TV I’ve watched in the last 24 hours:
Children of the Corn
Nightmare on Elm Street, Part 3: Dream Warriors
Prom Night (Father to son: Cmon. For a guy whos so fast on the disco floor, you sure are slow.)
I love scary movies. I just wish theyd make em better.
Last night after the candlelight meeting, the Tattooed Monk and I stroll slowly through the Castro. Hes aware enough to see that Im not quite all there. As we pass the bus shelter on 18th St, something catches my eye. Someone has torn out a page of the phonebook from the payphone nearby and has fixed it to the plexiglass window of the shelter with a piece of gum. On it, theyve scrawled KILL ALL FAGGOTS.
Maybe I am grieving, if only a little. This isnt quite depression, its probably sadness. I look out at the world from an interior alcove, unwilling, I guess, to engage much. It was good to talk to TM, as he realizes the dilemma of a slow dying; the world wont validate your loss until the actual death takes place. In the meantime theres some other kind of existence to experience; one slightly removed from the ongoing reality surrounding you.
What I can see, lately, is that Im envious of others, the ones who seem to blithely walk through their days unburdened; gregarious and earnest, the world is their playground. Its like how straight boys seemed to me growing up; they moved and engaged with the world as though it was (and it was) made for them. Im envious, but as I told TM, I wouldnt trade it for what Ive got. Its certainly been a crazy kind of life for the last couple of years: a life extinguisihing through drugs and whiskey, giving that up for the raw ache of early sobriety, the end of my five year relationship, testing positive, gradually losing my mom over the course of months and months. And yet. I wouldnt trade it, for its mine.
The Monk has lost both parents, has helped a boyfriend through his dying, and now has a sister and another ex dying; both from cancer. Why is it, I asked him last night, that some of us seem to get more than our fair share of grief and suffering? He told me hes stopped long ago trying to figure out what a fair share is. Believing that God only hands you as much as you can take is to believe in a sadistic God. One who parcels out pain like a game. Instead, he said, God does not create suffering, but walks with you through suffering. If you want to believe in that God, that is. And I do.
I do envy the gregarious. I wonder if I carry this life a little too heavy around the shoulders. It helps, though, to have this campfire.
Looking back on this, I feel obliged now to temper my words a bit. In the wake of wars, of AIDS, of what weve come to call September Eleventh, my own suffering pales. Of course, I want to say, my burden is lighter than those carried by others. I dont mean to be saying Look at all my pain. Rather, I want to join those other voices that have asked, since the world was young, Why do we suffer? and How do we make it through?
Maybe thats why I like scary movies.