my lovely mixed company

visit this site before you ring in the new year....read this post and all the others.

Such thought. Such yearning for one's own life. I love you Joely.

www.mymixedcompany.com

Excerpt from DEC 7th 2007

It is possible to find some kind of God. And I don’t care what people say. There is a way to move, that pushes you to the edge that brings forth a kind of light that you can’t get from a bottle, or a sermon, or a group of people who convince you they know more. Even more than halfway through my night’s share, belly up to my favorite place, I can look across and remember that there was a point when all it took was for me to push my body to feel a certain Light that no thing or place can bring, and all that separates me is an avenue of rushing cars and some fear of being better than I am right now.

Stuff. It sucks.

I can't believe how fast a year goes by. Let alone this last month.
I haven't written because I have been eating, drinking and sleeping.

That's all I do. This is my truth. I do nothing. I do so much that it is nothing. I feel overwhelmed by the everything that is my nothing and the nothing that makes me feel like everything is left.

I said I wouldn't drink tonight. Last night. The night before. I did. I did. I did. And I have excuses for it all. Someone is visiting. It's the holidays. It was stressful at work. I am bored. I am alone. I need something to do. I said I wouldn't sleep in today, yesterday, the day before. I did. I did. I did.

60 year old man on 30 year old skin.

I hate to ramble and ramble on. But this is where I am tonight. Today. Yesterday. Tomorrow. I am not so much unhappy as uninvolved. Uninterested.

I think about so many ridiculous things all at once. I will be jotting down some calculation at work while thinking of plucking my eyebrows. I will also be thinking of having sex with an ex while also thinking of trimming my body hair. I will think of exercise while eating something fried. I want to sing when I only have 20 seconds of freedom in a public restroom. I want to cartwheel or skip when I only have three blocks to the train. That bill needs paid. That email needs returned. I should have invested this year. Where is my favorite belt. There are so many thank you cards and notes I should have sent in the past year.

I will never be the same again. But, I am not certain I even know what the same was/is.

But, I like my Christmas tree. I like my candles illuminating my living room. I like the smell of pine cones and cinnamon. I like hearing from long lost friends. I like finding them on myspace or facebook. I hate having nothing to tell them.

Or,better yet...lying about it.

Almost Lovers by A Fine Frenzy

I wished I could say that I wrote this...but, yet again, someone else penned my thoughts for me...

My latest melancholy song by A Fine Frenzy


Your fingertips across my skin
The palm trees swaying in the wind
Images
You sang me Spanish lullabies
The sweetest sadness in your eyes
Clever trick
Well, I never want to see you unhappyI thought you'd want the same for me

[Chorus]
Goodbye, my almost lover
Goodbye, my hopeless dream
I'm trying not to think about you
Can't you just let me be?
So long, my luckless romance
My back is turned on you
Should've known you'd bring me heartache
Almost lovers always do

We walked along a crowded street
You took my hand and danced with me
Images
And when you left, you kissed my lips
You told me you would never, never forget These images
No
Well, I'd never want to see you unhappy
I thought you'd want the same for me

I cannot go to the ocean
I cannot drive the streets at night
I cannot wake up in the morning
Without you on my mind
So you're gone and I'm haunted
And I bet you are just fine
Did I make it that Easy to walk right in and out Of my life?

[Chorus]
Goodbye, my almost lover
Goodbye, my hopeless dream
I'm trying not to think about you
Can't you just let me be?
So long, my luckless romance
My back is turned on you
Should've known you'd bring me heartache
Almost lovers always do

Please Sir, I want some more....

I wring my hands. I pace back and forth. One minute I am giddy, the next I am nervous. It's all I can think about. It charges me enough to busy myself at work, but occupies my mind enough to keep me glued to my sofa when at home. I am so out of practice and out of shape that one fleeting romantic moment, one silly touch of my thigh or hand, one open mouthed kiss sends me into a prancing, dancing, tight-rope walking, dizzy, sissy, paranoid fit.

It was only a kiss.

But, he was so cute. And it was soooooo good.

Start Talking

I haven't written in awhile. Mostly, because unlike most artists, writers and creative types, I don't always thrive with rich and full creative juice when I am down and out or just plain tired. I guess another reason might be because may be only a dozen people actually read this and then when you hardly ever post you lose even more readers. So, although, I have never really written for my readers (more of a cathartic process for me to revisit after publishing), when you come to the realization that you are reading your blog more than anyone else, checking to see if it is updated more than anyone else, and still not writing anything. You have to ask yourself why you still maintain it? Or, better yet, do you have anything to say?

I do. A lot actually. So begins my new blogging step. I plan to be more consistent on this site. I plan to write more frequently. No, not daily. And, no, still not like an online diary of daily crap. And, no, still not some literary piece of brilliance (misspellings and bad grammar and poor punctuation and run ons stay!). It just means I plan to put more stuff out there. Maybe some fiction, pieces from plays I wrote in my younger days, poems even (although so bad they are good), and of course personal stories in metaphor style, and some of my crazy dreams (since I tend to have plenty of them).

So, I begin with this quick quote that rings so true of mine and other's recent situations as we continue to mature.

"Never allow yourself to make someone a priority while allowing them to make you an option"

Now, as Linda Richmond would say..."Talk amongst yourselves."

Dreams Lend To Reality

I had a dream last night. I have tried to so hard to stifle you and bury you that you have entered my subconscious mind and now I have had my first dream. Isn't that the way the world works. Just when you think they are out of your mind the have entered an entire different realm.

The clouds were low in my dream. Like, right by my window-low. They were puffy and thick and I was sitting on my window ledge hanging my legs out the window letting the thick fog of the clouds run over my legs leaving a murky film over my shins and calves. I heard my name. I couldn't see down to the street through the thick and cumulus clouds to see who was calling me. But, when I heard my name it was as if it was softly whispered in my ear, even though I knew it was coming from five flights below. My name kept being called, so I stood on the ledge of my window and dove into the clouds using them as cushions and bouncing from one to the other until I landed on one cloud right above the sidewalk. There you were. It was you. You were calling my name. But why? You looked up and tried to swipe away at the clouds to get a better view of me. You told me to fall into your arms. I began to panic. I didn't know how I was going to get back up to my window five flights above. I tried grabbing on to clouds but no luck. I tried leaping onto one above me. But, every time I landed on one it made the cloud sink a level lower. The last thing I wanted in this dream was to fall into your arms. You stood there. In your postman sort of outfit. Pressed shorts and a nice polo. You smiled but it could have passed for a cynical sneer. You kept telling me that I could fall into your arms. But, the thing was, you weren't holding your arms out. I started to call to you to hold your arms out. I knew I was falling. I knew there was a chance that I might not make it up to my window ledge. You still didn't throw your arms out. You stood there. Stoic. Sneering/Smiling. With your hands in your pockets. Whispering my name and telling me to trust you. But, you didn't lift your arms. I was so tired of fighting the clouds. I laid on my back and sank into one. My dream moved to slow motion. I passed by three clouds on my way to you. I passed by you. You didn't catch me. You stood with your cynicism in tact and your hands wringing in your pockets. I sank into the ground which seemed to be made of a soft slate colored sand. It was moving so slowly. The sand began to wrap around my legs, my body, and soon my face. I blew at the sand to keep it from my mouth and when I did, I created a strong enough wind that you blew over as if you were made of paper. The deterioration of your reality inspired strength in me and I began to sit up and wade out of the sand until I could grab a cloud and rest on it. You were a paperdoll. I made another blowing gesture and it was aimed right at you. You picked up and were whisked away in a moment. I sat with relief and comfort at the fact that you were not real. I made it back to my window ledge determined to never again to fall for a paperdoll just because they can be beautiful and joyful.

I thought I was first.
But I also thought you were real.
I can admit to being wrong.
You will never have this privilege.

No Sense....

I don't speak. I don't want to hear.
I knew that a storm was brewing. But, I closed my shudders and windows to remain blind to it.
All I wanted was to know I was safe. Safe in your arms. Safe from danger.
The dangerous push and shove of the crowded world of normal boys.
Normal.
Feeling Love is Normal. Hiding it is not.
"All the uncertainty, the insanity, of super fluidity" My friend reminds me.

Are you ashamed?

My foolish hopes. My hopelessly fooled heart. Tears fall on pillows where stray hairs cling.
Are you liable? My vulnerability taken advantage of...
Do they know? Do I really know? Will you ever know....exactly...ever?

The taste in my mouth is of dirty metal or tin or copper. It lingers with a stiff bitterness.
What do you taste? Was it worth the licks and ticks?

