this week’s Love Bomb target. I know you’ll take me up on it and fire away. So many of us have been on the receiving end of his love missions, let’s give it back, give it away.

Who’s been eating my porridge?

Email from the father figure this morning informs me that he won’t read dogpoet anymore. Going from knowing very little about me to knowing “too much” was a tad difficult for him, I take it.

Giving him the benefit of the doubt, that his curiosity won’t get the better of him again someday, why do I still feel kinda yucky?

Could it be that I know he read the entire campfire, all ten months of archives included? (thanks for that questionable gift, Sitemeter)

Yeah, because now he knows more. More than I do about him. Much, much more. And I mean the real, interior stuff, not the daily minutiae. I asked for it, putting it up on the Internet, but it doesn’t mean I’m comfortable with the consequences.

The Tattooed Monk called last night as I sat in a funk; resistant to all expressions of friendly “help,” “support,” etc. After awhile he got me talking. Here in my hand I have my dad’s apologies and a request to move forward, but I resist. It became clear to me after enough poking and prodding that my identity is heavily invested with the energy it took to become independent of my father. A ten-year old boy decided that if his father couldn’t “be there,” then the father couldn’t have him: not the real him, not the inside him. Twenty-one years of independence have had their effect. He’s asking me now to relinquish that identity, to give myself to him. Oh lord, I’m resistant. Maybe I can just give him Secret Agent Fuzzy Kitten.

And the moral of this story would be….uh…um…

I blame my mother. But then again, who doesn’t?

It was a Google search on her name that brought family to my little site. I think she’s trying to have a little fun. Touched by an Angel? Uh, more like Bitch-Slapped, thank you.

So. (awkward silence that stretches on for a few hours)

So this happens a couple of weeks before I’m supposed to visit the father figure (which reminds me, if you want to show me all the scary places in D.C. from October 16-20th, let me know) so it’s like all fateful and shit.

I’ve grown accustomed to dishing out the junk in my cortex here, and now, well, there’s an urge to codify all my language and speak in fable-ese. (Secret Agent Fuzzy Kitten aka Pop-n-Lock Deep House Dancer here, you must enter your ID and password to access this campfire. Press fingerprint to screen NOW)

MUST FIGHT….MUST BREAK FREE…MUST SAVE WORLD…ARGH…

In other words, my normal clarity of language may be slow coming. But it’s been helped along by you, you, you, you, you, you, you, you, you, and you. Who needs a thousand points of light? You got me lit like a Christmas tree.

Show, don’t tell

Just back from the first meeting of my memoir-writing class (through Berkeley extension). Baby steps. So there’s 18 students and as part of the introductions I mentioned the Campfire as background. The instructor seized on the fact that I have ten months of rough draft material here and asked me to be one of the first two students to have their work critiqued next week.

It’s strange, you know, this whole blog-thing. I can put something up here for any and every stranger’s eyes, but to share it face-to-face? I’m pretty sure I’ll use the Palm Springs story since it fits the 10-15 page requirement, but I’m a little freaked; you know; fear, sobriety, gay sex; it’s got it all. Am I really ready to share that? Guess I’ll have to be. If you’re one of my fellow students who asked for the link, well, welcome to my humble abode. If you like, hate my writing, click on one of my companion’s links to the right…there’s something for everyone.

Round Ten

Another week has passed, another victim reels giddly from your generous, affectionate outpouring. That would be “you” in the figurative sense. Of course you bombed Richard this past week because you are that kind of troublemaker. But there will be those readers to whom the “you” does not apply: the procrastinators, the doubters, the ones who demand something in return (which generally misses the whole point). But I’m not talking about you, and if I was, there’s still time to catch up. “You” could take this moment to Love Bomb two sweet souls; Richard, and our next victim target.

This afternoon Louie and I left the fog at Ocean Beach and drove back towards home. San Francisco, in case you were wondering, has microclimates. In other words, each neighborhood has its own peculiar weather patterns. Out by the ocean they get all the fog, while the Castro and the Mission are often drenched in sunlight. You could stand at the intersection of Castro and Market on a summer afternoon and watch as the fog rolls across the city until it brushes up against Twin Peaks where, like the sea before Moses, it parts in two and drifts to either side of the valley. You can stand in sun and see the white fog roll past you. I’m just sayin’. If you’re like me, you never get used to it, you never tire of it.

