Dogpoet

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

I substituted for Ski, running an AA meeting at a church referred to in sobriety circles as “Our Lady of Safeway”, given it’s proximity to the grocery store. It’s the only thing he’s asked of me since he’s been gone, so I gladly stepped in. Though he called this morning from Jersey, he seems to enjoy talking on the phone even less than me, so he almost always cuts our conversations short; not the most promising sign of his inevitable declaration of love to me. Ahem.

Later I wander back into the ‘stro for the second time today and head over to another sober event; a fundraiser for the annual AA convention here in SF this summer. Drag Bingo, co-hosted by Marlene Manners, one of the Galaxy Girls. And you don’t think sober people have fun! She fared well with us, not the easiest crowd. Towards the end, massive battles involving air-borne bingo cards and pull tabs raged on and on, much to the ladies’ chagrin. I found myself smiling and upbeat, the first in a long time, though I have to admit it probably had more to do with the fact that I was engaging in some flirting with this cute bodybuilder boy at the next table. I’ve run into him once online, when he told me he doesn’t date guys from AA, though the way he was looking at me tonight, I might get a chance to break some rules with him sometime. Been a long time.

Took Louie for a good walk, ended up in the ‘stro at the deserted dog run behind the Colllingwood rec center where for a short while I watched these two men practice synchronized baton twirling as a John Phillip Sousa march rang out on their boom box. Later I ran into Bearbait and some friends who hadn’t seen me since I got back. It was the Studly Couple, giving me bear hugs and kissing me and telling me I looked good. They had both recently buzzed their heads and they make such an adorable couple that I’d probably reconsider my personal rule against having sex with more than one person at a time, but then again, nobody’s asked me to.

I return home and catch the last half hour of Six Degrees of Separation, my favorite part where Stockard Channing as Ouisa has her rant and breakthrough at the stuffy Park Avenue dinner party as her husband tries and fails spectacularly at steering the conversation back into safe terrain.

Since I’m out of shape I hit the straight gym (not that you could call any gym in San Francisco straight) for back and biceps and a twenty minute run on the treadmill that I barely complete. I’m back to looking like Frankenstein’s monster, lumbering gracelessly along , lungs struggling to sustain me.

Back home with groceries and I rummage through some boxes in the garage to find my copy of Six Degrees, the original play, because what her character says at the end applies so well to blogging (at least for me).

“OUISA: You were attracted to him-
FLAN: Cut me out of that pathology! You’re on your own-
OUISA: Attracted by youth and his talent and the embarrassing prospect of being in the movie version of Cats. Did you put that in your Times piece? And we turn him into an anecdote to dine out on. Or dine in on. But it was an experience. I will not turn him into an anecdote. How do we fit what happened to us into life without turning it into an anecdote with no teeth and a punch line you’ll mouth over and over years to come. “Tell the story about the imposter who came into our lives-” “That reminds me of the time this boy-“. And we become these human juke boxes spilling out these anecdotes. But it was an experience. How do we keep the experience?”

-John Guare, Six Degrees of Separation

I don’t know, Ouisa. I keep writing these experiences, I post them here and 99% of the time there’s no voice back, no dialogue to sustain. But there are a few exceptions, and I’m beginning to remember what I loved about writing; about the futile, addictive challenge of describing life with only a few words, stringing them together in such a way that it hopefully trandscends the status of clever anecdotes and instead connects with others’ experiences.

I want more revelations like yours, a sudden shift in perspective that causes a rippling movement through your entire vision, changing the self you project towards others, opening yourself to things you couldn’t possibly see before.

Last night I was walking down Castro St and coming towards me was this incredibly hot guy, and as we got closer we made eye contact, and I decided to hold it just for the hell of it (because even though I’m not very cruisy, I still like to flirt) and as we passed he pursed his lips and made a kissing noise at me and suddenly I felt like a floozie with large breasts or something walking by a construction site and I couldn’t help but laugh. I mean, it was so ridiculous that I immediately lost interest, walking forward, no glances behind me or anything.

I remember standing in a club in Tampa, of all places, when I was 20 or something, and this hot boy was cruising me but I was getting irritated because he was looking at me like he wanted to kill me; a prey-drive sort of scowl that I see guys do when they are cruising that just doesn’t work for me. I don’t know, call me crazy, but to me the sexiest thing a guy can do when we’re noticing each other is to just smile, maybe laugh to acknowledge the silliness of it all. I can’t take the game too seriously, otherwise it’s like we’re acting out scenarios we’ve picked up from porn movies (not that I’ve seen any).

It’s been almost a year since the end of my relationship, and I’ve been out on maybe three dates. It worries me a bit, wondering if I go too long I won’t know how to do it anymore, but I acknowledge that it’s been a pretty crazy year and I’ve had other, more pressing matters to confront. Lest you think I’m like, desperate or something.

My site is finally the first listed for “Dogpoet” on Google. You wouldn’t think that would be hard, but then you’d be surprised.

Any resemblance…

hmmm…it’s striking me, looking back at the last few entries, that the manner in which I’ve discussed Ski seems to imply a relationship that doesn’t exist. We’re friends, despite the context and weight of my words, nothing more. Yeah, I’m infatuated, yeah, it could be limerence, but it seems unfair to the truth to conjure romanticism out of a friendship. If authenticity is my aim, this should be clear. Having only begun the Campfire in December, I’ve yet to face the inevitable conflicts that can arise when some “real life” people begin to read these words (not that you aren’t real, darling) and I truly have no idea how that will affect me. Anyway, qualification seemed necessary.