I push you away bitterly.
You curse my name.
Apologies fall on deaf ears.
All I can do is keep breathing.
The song remembers when.

Blow Out The Candles And...

She's at home alone tonight.
Again.
She reaches for yet another wrapped chocolate even though she knows she shouldn't. She wears the same red heavy sweatshirt cardigan that she has for years. She also folds an afghan over her lap and slips her feet into footie socks. She leafs through month old newspapers and clips out updates on her son's high school mates while she waits for the cookies to harden. Which she will then lay down into the wax paper lined, shortbread tin she saves just for this one occasion every year. These clippings will eventually be folded into his birthday card. Two layers of cookies, one piece of bread to (hopefully) lock in the freshness, and a card full of black and white announcements about babies, weddings, police reports, hospital updates. The card will remind her son that his birthday takes her back to 30 years ago, when she first held him, listened to his beating heart and fell so deep in amazement with him. The card will remind her son that his mother relives the wonder and meaning of this special day. The card will also say that she forgot to tell him so many things about the journey that the world held for him. She signs it with "Love you Lots exclamation point"

She sends it off knowing her other gift will arrive in a phone call on his actual day.

The cookies arrive just in time. The freshness locked in. The clippings are meaningless facts about people who have become strangers. But, the clipped edges and the perfect folds are full of sentimental messages from the mother. She has no wealth. She has no monetary gift for her 30 year old son. She has only her cookies and her well wishes.

She calls him on the day. She is no singer, but her and her son share a strong love for music and lyrics. She props the phone on an angle and asks for four minutes of her son's time and begins to sing...

I hope the days come easy and the moments pass slow,

and each road leads you where you wanna go,

and if you're faced with a choice, and you have to choose,

I hope you choose the one that means the most to you.

And if one door opens to another door closed,

I hope you keep on walkin' till you find the window,

if it's cold outside, show the world the warmth of your smile.

But more than anything, more than anything...

My wish, for you, is that this life becomes all that you want it to,

your dreams stay big, your worries stay small,

You never need to carry more than you can hold,

and while you're out there getting where you're getting to,

I hope you know somebody loves you, and wants the same things too,

Yeah, this, is my wish.

I hope you never look back, but you never forget,

all the ones who love you, in the place you left,

I hope you always forgive, and you never regret,

and you help somebody every chance you get,

Oh, you find God's grace, in every mistake,

and always give more than you take.

But More than anything, yeah, more than anything...

My wish, for you, is that this life becomes all that you want it to,

your dreams stay big, your worries stay small,

You never need to carry more than you can hold,

and while you're out there getting where you're getting to,

I hope you know somebody loves you, and wants the same things too,

Yeah, this, is my wish.

Her son is 30 today.

4am Escape

The Sweet Escape hasn't been so sweet. More bittersweet. It seems I can't escape myself when I need it the most.

My travels have been eye opening, fun-filled, exhausting, challenging, cumbersome, worthwhile, and joyful. But, in all of this I wished I could escape my mind and the anxiety that plagues me.

My travels did not begin last week, or even two months ago. They began years ago. Some of the same roads have been traveled. Some of the same places have been visited. All the new and "first-times" have been parts of my journey of self discovery.

I am not myself these days. I am trying to change. Sometimes, it can't be forced. Other times it was never meant to change.

I deserve to escape. Escape the thoughts and fears that hold me back. Only then, when I break free, will I be open to the changes that surround me. Or at least the possibilities for change that stare me down.

I'd give you everything that I am
I'm handin over everything that I've got
Cause I wanna have a real true love
Don't ever wanna have to go and give you up
Stay up till four in the morning And the tears are pouring
And I wanna make it worth the fight
What have we been doing for all this time
Baby if we're gonna do it come and do it right

Lounging by the pool....

You aren't supposed to be here if you are here right now. So don't continue from this point on. The water may be too shallow. Diving is allowed but at your own risk.

Seriously, you said you would stay away. We both agree that the water is too cold. The waves that grow when there is more than one can crash. Dangerously.
I said I didn't want to alter my thoughts or my writing just because I knew you visited.

But, that's just it. Since you have visited me, my thoughts have altered. My writing has changed. My demeanor has adjusted. People are complimenting me right and left. "You look great Clem!" "What's going on with you?" "What's the secret-you look so happy and rested?" They say to me.

Well, thanks for asking. It's joy. It's peace. It's comfort.

I am not sure what the secret is. Actually, I think the secret is, that it is not a secret. I am not keeping anything secret. There is no special key to unlock the answers to love and happiness. I think once you realize that, you stop looking for the secret answers to life's ridiculously ludicrous and thought consuming questions. And, once you have stopped looking for these secret answers you can actually spend more time realizing the present. Instead of investigating the past and the future. Just lie back and soak.

I am not perfect. I will still question. But, please don't let my questions blind you and make you not realize the present state in which I dwell and/or float.

If you are still here. I am not ashamed. If you are still here. I have said anything and everything I would and would not say to you or away from you.

If you are still here. I thank you. If you are still here. I dwell with fulfillment. Float with excitement and swim with grace.

If you are here tomorrow. I may not have the same thing to say. But, it doesn't not change the state in which I dwell.

Sometimes swimming, sometimes floating, sometimes treading, sometimes wading, sometimes waiting.....never sinking.

Going with the flow.

My pool of thoughts.

This Moment

I can't decide whether to keep going, hold my breath, lash out, dive in, or any of the other metaphors you can think of when developing a relationship with someone.

I can't find descriptors that suit the lips or the eyes. Green, beautiful, full, tender. These words don't seem to stand up to what I feel or witness. These words seem lacking in luster or strength. They don't seem to be heavy enough for anyone to feel the weight of the world that lives beneath the ever changing sparkle of green and hazel that swims with in his stare. These words don't seem to savor the succulent savviness or sarcastic perversions that fall from such ripe lips.

I wished I could tell you about the hands. The hands I have yet to leave my tears in. The hands that hold, touch, and caress my thoughts. These hands that could hold my entire person if I asked them to. These hands that will explore my body only to expose my soul and wrap me up in my own spirit. These hands that have a sexy, smooth, masculine exterior with a sensitive, soft spoken inner life.

Then there is the laughter. The stifled boyish chuckle that begins and ends as a giggle. There is also the smells and the texture of the skin. Both so clean and worth burying your nose in.

If only I could comprehend my own fears and where they have come from. Just when I think I have a full view of myself and my world. The enormity of my reality hovers above causing my fleeting moment of joyous exuberance to shutter to the thoughts of sadness and solitude. Only to shift once more to horny-ed excitement and fluttering eagerness.

It has been slow, steady, and sufficient to this point. I can't predict, no, I won't predict the outcome. I will only say it has been worth it. Sometime, hopefully in the very distant future, I will come back to this post and remember that no matter what the outcome, I was plenty full of happiness. My satisfaction was running over.

"Can I get an Amen!?"

If we stood on our tiptoes and could peak into the future, what would we see? If we knew we could do this, would we do it everyday? Would we constantly be standing on our tip toes? A sea of people walking on their tippy toes afraid of what is to come, maybe excited, or just overly controlling with their life and it's path.

How much control do we really have? Sure, we can financially do our best and keep our fingers tightly gripped on all of our dollars. Thus, preparing for the "future." Having money is preparing for the future isn't it?

But, what about the deeper more immediate future? What about three days from now? Three days from now is my future and there is no telling what is going to happen. I could fall flat on my face. I could soar through my life song with rousing applause. Two weeks from now is my future. Two weeks from now I will turn 30 years old. The day after that, I could die. Or, the day after that, I could feel relieved or nervous or nothing. Three months from now is my future. Three months from now is the end of the year. It is all of our futures. Will we care about how much money we have in the bank? Will we look back at three months ago and see fiscal growth that will ease our minds and make us realize the present moment which was only a few fleeting moments ago the future and now in another fleeting moment it is the past? Or will we have tippy toed our way through those three months dodging anything that looked like potential harm or hurt so as to keep us on the even. I mean really, if you stood on your tiptoes and peaked into the future and saw the hurt you will be feeling after the end of the affair, wouldn't it scare you enough to think twice?

If I could stand on my tiptoes it would only be to stand taller and prouder. I wouldn't want to see into the future, or walk through life straining my already tired and old feet. I would be tempted, of course. I might find myself on a quiet street late at night stretching to the very tops of the tips of my toes and sneaking a quick, but hopefully vague, peak into my future. But, I wouldn't want it to scare me away from the moments that lie most immediately in my future and the ones that exist in my present. I don't care so much about financial growth or security. I don't care so much about retirement plans and property ownership. I don't want to care about whether I am going to be hurt or experience loss or devastation in the future. If I did know these things I might actually become what I fear most--a robot. A functioning product of society as opposed to a fulfilling participant of life.