So we sat in the sun at the top of Buena Vista Park, looking out over the city as the fog rolled in under the Golden Gate Bridge, drifting into the bay. A young couple nearby practiced lines from a script…”I’m not trying to be difficult, but it’s time you knew the truth…”

A pair of well-groomed gentlemen sat nearby, and Louie approached them, wagging his tail. He sniffed at their water bottle and licked it once, twice. I called him back to me as they wrinkled their noses. Apparently he was thirsty.

Where did it come from, where does it ever come from, that thought: someday Louie will die. He lay on the grass at my feet and I rubbed my foot against his chest. Oh yeah, my mother, that’s how it starts. Such a day, such a view, I think of her and say hello. She’s sort of my middleman, my conduit, my link to a spiritual presence that sometimes seems too abstract. So I talk to her instead.

I used to think I could never survive that; life without Louie. Now I know I can, I will. I’ll survive whatever comes my way, which was her gift horse, her bitter medicine. She gave me that much, at least.

But that doesn’t mean it’s simple or easy, and when I read up on Ryan today I knew it was his turn. We all deserve Love Bombs, you know, but some days we gotta give it away. So for Ryan and his beloved Rachel, Louie and I ask you to bombs away.

What any of this has to do with fog, I don’t know.

Good Morning, Sunshine!

I’m brushing my teeth this morning when I hear shouting nearby.

“FEDERAL AGENTS! WE HAVE A SEARCH WARRANT! OPEN UP!!”

Lots of pounding, followed shortly by my heart pounding. It sounds like it’s coming from upstairs, by the front door. I find myself trying to remember if I’ve done anything illegal lately. No. And my housemate just left on vacation.

More pounding. “FEDERAL AGENTS, OPEN UP OR WE’LL BREAK DOWN THE DOOR!!”

I run upstairs and listen, trying to figure out if they’re at my front door.

No. Oh, thank God.

“FEDERAL AGENTS!! WE’RE COMING IN!!”

Suddenly I hear from behind our house a loud bang and splintering wood. I run to the back window and see uniformed men with guns drawn enter my next-door neighbor’s house. Lots of shouting. Flashlights. It’s 6:45 am.

My adrenaline is coursing through me and I’m literally shaking.

This is, by the way, a “nice” neighborhood. If you’re wondering. I don’t think my neighbor is home because things quiet down quickly. I’ve never met the neighbor, though my roommate told me that once he was at Mr. S’ leather shop and overheard the neighbor whining about the harness he just bought.

When I leave the house with Louie there are five rental-type cars in the street, and uniformed men and women walking up and down the neighbor’s steps. One of their car alarms starts to go off and the agent can’t figure out how to make it stop. They laugh at her. They’re all wearing uniforms with “DEA” on the back. A couple of them are kinda cute.

///

Then this morning in the locker room I see a guy next to me with two words tattooed on his butt cheeks: “Exit Only”.

Givin’ till it hurts

“What’s your favorite football team?” he asked, offering up the half-hand shake where your fingertips curl around each others’ in the moment before you break away.

Uh oh.

“The Vikings,” I say. (I am from Minnesota, you know). I actually don’t watch football.

“You’re weak,” he says, then he’s gone.

And thus ended my first volunteer/mentor shift here. Oh my god, what the hell am I doing?

I’ve signed on for an…opportunity; working with a freshman class from Oakland who have six weeks to create and finish and present a piece about themselves: it’s all very constructivist and open-ended and overwhelming and trying to inspire them is not coming second-nature to me. I’ve never worked with kids and I’m not sure I’m going to be any good at it. I latched onto another mentor who has more experience with this kind of thing and let him do most of the talking in our little “break-out” group (two kids for every mentor).

Motivated kids, I think I could work with. Apathetic and the painfully shy, I feel out of my league.