Devil Children

The funny thing about working for a dog behavior department in an animal shelter is that I am surrounded by trainers who understand best how to rehabilitate problem dogs, yet have the most ill-behaved dogs in the world because they are drawn to the sad cases, adopt them, and then are too busy training other dogs to work on their own. Which means that I am left for hours at a time in an office filled with trainers’ dogs who misbehave, bark at every sound, pee on the floor, howl from separation anxiety, surf the desks and counters for food, and generally cause headaches with each passing minute.

There are good dogs, but because like mine they curl up quietly under the desk, you don’t notice them. Only the devil children. There is one next to me now making a noise through her throat that sounds like a cross between a pigeon and a velociraptor, pining away despite my comforting presence. The sad irony is that I’ve become a little callous towards dogs, spoiled by my own quiet, well-mannered companion. I’m like the crotchety school teacher who thought she loved kids but over the years has suffered their torments too poorly to continue with grace. Then again, I’m writing this from work, and I get to bring Louie everyday, I wear jeans, I have health insurance and a regular paycheck.

Ski’s father’s funeral was today and he called me a little while ago to update me. He sounds sad and tired, trapped in his mother’s house in Jersey which is like everything you might imagine; crammed full of loud, drunk relatives reminiscing, shouting, crying, and getting lost on their way to the bathroom. As we talked, someone picked up the extension and starting hitting the digits until Ski yelled, then a gruff voice says, “Ski, is that you? Get off the phone, we have an emergency.” Who knows what that could be, but when he asked me to help him cover a commitment back here, I welcomed the opportunity to do something.

The day of my mother’s service was the hardest, if only because the presence of all those people coming together to share memories made it impossible to deny that she was gone. The pictures of her up at the alter, holding her dog and cat and smiling so wide, ah it was cruel.

I’ve been so caught up in the craziness at work since I got back that I haven’t had much time to think about her. Which is not to say I feel the need to be busy, nor to wallow. I ‘d rather have some more time off, but I’ll plan that out. Authentic would be the word I’d choose; I want to remember her authentically.

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.

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.

Our conversation last night about limerence has me thinking about some of the boys I’ve carried torches for over the years. I think the first, years before I was able to admit my sexuality, was Alfredo.

I was 14 when I joined nineteen other high schoolers for a cultural exchange project to Nicaragua. This was in 1985, smack in the middle of the Contra War. We stayed in Leon, the second largest city in Nicaragua, far south of the battles and relatively safe. The project organizers had set us up with families in a small villa outside of downtown; a neighborhood that was benefiting from the project’s donations of supplies and labor. Dirt floors, occasional electricity, cold water, chickens in the courtyard. Toilet paper was a luxury and as such, we brought our own, along with t-shirts and other gifts. It’s hard to articulate how welcomed we were made to feel. The contras were not an army acting for the benefit of the people; quite the opposite. Nicaraguans loved us; the liberal peace-loving Americans who visited their country, but they hated our government. Go back and ask them to stop, they’d say. Every family had sons drafted into the war against the Contras, everyone knew someone killed. The family I stayed with gave me the largest room with the softest bed, fed me, played me music, answered all my near-illegible questions with good humor and kindness.

There were three daughters in the household. No boys. However, I would sit out at night in front of the house and the neighborhood boys would come by to ask questions, play me more music, impress me with karate kicks to each other’s heads. That kind of thing. Late one night a boy named Alfredo, a couple of years older than me, seemed to take a certain shine to me. Given my remedial Spanish, he took it upon himself to act out stories for me (few people spoke English). His stories usually depicted brave acts involving angry rushing bulls or the possibility of fighting the Contras when he turned 17. At certain points he would stop and repeat certain words in Spanish for me so I could understand more. I was sitting in front of him and he would lean over with his hands on my knees and his face near mine; his teeth bright, his eyes shining. I will never forget that; it was the first physical contact I had with a boy whom I found attractive. The cultural differences our countries had about physical space and proximity, him being that close to me, intensified that attraction.

We spent several more nights hanging out like that on the steps out front of our houses; the warm dark air, palm trees rustling above, the radio music drifting from down the block. Nothing more than that. No sex, no kissing, just friendly affection that to a scared fourteen-year old meant the world to me.

I cried when I left. He saw me off with the others, waving energetically and jumping up and down, “Bye, My-kol.” As friends will attest, I was not the same when I came back. The shock of re-entering a world filled with everything, combined with the distance from my first infatuation, left me sad and wistful. In some ways I had felt more welcomed, more treasured, than I did in my own family. I talked constantly about going back, and I began to save my money. I wrote a whole notebook full of poetry about my trip. I was arrested for the first and only time at a demonstration in downtown Minneapolis against the U.S Intervention in Central America. I wrote letters to my exchange family and to Alfredo, and they wrote back. I think my friends had a hard time understanding the intensity of my feelings for Nicaragua, probably because I could not yet articulate the passion I felt; the passion for another boy.

A year passed, I had some money saved and was negotiating with the project organizers a solo return trip. One day a letter arrived for me, the air mail envelope a small kick in my heart, my name drawn in cursive on the front. It was from my exchange family. My Spanish had improved over the year, and I began to decipher the formal greetings and news within. Which is to say that it took me a few moments and several re-readings, to understand that Alfredo had been drafted, and in a truck heading for the war zone, was ambushed by the Contras and killed.

In retrospect I can see that there was something about my inexpressible sexuality and the warm, immediate intimacy I had felt in Nicaragua that combined and intensified every moment of those ten days I spent in Leon. Which is ironic, given that homosexuality is not particularly accepted there. Alfredo most certainly would not have welcomed the true extent of my feelings for him. At the time, however, I would not have been able to articulate such feelings. I just wanted more, I wanted it again. Another boy’s hands, gripping my knees. It was enough.

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 Morrisseyplease please please let me get what I want this time)

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.

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.