Sure, I am scared of the future. We all are. Some are terrified. Putting away money and stocks and bonds. Scouring match dot com for the father of their babies. Planning and plodding their predictable futures. Others just nervous and anxious for the changes that lie ahead. Maybe one of the changes in our future will enlighten us. Maybe another will awaken us.

I think about where I might be 10 years from now. It's always fun to think about it. It's fun to think that or to be asked that question. "Where do you see yourself in 10 years?"
My response will be..."I do not see myself in 10 years. I can't see myself in ten hours from now. I see myself as I am currently. And, the most I can hope and strive for is to constantly evolve, learn, feel, express, try, and be. I will dive in. I will swim, wade, languish by the pool and soak up the sun. If I am burned or tired or drenched, then I will make the necessary changes to feel differently. I will not let my tippy toes tread through life with trepidation and a soft unspoken step. I want to leave my mark. I will not let my tippy toes taunt me with my future that teeters on the edge of anything and everything. I want to love the shit and shiny stuff all the same.

I will not take these things for granted.

I will, again, attempt to practice what I preach.

Grow For Me!

The only plant I own was dying all last week and I couldn't figure out why. Was it the drastic change in climate from cold to hot? From open window to AC? I watered it when I felt it needed it. I moved it closer to the window sill for better sun. I even watered it with some of my Smart Water because I buy into all that electrolyte enhanced marketing BS. I had also been talking to my plant. They say that helps. I would place it prominently on my desk and practice my songs by serenading it. I would then bring it back to the coffee table and tell it about my stress at work, the financial woes, and the fear involved with THE BOY. I would see the wilting of it's leaves and I guess I knew that the plant and I were bonding. I wondered what he was going through. Was the yellowed leaf an outcast and struggling to find his way in the rustle and bustle of the The World of Normal Leaves. I wondered how much taunting was coming from the group of bigger and stronger leaves. I began to root for the underdog. I would dust him off solely and stimulate the soil at his roots with my fingertips. Nothing seemed to be working. I had the beginnings of "giving up on it" stirring in my mind and heart. Oh to be the leaf. Oh if only the leaf could live for me.
So, I was lying there on my sofa one evening. I was contemplating "the world." (twice I have used quotation marks...yikes) It was one of those nights where I knew I could cry if I just played the right song or thought of enough bad shit. If I listened to the swelling voice of Patty Griffin or thought about that party in 8th grade I wasn't invited to, I could cultivate tears. So, I did. I sobbed. I sobbed a very hard and heavy sob. Not for any particular reason, just to sob. To let go of the sadness I tend to carry and to send my fears off floating down my cheeks, chin, chest. Repeating random and general phrases over and over in my head. "It will all be okay." "You are worth it." "Why?" It's funny if you think about it. I am certain we all repeat ridiculous, stereotypical, blanket phrases like these to ourselves continually and even more so during sob sessions. I believe I fell asleep shortly after this 7 or 8 minute session. The next day, I awoke to what appeared to be a very small upright stance of some of the leaves on my plant. Oh to be that leaf, struggling and dusting itself off. I will be that leaf. That day I plowed through my work, my shit, my life, "the world" (again with the ""). That night, I saw the boy and I gave into my desires. I put down my defenses (some, at least) and came to my senses. The next morning I smiled without force or conscious participation. That day consisted of a held a hand, a kissed cheek, a phone call, a laugh. I listened, stood up straight, demonstrated kindness and gratitude, felt with my heart and walked taller.
When I arrived home in the early evening, I forgot to check in with the plant. But, I found myself singing different songs than before and after a few hours I grabbed the plant, quenched it's thirst, moved it into the light and told it how I was doing. No longer was the monologue filled with pointless griping, or circular hand movements demonstrating the pattern and monotony of life. I was giggling...to my PLANT!! What have I become? I know I am getting older, but I feel like I am skipping a generation. I had such peaceful and blissful sleep that night. I remember the temperature dropping for the first time in days and I opened my windows for fresh air. By early morning, my plant had stretched it's leaves upward and onward. The yellow leaf is still a little yellow but standing up and willing itself to grow.
I know it's cheesy. I know it only makes sense in my mind and not in my words. But, we all want the same thing. We are all so closely connected to this earth, to this life. I will never misjudge the power of nature and the natural progression of all the things beyond our control. Beyond my control. My leaf and I stand alone, but among The World Of Normal Leaves.

Hills and Loops

I can't begin to describe the flurry and fury with which my emotions rumble through me these past few weeks, days, hours. One minute, I am reeling from blueberries and yogurt. The next I am doubled over in pain set on by the anxiety of life. I can be cool as a cucumber and stroll hand in hand down a street, or fret and stew at the great unknown of the city and the nights that don't belong to me.


I feel so vulnerable these days, which can either manifest itself as abounding confidence or overwhelming sensitivity. My body will ache with desire for things I have never felt. My heart will mourn and scorn the loss of something I don't even have yet. I can cry only by myself. In circles I can only laugh too wholeheartedly. I miss people that I know have not gone away. I take for granted the ones who are available to me most.

I hate vulnerability. It feels like walking a tight rope. Or better yet, it feels like waiting in line for the newest most dangerous rollercoaster. One second you are excited the next your stomach tightens. One minute your thinking about jumping the line and taking the chicken exit the next you can't wait to throw your hands up with reckless abandon.

ARRRRGGGGGGHHHHHHH!!!!

Scribbles

A therapist looks me in the eye and says, "your parents have made you who you are today. the good the bad and the ugly. you should be thanking them. not resenting them."

mom...
dad...

sorry.
she is wrong. I don't resent you. I love you.
But, I will not thank you for teaching me some of the things you did about love, sex, my body, intimacy, or the lack there of all of the above.

I am running away faster than either of you ever could have imagined. I am plotting with more detail and precision than you ever did. I am sabotaging with a force that can only come from the power of two. The two of you.

Thank you.

Sugary-Sweet Gestures

I was running around prepping the space with crumpled papers and keys a jingle. Up two flights of stairs then down three. "Put those over there and hand me that! Where is he? What time is it? Hello, can I help you?"

I saw him. He must be the model. He was late. Somebody told me the model had a arrived and was wearing a polo shirt. He was wearing a polo shirt and definitely could pass for a model. Besides, he was also walking around alone as if he was looking for someone.

With assumptions and authority raging, I grabbed him by the arm and began leading him to the changing station while mumbling something about how long he would have to be here and whether or not the company that sent him had explained all that was needed to explain. He stopped me by placing his free hand over mine which was holding his arm at the wrist. I felt something and everything came to a halt. I stopped dead in my tracks, looked him in the eye and saw such sweetness. In an instant I knew I had the wrong person. We shook hands. I apologized by tripping over my words that needed altered and brushing myself off with smiles and batted lashes. His eyes were deep and living in a warm soul, as if his tears may be made of simple syrup. He looked at me with a sense of understanding and intrigue. He was flattered to be presumed a model. He was intrigued to know (quickly) who I was. He most certainly looked at me with desiring eyes and inquiring minds. For lack of a better statement, there was a "moment" between us. It was clear. If not to him, well, then to me. But, in truth, I think it would have been clear to anyone standing in on this first exchange. If we had been a cartoon on Sesame Street little thought bubbles with hearts and music notes would have appeared above our heads. After collecting names and a few other quick facts, I marched away hoping I looked dashing, smart, authoritative and put together in the 8 paces I had left in his view. Hoping by pace 5, 6, 7 and 8 he might have smiled that unnoticeable smile that only his closest friends could have seen through his eyes.

I grabbed a business card, scribbled my personal phone number on the back and placed it in the back left of my Lucky's. How apropos!

I then proceeded to maintain visibility in his sight lines roughly every 8-10 minutes. I felt this was enough time to appear busy enough to continue passing by and short enough intervals for him to also think, perhaps, I wanted him to see me. Also, I just didn't want him to forget about me. He didn't. He too maintained a position among his crew that allowed small intense bolts of eye contact.

I think there might have been an exchange when he left. Something along the lines of saying each other's names before saying good-bye. Kinda pointed at each other with toy guns--"Clem!?" He was right. "James!?" I shot back. But, the timing wasn't right to hand over my lucky card. Alas, maybe next time. He did say there would be a next time.

