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.