I also feel kinda white. Imagine that.

This is where that whole spiritual angle-thingy comes into play:

Dear God, please let me not fuck up here. And if I’m not supposed to be doing this, please send me a very clear signal. Thanks. Props to your Mother.

Round Nine

I was all set to beg for a week’s postponement…a simple grace period, a selfish interlude of hiding out from all this giving to others.

But no.

That would defeat the purpose and harm my reputation, which is already on thin ice.

As soldiers of amor, we must be ready to dive into the frigid waters with our infrared goggles and jet propulsion units. Navy Seals don’t take vacations, and neither shall we.

I have sent a letter to the present administration pledging to open our silos to any weapons inspectors, provided they inspect in the nude. We have nothing to hide.

I really love Jennie, don’t you? Of course you do, because you Love Bombed her last week, right? Of course you did. That’s why you’re my homie.

Ever bombed a houseboy before? Me neither, it sounds like fun though. And this houseboy just walked THREE WHOLE MILES for a damn good cause and it was like, in the desert and stuff. We can only hope he had chapstick and a decent pair of sunglasses (ask him about the latter).

The one, the only Panchesco. Often imitated, never duplicated. Go bomb Richard. And hey, if it feels good, tell us about it. Don’t be so demure. It doesn’t suit you.

Call me

Pema likes to talk about impermanence a lot, as though it weren’t a bad thing, you know, celebrate it as the central force of life; change, change, leaves fall breathe out love fades people die feel free the wheel of life says to rise up on my spokes but don’t bitch when we spin back down.

It’s all true, of course.

It’s the only thing you can really count on, you know, change. Things just, well, never stay the same so rid yourself of neurotic our love will last forever fantasies and just celebrate the moment as people come and go.

Like a bus station.

Two good friends in one week have relapsed, one on prescription (though not his prescription) painkillers and another on speed. As in, at eight o’clock he’s in an AA meeting and three hours later he’s got a needle in his arm.

I’d like a needle in my arm.

No, really, I would. I’m not just saying that.

I was the first person each man called, which might say something about my character. But I’m a little sick of character. I feel safe and comfortable with you, Ski says, I always have.

Well, screw that. The got-it-all-together character in this saga (that would be me) rarely leaves a mark on history. I want marks. Scars maybe. Motherfucking hickies.

Another friend has a new boyfriend.

At the gym I am surrounded by little boys walking around like they’re back in high school; cool, cold boys talking loud so that everyone can overhear their conversations; conversations so fucking inane I’m convinced I’ll never fall in love again.

That’s not what I meant to say.

I meant to say “I want to meet someone who isn’t covering up their insecurities with fashion and attitude; life’s short, time’s wasting, who the fuck are you, really?”

No, not that either. I mean, I don’t want to meet anyone. Really. Trust me.

I feel bereft. A week of “showing up”, “supporting”, taking you to meetings. Motherfucker. I’d like to put a needle in my arm and call you and say oops and then get all rescued and shit. I’d like to lose myself for a bit again, I would. Feel that lightning juice pump through my blood, yammer on at you like we’re motherfucking BEST FRIENDS and everything we say is BRILLIANT and HILARIOUS and then fuck all day in a windowless room, the world on hold till, well, later.

“Needless to say, after that we noticed very clearly what we did when we felt attacked, betrayed, or confused, when we found situations unbearable or unacceptable. We began to really notice what we did. Did we close down, or did we open up? Did we feel resentful and bitter, or did we soften? Did we become wiser or more stupid? As a result of our pain, did we know more about what it is to be human, or did we know less? Were we more critical of our world or more generous? Were we penetrated by the arrows, or did we turn them into flowers?”
(Pema again)

Stupid. I got stupid and I’m stupid enough to want to stay here for a little while and burn all the safety and comfort into the ground. Rise up like a movie star phoenix from the ashes of caring and compassion, everything I touch lit up like a rollercoaster at night, everyone throwing their hands in the air and screaming, their hair on fire.

But whatever else I might say, I am thinking of you; those of you who saw it, felt it, dream it.