Over the course of the next month or so, there was a next time and a next time and a next time. After visit two and three, I still had not handed off my doodled business card that I had been carrying around with me since our first meeting. There had, however, been the eye contact each visit, smaller talk grew bigger, and the guns came out each time we said each other's names. I think there even may have been a hug or half hug or maybe just that "awkward one arm slightly around the waist thing." But, by the fourth next time, he was only with one person. I knew this person. It made it so much easier for both of us. We now shared something or someone rather. It instantly pulled us closer together in a safe and trusting way. I made him laugh, he asked lots of questions, and it was easy. It was fun. It was clear. I learned about his quest to keep parents and children interested in sugary, sweet morning cereals. He was torn. He made a great living marketing and advertising the profound chocolatey-ness of Cocoa Pebbles but was fully aware he played a role in child obesity. I explained my waving craving of sugar cereals. I talked about how Cocoa Pebbles and Lucky Charms are my favorite cereals to indulge my craving with. I actually had just finished a box of Cocoa Pebbles days before this conversation. When the other person turned away for something, I reached into my wallet and pulled out the crumpled and faded business card with my number on it.

He didn't take it. He had circumstances. I respected that. He would have been too tempted. He didn't want to lead me on or himself for that matter. But, it didn't change us. We still smiled, laughed, gave piercing glances during pass-bys, and the like.

The next Next Time came a few weeks later. My office speaker phone screamed feedback as a co-worker explained that a person by the name of James needed to speak with me. On my way up the first staircase, I hoped it wasn't a complaint. On my way up the second staircase, I hoped it would be quick and easy. I was looking down at my feet as I was trotting up the stairs and suddenly someone grabbed me by the wrist. I felt something and everything halted. I stopped dead in my tracks and looked him in the eye and saw such sweetness. The simple syrup his large eyes swam in sparkled, like moonshine was in perfect alignment with his iris. We hugged as if we were very close friends from college or as if we hadn't seen each other in months. It had really only been a couple of weeks. We stopped traffic on the staircase. I feel like saying he was beaming, but that might be too presumptuous. Or, I might be projecting. :-)
He said he had something for me. (what could he possibly have for me?)
Then he lifted his left arm up and in his hand was a large 13oz. box of Cocoa Pebbles. "Tastes More Chocolatey" was printed largely on the box. I was dumbfounded. Not only was this a very thoughtful gesture, but it was charming, silly, flattering, romantic, crazy, specific, and it's importance in my life in that moment swelled to epic proportions. It was this kind of joy and kindness that was missing in my life.

No, his "circumstances" hadn't changed. No he had not intended to use chocolate as a wooing tactic. No, this didn't mean sex would come soon. But, it did mean he thought of me. He thought of me very specifically. He thought of me and followed through with this gesture. He thought of me, followed through with this silly, sweet, chocolatey gesture, and never needed anything in return, besides maybe to see the look on my face.

I hugged him again and maybe even again. It might have been awkward. I can't remember. I remember blushing, beaming, giggling. I whispered in his ear..."you aren't allowed to do this." But, I didn't mean it. What I meant between those words was..."you (mister smart and funny man) aren't (are charming) allowed (and I respect you) to do (and your pride and your willingness and eagerness) this (to present such a gift with little to no expectations).

Needless to say, I brought the Cocoa Pebbles home after two days of it prominently displayed on my desk, got into my P.J.'s and have never enjoyed a bowl of sugary, sweet nothingness more.

And, I am writing a letter to the company to congratulate them on excellent one on one customer service and that, indeed, these Cocoa Pebbles taste more Chocolatey than ever!

Someday He'll Come Along...

Things I would say to him, and him and him and him. All the one hour dates, flirts, chance meetings that keep me hibernating in front of my fan and next to my books and magazines. Surrounded by empty bottles of vitamin water.

Don't put your thumb and forefinger above my hipbones searching for cum gutters.

Don't ask me where I bought my V-Neck and then roll my sleeves down or pull the V up toward my neck.

Don't stop me on the street in the pouring rain to explain why you haven't called in weeks. I didn't even like you that much. I only liked that you liked me. Or so I thought.

You are not allowed to reject me. YOU pursued ME, remember?

Stop quizzing me about my waist size and then lifting your shirt to reveal an 8 pack. (p.s. when did it go from a 6 pack to an 8 pack. Jesus Christ!)

I don't want to see you walking home from the gym. But, more than that, I don't want you to tell me your gym schedule or how many hours you spend there, or what you worked on today.

ARRRGGGHHH!

Sleeveless shirts are for pubs or parks not wine bars and intimate dinners. Plus, you are an adult now...aren't you?

What makes you think it is okay to squeeze my thigh underneath the table and chuckle when I don't flex my thigh bicep? We only knew each other for a total of 52 minutes.

Stop talking about the last guy you dated. You hardly knew each other. You act like he is an ex-boyfriend. This should be eye opening for me.

Why would you proceed to compliment me on my shape only to say that if I worked out more religiously I would be "really hot." Thanks for basically saying I am lukewarm.

Come up with something better than I need to walk my dog. Not too quick are we?

STOP COMING INTO MY PLACE OF WORK AND ACTING LIKE WE NEVER KISSED OR YOU HAVEN'T CALLED, THEN PROCEED TO "MAKE OUT" WITH A DIFFERENT BOY THAN ME. ONE THAT JUST HAPPENS TO BE SOMEONE I ONCE MADE OUT WITH.

I know we all like to look. But, learn how to tilt your head with some sense of subtlety. Sneak a peak when I am slicing into my fillet. Not when I am telling you about my scar on my forehead.

And please, please, please NEVER EVER give me a ride home and proceed to rub your crotch and make whimpering moan-like sounds and say "you're gonna leave me like this?" And point to your crotch.

Oh, and that bite you drunkenly tried to rip off of my shoulder looked like a F'in hickey I had to explain away in yoga class to my fellow yogis. Thanks you big ass drunk!

Announcement

The show is over. And all future performances will be cancelled.

It all doesn't seem to matter anymore.

All the things I wished I had said or done.

I have so many ideas, thoughts, proposals, adventures planned in my mind that will never come to fruition.

That's because my external world is a reflection of my internal world. Which I won't elaborate on at this juncture.

That's because if I actually do anything I say I will do, I will be alone. I would leave the comfort of all of us who have so much to say about everything but little to do with anything. I don't want to be alone especially in my thoughts. I don't want to be different. I certainly don't want to feel segregated from other's. But, most of all, I don't want other's to feel that segregation from me.

So we continue to pedal beside each other. Sometimes going up hill just a bit faster than one. Sometimes one is sliding downhill ahead of me.

I drench myself in the camaraderie of others.

Please agree with me. Please believe with me. Please stay here with me. Please be with me.

So, I cancel my shows. I keep them locked inside my dreams. Dreams that can often feel like nightmares. Shows that will only make me a more difficult person. Shows that require too much from me and my audience.

The show is cancelled with no rain date decided.

In My Dreams

I had a dream last night. And it fit me like a glove. I was everywhere I ever wanted to be at once. I was with everyone I every wanted to be with at once. I was everything I ever hoped I would be. But, nothing was specific. It just was the way I felt in the dream. It was known. Everything was a given and my dream-self was not questioning any of it.

I was in a place with lots of doors and hallways that led to vast open spaces and other familiar places. It was similar to a mall or an airport in size and layout but with enormous old metal doors that stood 10 feet tall or higher. Everything was made of stone or brick. Like stuff in Italy or Rome. (I'm guessing) It was very Harry Potter or Shakespeare in Love but everyone was in modern attire.

In my dream I was in a hurry and very busy (which is normal). Except in my dream it was easy to be this busy. In my dream everyone knew me to be flitting about swiftly and with the greatest of ease. In my dream if I passed by a friend with a wink and a smile it felt like we spoke for hours. In my dream everyone seemed to be gliding through life. There was a swiftness and an ease in every one's movement.

In my dream one door could take me to my giant bed filled with feather pillows and satin sheets and blankets. Another door would take me to a wide open field of grass filled with all the beautiful people I could ever want to surround myself around. There were frisbees and footballs, and huge lakes with waterfalls.

In my dream I was tall. Not unusually tall, but noticeably taller than most. It was as if everyone stood between 5'8" and 6', and I stood 6'3". In my dream there was always a breeze which kept my hair blowing beautifully. Because, in my dream, my hair was flowing like Orlando Bloom. In my dream, I was golden from the sun and chiseled out of stone.

In my dream the Dr. held my hand with bursting laughter and kissed my mouth like he was breathing pure oxygenated love into my body. Then it would be the nurse and we would cry and kiss each other's tears from our cheeks while the theme song from the golden girls softly being strummed across a harp. Then the fleeting boy from six months ago would show up and dance and spin around with me to Madonna while serving me lavender scented water out of a solid silver chalice.

In my dream California was behind multiple doors with the young boy of my latter day dreams and affairs playing by a pool or sleeping under the sun. Hollywood flood lights would be circling the sky while flash bulbs would be quick spotting the memories of my future in California in strobe effect. The young boy from latter day dreams and affairs would be behind each door. Be it San Francisco or L.A.. Be it beach or pavement, he would always catch my eye, wave me over, and tell me he was playing my favorite songs.

In my dream my best friends were plump with excitement and vigor and were full bodied beautiful people of power. They had dozens of little ones at their feet following in their footsteps learning the lessons my friends laid in their trails.

In my dream my happiness fueled other people's happiness and vice verse. In my dream it smelled like fresh flowers everywhere I turned and it seemed to be a comfortable temperature lacking in humidity. Fountains were made of succulent beer and savory coffees. Roads had no lines and land had no borders. The colors were of autumn, spring, summer and winter combined.

In my dream I could float and fly whenever I needed to breathe deeper or clear my mind. It was limited to only those times and I was unable to fly or float very high or fast.

In my dream my families were alive in pictures and words that floated by in low hanging clouds. When they passed by, a flourish of memories and energy filled my soul.

In my dream I go to sleep with my prayers of thanks and praise.

I Shall Scream

It will happen when I least expect it. Probably awakened by a dream or I will have lost my keys. And in that panicked moment, It will grow inside me like a whistle tone that only the bats inside my stomach can converse with. Then it will rise up to my chest with a rumble like a train. It will pound at my heart like the big bad wolf. Finally, it will take up residency in my throat bouncing off of my chords and my tonsils and my glands and my pipes like a pinball wizard. But, when I open my mouth hardly any sound will come shining through. Because, my true colors aren't always vibrant and full. Because, instead my mouth will hang open and my eyes will squint closed and drool will fall from my mouth which will seem separate from my body. But, the scream will be heard. Not around the world. But, it will ring and echo inside my head.

Blah and Gross

It's days (and nights) like these were I want someone the most. Someone to heat up my soup. Someone to stroke the back of head and neck and back. Someone who will watch a movie with me. Someone to run downstairs to the store for more bottled water or gatorade. Someone who will rub my hands and feet. Someone who will run all my errands for me and call me while out to make sure I didn't change my mind about dinner. Someone who doesn't mind watching a Full House Marathon on Nick at Nite. Someone who likes the discovery channel and E!

I hate being sick.

Nuff said

Some Times

Sometimes you kiss someone on Christopher and Gay Street.

Sometimes you watch everyone be happy.

Sometimes you wished your habits would walk away the way that the last boy did.

Sometimes you think you could never be happier than the moment you were in the sun and laughing with friends about the sex appeal of body hair.

Sometimes you call you mom after a bad dream to let her know that things are okay.

Sometimes you text or call at an hour when no one should.

Sometimes you light a smoke when you said you wouldn't.

Sometimes you skip the gym and hit the record store.

Sometimes a phone call makes all the difference.

Sometimes I wished that sometimes were all the time.

Backwards

When he laughs it makes a foreign sound. It's as if my favorite record is being played on the wrong speed. I am so used to how it sounds but now it's different.

Who flipped the switch? Is everything okay in there?

It's so complicated. It's so painful to watch them all try so hard. Why must we feel this urge to plow through life with a smile painted on our faces when the clown inside is full of tears that drip and drown us in a sea of vibrant blues and pale whites?

So he stands shifting his weight from left to right with such urgency or is it impatience?

What is ticking inside? Sometimes it feels like a time bomb ready to blow at any moment.

I will be here. To clown around when you are ready.

Climbing Up Hill

The meadow is filled with men. Shirtless, frisbee-throwing, cargo-sportin', mostly heterosexual, metro MEN.

It's astonishing. Every summer my first time in the meadow is like the first time ever. I still can't believe this many beautiful bodies exist and that they are all here on a weekend tossing a ball, reading a book, massaging their girlfriend's feet.

When did straight men get so pretty, and so fit, and so primped? 13 year old boys have 8 packs. 40 year old men have cum gutters and shaved pecs. I take my shirt of with a studied nonchalance I have grown so good at tossing around. I look down and see empanadas and beer, ben and jerry's and skittles, pancakes and whole milk in my coffee. And that's just what I see when I look at my stomach.

Sensing Self/ Or Self Censor

With muffin tops and and spaghetti arms he painfully demonstrated the most un-sexy version of sex appeal I had ever witnessed, let alone pay $22 to see. With falsetto as his hoop trick and power ballads from kick ass 80s rockers for me to mouth to, he attempted to put his face/name/persona on the map of creativity and star performances by licking his fingers and gyrating his dumpy ass up against his microphone stand.



Desperate for applause, he would make unnecessary costume changes and reveal himself like a Barker beauty miming the outline of a refrigerator. This would only garner the most polite amount of applause that an audience of 50 could muster. Three intermissions and three citron/sodas later, I was barking incessantly about how unprofessional the 37 minute late start time was. About how three intermissions is a lot to ask for when you are a virtual unknown. About how a performer of his age and experience can still be so uncomfortable in his own body. How has he worked at all if he can barely lift his boots to stomp to a beat during Pat Benetar's Invincible.



Don't get me wrong. I love risks and bravery in the arts. But, this guy is ludicrous. Somebody, somewhere told him he could sing (which is all he can do) But, to have to sit in a stuffy theatre in seats that don't give, that I paid $22 for and listen to an adult man of questionable sexuality and gender, flaunt his mediocre vocal stylings while having no sense of self, is the most dreadful time I have had in the theatre in quite sometime.

I know this rant is arrogant in some tones. But, I can't help but feel sorry for his own self-perception or lack there of. Sincerely.

A year

Maybe all love is, is a reflection of ourselves at what we feel is our best self.

When we can actually say we love another, it could mean that person helps us to feel like the person we long, strive and dare to be.

I told everyone about you.

Everyone witnessed my strength.

Waiting

"have you ever had someone hold you for 20 minutes straight and want nothing more than to hold you. they don't try to pull away, they don't try to look at you, they don't try to kiss you. they just hold you in the most unselfish way?"

from the Movie Waitress

Contemplate

why do I feel unworthy

and why can't I remember you in that moment

that moment when you left a lip-cracked imprint on my temple

wished I could hold myself and make myself understand

stroke my own hair and wipe my own tears

there are whys and there are reasons

for all my controls and all my fears

why must it always be about me

when you all seem to know I have nothing do with it

alone but not lonely I lay

contemplating

Fuck

CHASERS, I think they are called.


Guys, usually young gay men, who are chasing the virus. They want to be infected. It's their generation's version of suicide.


"Nobody pays attention to us, nobody love us, nobody notices us. Well now I have HIV."

Silence.


But some hear a type of applause in their warped minds giving a round of...


What about the one's who don't chase the virus, but they chase the act of transmitting it? The one's who will meet someone on the subway, at a dog park, online and go home and fuck. Not suck. Fuck. They will text the first fuck buddy that comes up on their phonebook and alphabetically go down the list until someone will come over and fuck them.


Is sex that good? Is sex that worth it? Is sex with someone you don't know easier than I assume it to be? Am I really such an inexperienced clod that I can not bring myself to have sex in the bushes, or intercourse on the first date, let alone after a ten minute encounter over the last few sips of a Stella.


Intercourse with a complete stranger. Intimacy and nudity with another man who shares your desires. Undressing, lubing up, forced kissing chemistry, lazy foreplay, bad breath, condoms (or not), ass, cock, saliva, cologne, sweat, shit, cum.

My cock burns at the sound of it. And, in the past, my cock has burned after less than the above mentioned have been exchanged.

I know we are supposed to love ourselves and give ourselves up to the moment. I know as a gay community we are more sexually free. That's supposedly a badge of honor.

I feel like I have a huge scarlet letter. Not sure if it's a P for Prude or a V for Virgin or a PS for Plain Stupid.

I know I am a blocked person sexually. I know I have leaps and bounds to make in my lifetime. I just don't plan or hope to make them with hundreds of people. I prefer to keep it in the dozens. If I being generous.

Blossoming

This is a Monologue I wrote a few months ago...

(She kisses him on the cheek. And she turns sharply to walk down the entry gate to board the aircraft. Steve stands still at profile holding the soft pink teddy bear in his downstage hand. After a pregnant pause the lights fade and adjust back to single spot and Steve turns to speak to the audience.)

"And just like that, she was moving on. This little girl I had such a difficult time accepting as a young woman stepped onto the plane and, instantly, my life changed. My best friend, my buddy, my baby. Gone.

And, in her sentimental way, she hands me Calliope. This being her favorite stuffed bear as a child and a young girl. She hands me Calliope and what you didn’t hear when she leaned in to kiss her father good-bye was ‘you keep Calliope and remember you love me because I am the color of cherry blossoms.’

This was a phrase that I caught Callie saying one day when we visited the Brooklyn Botanical Gardens. That must have been 1996, or 97. She was 6 going on 7. That’s right. We packed a lunch and some toys and some treats and I told her we were going to go tree climbing and flower picking. We get there with Calliope in tote and Callie is mesmerized by the pinkness of the trees. And, if you have ever been you understand what I am talking about. The pink hue from the trees gives every person who walks through the cherry tree lined path a rose complexion. I find a shady spot to lie down and let Callie and Calliope plan out their adventures. I propped myself up against the trunk of a tree and admired my little girl and her imagination.

I remember having one of many true realizations of just how lucky and grateful I was to have this beautiful child in my life. After a 6 year relationship that fell apart when I signed us up as a foster couple, I started to think I was never going to find a man who would want to have a child.

So, I dove in alone. Alone. And afraid. And then there was Callie. Callie is the result of my impulsive, passionate, dedicated nature. So, I sat there under those Cherry Trees in full bloom and watched Callie and Calliope exchange words about treasures and trails. Callie gave Calliope a very soft, high pitched voice to speak through. And, somewhere between burying the treasure and waiting for the prince to come Calliope (he picks up the bear and holds it to face him) looks at Callie and says in her given voice…’You love me because I am the color of Cherry Blossoms.'

And I cried. I cried with laughter and with overwhelming joy. And Callie walked over to me with her 6 going on 30 heart and mind and asked if I was sad that I wasn’t the color of Calliope. And I picked her up and squeezed her so tight and told her yes. Yes, I was sad that Calliope was a cherry blossom color and I wasn’t. But, I was also happy that Calliope loved Callie and Callie loved Calliope. For years, the cherry blossom color would be Callie’s favorite and I would continually tell her that I love her because she is the color of Cherry Blossoms. Almost every night when tucking in time came, in fact. There was a period where it wasn’t cute and she was too old for it, but eventually, it came around again.

Like today, when my daughter Callie, who I raised to be sentimental and sensitive and loving, hands Calliope over to my care and says (he turns his back on the audience and faces where the boarding gate was. He picks up the bear and has it wave good-bye.) I love you because you are the color of cherry blossoms. I love you because you are mine.

Tough Love

Tomorrow was a big day for my 12 year old self. Dad was going to allow me to mow the grass by myself. All the other times we mowed lawns in the neighborhood, I either rode on the riding mower with him helping him shift gears, or I raked leaves and picked weeds out of the cracks that break mamas' backs. But, tomorrow he was going to let me use the push mower alone. Without supervision. He would, of course, check my work when I finished and probably do a lot of the trimming around the trees and bushes himself. But, it meant that I would make $8 instead of $4. That was like, 6 single tapes, or 1 cassette and 1 single tape, or maybe a compact disc that is on sale. (My music addiction began at a very early age)

I awoke with little to no fear. When I look back on it now, I remember feeling brave and confident that I would prove myself to my father. The day began as usual. Some breakfast of cereal (finishing the milk), some television, some time with the dog, then the yard work.

When my mother left to do some shopping at neighborhood garage and yard sales, I did have a quick pang of desperation. I wanted her to stay while I mowed the lawn just in case. In case. In case I did it wrong. IN CASE Dad flew off the handle.

Dad instructed me on how he wanted it done.

I began. I was quick. I was happy. I was certain I knew what I was doing. How difficult could a push mower be. If I missed I spot, I would neatly (in the direction of the lines dad preferred) mow back over it. He left me to my own. And I proceeded to comb through the back yard. But, he didn't leave me to my own. He was eyeing my every move from the back porch window. At first, I tried not to notice he was watching over me. I also thought once he saw me doing a satisfactory job, he would walk away and leave me be. After all, the point of me doing the lawn alone was so that father could get more done with his day. If he was planning on watching me the whole lawn then wouldn't that defeat the purpose? He continued to watch me. It sent me raging. I sensed what it must be like to become my father. I was soooo angry. I wanted to scream. I wanted to beg for him to trust me. Why was he still watching me with judging eyes and a condescending look on his face?

After three or four more lines in the yard, I couldn't take it. I let go of the mower and threw my hands up in the air looking right at my father in the back porch window. I threw them in the air with a non-verbal curse and an exclamation point! A second after I had done this, I knew I shouldn't have. His condescension changed immediately to rage.

I knew he was coming for me. I knew Mom wasn't home. I didn't know where to run. So, I didn't. He flew out the back door with three and four foot strides. I cowered like an ignorant puppy anticipating it's scolding. I can only imagine what I looked like at 12 years old and 4 feet 9 inches tall practically curled into a ball. He grabbed me by the back of my shirt lifting me off the ground. I remained curled up. He threw me. Far. I was tiny. He was big. My head and I landed inches from the rock landscape that encircled the large rose bush at the corner of the house. The pee sprayed out of me. It soaked my undershorts and my gym shorts leaving a damp spot on one of the stones. Now I was not only scared but embarrassed. He began kicking me violently in the rear and the back of my thighs as I attempted to crawl away from him up the back porch stairs toward some sort of furniture as a blockade or refuge. I didn't make it. He threw me over the love seat and I landed on the floor in front of it.

He peered over me. Like a monster. Like a mad dog. There was saliva in the corners of his mouth and splayed across my face getting picked up by the river of tears that was now cascading from my eyes.

He asked me if I liked this. No "Yes you do," he said. No
Yes.
Fine, yes dad, sir, I do.
LIAR!

He spit and scream. He hit and hissed.

Sissy. Faggot. Fucker. Among others.

It finally stopped. Probably less than a minute of beating that felt like hours. I stopped crying immediately. That's how he liked it and that's how he would stop. So, I learned how to stop the tears immediately. I eventually changed my shorts and wrapped them in a plastic garbage bag so that my mother wouldn't find them. So, that I wouldn't get into trouble for telling mom. So, I planned not to tell mom.

Later that night, I lay me down to sleep, I pray the lord my soul to keep. If I should die before I wake (please), I pray the lord my soul to take. My rear-end began to itch and ache. I tip-toed to the bathroom and pulled my undies down below my cheeks. A web of chaos had been deposited on my rear. I couldn't tell what had happened. Was it a bruise, a stain, veins, blood vessels?

Now should I tell mom?

It's now mine and Mom's secret. She thought it best to not tell Dad either. He would only get more angry that I went to mother to tell her about it.

I still don't think he knows the lines he left on me.

Tough Love.

Just thinking of the right things to say...

If only you knew what was really happening to me. I am so afraid and ashamed to admit it.

I called someone the other day. Someone who might be able to help me. Someone who has been here before.

I see your lips and the summer kisses. As Eva Cassidy sings.

I lay here motionless and lacking any motivation.

Who knows where the time goes. That's a statement not a question.

I called my Dad on father's day. It was nice. It was fairly easy. Why does this surprise me?

I wanted something and it's not there now. I lash out.

I bury it. I try not to let it take me away.

I order another. I know that I shouldn't.

Somebody hold me too close. Please. Just hold me even when I try to pull away.

All the things I wished I had not said or did. It lives as madness inside my head.

You know in the end I will always be there.

I will still be here. I have no thought of leaving. But, I can't stop counting the time.

Legends

The night is bitter.

Maybe there is only a whisper or a trace of me left in your memories. IF this is true, I am still grateful.

Maybe time really does heal all wounds. If THIS is true, I am happy.

Maybe the wounds are still there and they just get easier to live with. IF THIS is true, I am tolerant.

The stars have lost their glitter.

Maybe it was obsession. Maybe it was unhealthy. If this is TRUE, I will strive for growth and change.

Maybe it was authentic and an unexplainable desire, connection and chemistry that I can't seem to erase. If this is true, I won't apologize for it.

The winds grow colder and suddenly your older.

There is no denying that Judy is a better singer than Rufus. But, the bravery he showed when climbing atop the legendary Carnegie Hall concert of Judy's is, well, just that-Bravery.

And all because of the man that got away.

It took courage for me to say and do all the things I have said. From here all the way back to Carnegie Hall. The good, the terrific, the bad and even the ugly. I am saddened by the turn of events.

Ever since this world began,

there is nothing sadder than.

A one-man woman

looking for the man that got away.

Choking Back

There are so many excuses for my behavior.

This was my first relationship.

I was highly insecure.

I was terribly jealous.

I was deeply in love.

I was 21 years old.



So, then, why? Why every time we see each other, do I get this dizzy stomach and nauseous headache? It's fleeting for the most part. But, it comes every time I see you. I look at you now, and the way we are as friends and feel so blessed. I see how much we have grown as people, as men, as lovers. 8 years and counting. But, I can't seem to shake this one instance. This disgusting display of immaturity and drama.



I wasn't a perfect boyfriend. I still doubt I ever could be. I was jealous and insecure and full of fear. I never felt you would love me for me. I don't think either of us realized it was okay to be ourselves with each other. So instead we tried so hard to be what we thought the other wanted.
And, boy did we love each other. WE LOVED. AND LOVED. AND LOVED.

I am not saying I live with regret from that moment in time. That moment in 1999 where I disappeared from the music store (in hopes that you would chase me down...argh...games!) and walked my sorry ass back to Jersey City where I proceeded to sit on the stoop of our brownstone wiping violently at my tears and peering down Mercer Street with tainted anticipation just waiting and waiting and waiting for you and her to come down the street. And...you didn't. Hours and hours went by. Not a phone call. Nothing.

I didn't get what I wanted. Even after a tireless, immature, ridiculous effort to manipulate it out of you. I didn't get what I wanted. But, I also couldn't see that what I had was enough. I wasn't taking what I was given I was only managing to see what I wasn't.

I don't regret my behavior. I had to go through that to learn about myself. It's an unfortunate circumstance that brings the chuck up to the back of my throat every time I think about it, but I had to go through that.

But, you asked me if I had any regrets, or rather, anything I would go back and change. That would be it. Even if I had left the music store out of jealousy and an immature display of loyalty. I never would have confronted you in front of her. I would have, hopefully, walked my sorry ass back to Mercer street and had sometime to think about not feeling sorry for myself. Then maybe when you both arrived back at the house, I would have stood up on the stoop and said I was sorry. Sorry for my childish behavior. Sorry I was pouting and needy for your attentions. Please forgive me. Please understand I am (was) so young and in the great unknown of relationships.

Enormity

"The Enormity of it devours me." One of my favorite theatrical characters says this in regards to the sweeping overwhelmingness of life and the big picture.

For some reason lately, I have been thinking a lot about the war. Or, rather, Wars in general. And, although, I am opposed to war as a method of problem solving or a means to an end of "something" we aren't quite sure of, I keep thinking I don't know enough about the war.

I don't mean the daily news updates or political factoids that can later be tossed out to grease the conversations with others. I mean I don't have a personal feeling or thought attached to war. This has saddened me lately. My personal wars in my private and professional life take precedence over the wars our country are fighting. My personal battle with self-love and sexual expression overshadow the many men and woman who are considerably younger than me who are risking their lives for the honor and justice of our land. The enormity of this thought devours me and brings me to this page.

I guess my point is, I considered myself to be a passionate person. I have always felt I was a man with a mission, a statement, and an emotional attachment to life outside myself. But, since I don't know what it feels like to have a brother, an uncle, a cousin, or a son or daughter at war, I leave my emotions behind when it comes to this topic. So, I am left with my own wars. My own battles that pale in comparison to the larger ones that life deals to the masses. But, doesn't passion (true passion) come from being able to be compassionate? All this time, that is what I might have been lacking in my life. More compassion. How does one cultivate that? I don't want to have to have a sibling or close relative shipped out to war for me to feel what it might feel like to send someone off to duty. And, is it wrong that I am a little bit envious of those who do have a relative overseas? Not envious that their relative is over there, but envious of the amount of strength and emotion they hold deep within themselves on a daily basis, knowing the risks and the heroism that is thrown at their relative.

Meanwhile, I will release the enter button on my computer, shut down my system and retreat to the sofa to complete my obsession with Grey's Anatomy with the Season 3 finale. All the while, desperately trying to put my little wars aside and try to think about the bigger picture. Maybe just trying to think about the big picture is one baby step closer to seeing things from the big picture.

When I get this way. Which is not that often. I do have to agree with my favorite theatrical character. I sometimes feel the enormity of this world could swallow me whole without a sound.

Unicorns and Libras

The balloon he twisted and shaped into and Odie-look-a-like was charming and playful. He handed it to me with my name on the collar. How youthful. He encouraged my own balloon making and creativity and stood behind me with his arms and hands serving as instructors.

The photos of his nieces and nephews plastered all over his mantle and bed stand show is devotion and loyalty. He speaks of his brother and his sister almost every time we talk.

His apartment is wall-papered with books. As well as his nightstand and desk. Moby Dick is his current literary endeavor. This after completing the Harry Potter Series for the second time in anticipation of the 7th installment.

His glasses are EMO with out being pretentious. His jeans are frayed from use not from dollars. His T-Shirt falls on him so comfortably, as if his chest hair is the grass underneath a picnic blanket.

His conversation is always full-bodied, intense with out being overwhelming, intellectual with out being arrogant, academic with out being droning, and passionate without being aggressive.

His friendships are strong, committed and full of effortless efforts.

His talents are art and photography as well as working with children.

He takes yoga because he likes what the teacher says in class not because he wants a six pack or gain access to his toes. He reads up on Buddhism, homeopathic medicines, spirituality and doesn't commit to any one fully.

He orders pasta with no reservation.

He has braved the city for over 10 years. He has stared familiar death in the face more than once. He has had his heartbroken and performed the breaking himself.

He enjoys the cocktails but doesn't smoke. He has no addictions or fearful habits that are not under control.

He listens to The Weepies and The Gossip.

He writes in a journal. He attends the theatre. He travels.

He does things like...lifting his and my shirts up to expose our chests while lying in bed for the first time and presses our torsos together. Skin to Skin. Holding me tight and nibbling my ear he says things like..."this feels so nice. Doesn't it?"

It does.

But, this is all I see of him. Now. At least. He is a Unicorn.

I am a Libra. There is a balancing act. And, this unicorn impression I am getting is exactly why one day before my date with the Unicorn, I will meet up with the Jew who lives in Brooklyn but wishes for the LES, only wears skinny Diesel jeans, carries a huge purse, has no ambitions, holds on to his heritage because he likes Shabbat dinners, smokes, sleeps in, has nothing hanging on his walls, won't accompany me to the theatre, and leaves everyone thinking he is a huge Bitch and we will get drunk and have sex.

This will be less than 24 hours before I nervously and excitedly meet up with the unicorn and ultimately not put out.

And, I will never understand this about myself.

Dear_____

You are beautiful.

I always loved you.

I always will.

Forgive me.

My love,

Clem

Up with People

I mean he is really cute. But, so is his boyfriend and so is the guy across from us at the table. So is the singer they all came to see. So is the entire staff of my employees who schlep the drinks to the table.

So, why did this happen to me? Tonight? I feel like a 12 year old boy. All, pitched tents and camp sleeping bags. You show me yours and I'll show you mine.

I am his friend. He is mine. I love his boyfriend. We are friends. I have never made an advance on him nor him on me.

But, tonight, I sat there next to him and he put his hand on my thigh. "Oh my..." As he began to caress it,(non-sexually) I began to grow and swell with excitement and desire. At first, I thought it could be ignored and it would dissipate. But, as he continued the friendly fondling with no expectations on his end, my manhood stood up for itself. I began to fear being discovered not only by my friend's hand, but by the surrounding customers. Or, better yet, by my staff. Because, of course, right now would be the exact time a dire emergency would require my attention. While I was standing at attention.

Wet puppies. Baseball. Newborn babies. RATS. Anything to discourage my hormones. But, no such luck. The libido speaks louder than the words in my mind.

I began to sweat. I could feel the lights searching for my shiny skin as the beads of sweat created a new texture to my face. Do I tell him to stop and embarrass him and me? Do I make a joke like I am being aroused but pretend I am actually not? That would probably force me to get up...from the table that is. And, the truth is, I can't. (I should have never bought these jeans in a 30)

So, I act fast. I grab his hand. I pat it the way a mother would when she's telling her son/daughter it will all be okay. I plaster a huge toothy grin on my face and say, "You can't do that right now. " (insert a tiny forced hee-hee) I continue, "Just stop...and don't ask, and turn away because I getting up (argh!) to leave now."

As I did rise (oy!) to leave the table, I caught him catch a glimpse. He wanted to know if he really had done this thing to me. He had. I wanted to go pat him on the back, because that looked like what he wanted. He looked so proud of his achievement. Instead, I shamefully hustled to the nearest employees only and burst into laughter that steadily became tears.

Is that chemistry? Or was I just extra-extra horny? Or is it both? Or could it have been anyone in that moment, if they touched me just right?

Who knew one of my G spots was the inside of my right thigh through a too-tight pair of Lucky Jeans.

Check Lists

This is the first time I have ever written drunk. intoxicated with alcohol but intoxicated with fear and loathing.

I can't quite understand what is happening in my world right now. I give. Or so I think. I think. Or so I feel. I feel or so I wished.

But, ultimately, the dealer is tossing out the worst hand.

People warned me of this. Of turning 30. Of realizing your truths. Of actualizing your reality. And, I recently was asked by a reader, if I was happy.

He said he follows my blog and wants to know if I am sad. I guess I lied. I told him I am happy. Because, I don't have much to not be happy about. I have friends, and a great job, and a great family and tons of other wonderful things happening in my life. But, I seem to be missing reality. Reality seems to be passing me by and I have no idea. Reality seems to be knocking on my door and I stay in bed fearing it is a creditor or my landlord. Reality is....

that I am not attractive.

that I am not doing what I came here to do.

that I am sadder than I ever realized.

that I am older than I ever intended to be.

that life is not a passing fancy.

that my friends are not always my FRIENDS.

that truth takes some digging.

that I have not learned enough to move on.

that I will always fuck up.

that I don't know how to live and let live.

that I make mistakes.

that he did love me.

that he still does.

that he lied. that they will lie. that i will too.

I am drunk. i am sad. I am publishing this post no matter what.

Reality check.

Job-Check
Money-Check
Friends-Check
Family-Check
Love------?
Truth-----?

What does it take to receive the check marks I deserve.

Tactile

The sadness of it all is actually wearing off and I am beginning to see the humor in it.

The anger is still on the surface, but I find myself giggling a little inside when I think of telling my girlfriend on the phone about the kisses. I called them sloppy, sappy, sorry smooches. This is kind of comical in a cute sort of way.

The disgust element is lingering but the laughter seems to be winning by just a nose.

Ultimately, I ask you, how do you feel about unrequited affection? Or better yet, affection that is reciprocated but with an apologetic tone and a placating impact.

He says he is a tactile person. How scientific. Such a scholarly way to put it.

It's touchy feely, sweet thang. And you all touchy and no feely.

I wished my writing were stronger. My descriptives more detailed.

Forgetful and Regretful

I can't believe it. The elephant walk happened this year on March 27th. One week ago. I can't believe I missed it.

Every year about this time. Usually between St. Patrick's Day and March 30th, I watch my all-time favorite movie Eternal Sunshine of The Spotless Mind. This is how I learned of the Elephant Parade that happens yearly (about the same time) when the circus is in town.

The scary part is that I watched Eternal Sunshine, on March 26th (which was really after midnight, so therefore March 27th). Cosmic timing is everything in my life. I won't miss next year's. Not for the world. Even if I don't live in the city, I will come back for this.

The quote goes..."How happy is the blameless Vestal's lot! The world forgetting, by the world forgot: Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind! Each prayer accepted, and each wish resigned." Alexander Pope

IF

If I left would people notice? Would they miss me? Would they move on quickly?

If I said I love you would you run?

If I never changed jobs would you judge me?

If I moved would I survive?

If I went bald would I still be attractive?

If I asked for the truth would it still sound like a lie?

If I order another drink....?

If I lie about my day do I start to believe it?

So Help Me God

I couldn't really tell you the truth. Even though I am known for speaking my mind. It's still not the whole truth. Although, I know you see through my in-genuine smiles and half-hearted hugs. So, you are, at least, aware of my truth existing. You just don't know what it says.

Here lies the truth.

The truth is, he is not smart enough for you and I can't be around you when he is around.

The truth is, I want you to want to see me-not hope that I am around when you drop by.

The truth is, I respect you too much to be witness or accomplice to your poor choices.

The truth is, I get jealous of your free time. The amount of it. The way you utilize and misuse it.

The truth is, I get tired sooner/quicker than ever.

The truth is, I hate when you don't text promptly.

The truth is, I need to be touched no matter how much I recoil.

The truth is, I am not always looking for something more/better.

The truth is, I can be so happy being unhappy.

The truth is, I don't pay enough attention to my happy.

The truth is, I probably need you more than I should.

The truth is, I probably love you more than you do me.

The truth is, I am loving myself...for the first time in a long time.

Don't be Sad Get GLADD

I happened to be lucky enough to attend the Gladd Media awards on Monday night at the Mariott Ballroom in Times Square. Sitting with my boss, his partner, and various other successful GLBT business persons and creative types.

I bumped elbows with Tom Ford, smiled and shared a joke with Julianne Moore, shook hands with Kate Clinton, thanked Cynthia Nixon for her generous donation, made google eyes at Robert Gant and tried to remind Heather Matarazzo of our fleeting but fun friendship back in '01.

I listened to Whoopi Goldberg crack us all up with her straight forward quips and loving acceptance of a community that has kept her afloat. I listened to Cynthia Nixon find a sense of humor about her late blooming. I soaked up Rosie O' Donell's politics mixed with genuine thanks and humbleness at the success of her family cruise line and the documentary that I had no idea existed about it. I was warmed by John Water's confident manner and truthful approach toward the audience.

Then came the montage of video footage and media coverage in the last year. The good, the bad, the ugly and the beautiful.

I cried.

Nothing too intense just small, sniffly tears.

My visibility as a gay man is more powerful than I will ever know. Each person who takes a stride in public to be recognized, accepted, themselves, etc., is making crucial steps and huge advances in the way we are perceived, portrayed, treated and ultimately understood.

Everything has to do with everything. From Ann Coulter to Rosie O' Donell. From coming out to killings.

It has only been 40 years since the movement really became a movement.

Progress is evident.

I felt empowered, inspired, accepted and safe Monday night.

That doesn't happen very often.

Thank you for being GLADD.

This Just In...

It's been awhile. I know.

It is also very rare that I journal within my blog. Lately, over the past year I have only eluded to my life or written from various perspectives. Sometimes, I have even tried my hand at fiction. But, mostly I have tried to keep a "James Frey" approach to my writing. A fine line between reality and fiction. True emotion or assignment of such. I write in vague metaphors which some "writers" can not stand, other's relish. I stretch myself as a thinker. I give you only a taste of what I might be going through with little to no explanation. Or I rely on a funny story from my past that is guaranteed to garner comments.

This blog exists solely for my own needs. It scratches an itch I have. The itch to try all the uncharted areas of my creativity. The itch to express myself. The itch to gossip safely and anonymously (sort of). The itch or urge rather to be read and understood. The desire to find commonalities among other thinkers and evolving human beings out there.

The blog stems from the creativity and thoughts of other's. Specifically, it's beginnings come from Joely's company. One of my best friend's blogs. This blog has been many things. It's been a bitch fest, a vent system, a piece of art, a lesson in loneliness, an exercise in storytelling, etc. Through her thoughts I found other thinkers. Too many to name here. Some are linked other's are not...yet. But, there are so many people out there with so much to say. Your blogs and your comments often stir my thoughts enough to provoke me to write. Thank you.

I never want to be a Stephanie Klien or a Joe.My.God. or a Perez Hilton. (Or maybe the longing is so deep it hasn't penetrated me yet.) I just want to write when I feel like it and when I have the time.

Lately, things are going well for me. I am surviving work. I am learning to live by myself more and more each day. I am trying to relax my thoughts and my reactions. I am looking at myself in the mirror again and content with what is reflected back at me. I am deepening my personal relationships. I am making goals. I am taking the baby steps needed to reach them. I am working on my tolerance. I am focusing on my future (one tiny fragment at a time). And I am not feeling guilty for much of anything anymore. That is the biggest step. I have been sad and lonely because I feel guilty for silly things, unimportant things, and things that have passed and there's nothing more that could be done.

I have a lot more to say than this. I just wanted to post an update.

This just in.

Life just IS right now. Nothing too fabulous or tragic to report.

I am Being.