The Truth

I am understanding the complete loss of the blog entry that I finished not more than 5 minutes ago in an unexpected Word shut-down as a sign that the entry was just a bunch of bullshit anyway and that I should reconsider and just tell the fucking truth. It said that I haven’t been writing in my blog because the things that have been happening in my life were just too personal to report. I’ll just give that notion the finger, and begin what I have been regretting for quite a while—mixing my quippy, little stories about my life here with some of the darker parts of it, too.


Chris and I are having problems. That’s all there is to it. I think it is normal, at least to whatever extent empirical data can be trusted, for gay couples to experiment with the idea of monogamy. Many of the people I know do not agree with the concept of 100% monogamy, and, therefore, try to negotiate some kind of understanding that enables the relationship to not become stagnant or too confining. This has been a difficult subject for me, since I have been raised in a Puritanical background like no other.

My parents took us to a hoopin’ and hollerin’ kind of back-woodsie prayer meetin’ 3 times a week, each service working itself up to a terrifying 2-hour frenzy, calling all sinners back to the Savior, or running the risk of the dreaded, and, by this time, proverbial Pit of Damnation. How these simple, country folk could have managed to stray between the morning service and the evening service on any given Sunday is beyond me. The “altar call” consisted of seemingly, rather large percentages of the entire congregation on a regular basis, though. (At some point the preacher must have thought to himself ‘Well, I’ll be Mister Preacherman, methinks I am not such a good leader of my flock if a good 30% of them needs to get saved on practically a weekly basis.’ Poor guy. Work satisfaction can be a bitch. Something tells me his mood lightened a bit as he was counting the collection he had guilted out of said flock with that fire and brimstone of his.)

To put it very simply, I have a rather meek and timid sexual identity, one that is more traditional and behind closed doors. I have never been the type to go to the gay sauna and have myself not just one lay, but several, and then go out the next night and repeat process. Chris, though, in his past, has been my alter-ego in this regard, living an active, or what some prudes like me may call, slutty existence. I don’t fault him for that. I can’t understand it, but, hey, there are a hell of a lot of things I can’t necessarily understand about him anyway.

Slowly, through time, I have come to understand him a bit more on this subject, though. I think that visions of the future of one’s personal self are very important, and in my future, I see a relationship with Chris where we both have, only occasionally, a little fun if it presents itself to us. Again, this is a vision of the ideal future. If I ever get to the point where I can have such an adventure without being overridden with guilt, I will count myself, frankly, evolved.

But, when Chris came home the other night, after having been at his grandfather’s 80th birthday party, and revealed that he had stopped at a rest stop to have sex in the woods, it set off a string of events of which I am still feeling the effects.

Jules, Jim et Clamshell

I love you, my little Clamshell. You lie on my lap and purr as I read and write, surf and peruse. You snuggle up with me in bed and we laugh together at little caricatures of GW with big ears and cowboy boots. You have been my devoted Tonto on the Plains of my wonton Desires, Yearnings and even flighty Passions. You have always been there, little Clamshell. It pains me, then, to inform you that you are indeed getting old, my little thing. You are a relic in the days of microprocessors that don’t whirr and buzz—they only sit there and compute without soul. You always computed your computing with feeling, with viv, vim, vigor, my little Clamshell. It’s just that, well...how does one say...you are so very slow, my little Clamshell. And with every passing day, you are getting slower as those giants of soulless computation streak past us on the Autobahn of numbers, as I, with a smile in hand, putt along with you in our electronic, poetic, aesthetic...Pacer.

Oh, God, please heal Chris of his new Philip Glass obsession. I go through my days now, with an underpinning of non-descript sounds, filling me with déjà vu from moment to moment, giving my daily chores that half-lit, somehow profound feeling like being in a bad Truffault film (were there any?) Does toilet scrubbing have to sound so meaningful?

Peanut fickle.

I have a couple of friends who are absolutely convinced that my every waking action revolves around my never-ending need for attention. It really doesn’t matter what I do or say, it can all be linked back to that desire of mine to be in the spotlight. For someone who considers himself what I lovingly call “mildly agoraphobic” and who has a fear and subtle distaste for all other humans, I find it hard to believe that I need that much attention.

That being said, this all came to mind just now as I was lying in bed, wishing my boyfriend would give me some attention. Then, when he came in and started singing for me, I ignored him, because I was fully concentrated on writing this silly blog. How mercurial and fickle you are, my dear Josh.

(Does getting attention from yourself count? Hello, Id, I’m the Ego. Nice to meet you, Ego. Haven’t we met before? Etc.)

Roses are red
Violets are blue
I’m schizophrenic
And so am I.

Blustery Boohonk

I distinctly remember having this feeling before...that of being not quite sure if I can take winter a single, solitary second longer. But the snow keeps falling here. And the winter kept its persistence...snow upon snow.

My pleasantly theatrical seasonal melancholy has hunkered down and intends to stay. I can just see myself, long-lasting Scrooge on spring’s first day, humbugging like a sailor in spite of the Sun’s first rays. My heart is become like that attacking, unknown Entity in Fifth Element, hardened over, waiting to pounce...

God, let the friggin’ winter be over already. Melt away every last God-forbidden, wondrously original snowflake and let the rivers flow, feeding the way for the season of love. Think the “I’d like to teach the World to sing” commercial but in pastels and flowers instead of candles.

La donna è mobile

Have you ever noticed how terribly difficult it is to be consistent? Maybe some other personalities have an easier time of it. When thinking about my career and how I would like to become a soloist someday, I know that, in order to do that, I would have to put a whole lot of effort towards that end...practicing, auditioning, networking. And, once you finally get the position, that is only the beginning of the story. Getting a spot is almost instantaneously replaced by the need to keep it.

In other words, one must be very focused in order to succeed in such a venture, to break out and begin again. I just wonder if I am too fleeting to get it done.

The Spoiled Victory

All is clear on the Western Front. C. apologized yesterday. I greatly respect him for that. Any man who can apologize (even if he was forced into it) is a good man, in my opinion. He made a special point of explaining that he has no problem with gay people and that when he said that he meant that I was being like a woman in the way I was trying to manipulate the situation. I guess sexist is better than homophobic.

Chris and I discussed this concept yesterday. Why is it that the absolute worst thing that a man could ever do is to mimic a woman’s behavior? What is wrong with being a woman? Why is it more acceptable for a woman to act like a man than for a man to act like a woman? Isn’t lesbianism more accepted in society because it fulfills some kind of male fantasy? Isn’t it true that lesbianism is not seen as distasteful because the only group who finds it as such, heterosexual women, have no voice?

I think the misogynistic attitude of most men is that woman are there as convenient receptacles but should not be heard. It is a lengthy topic to discuss, but I think the Women’s Rights Movement has a definite connection to that of the Gay Rights Movement. Both are battling against the practically inherent patriarchal hierarchy that has existed for thousands of years.

I asked that C. apologize because I thought that it was the right thing to do. It would show him that it is not ok to say such things in anger. It would set s precedent in the chorus that such behavior is not acceptable. It would save us all a lot of grief and potential internal conflict by bypassing going to any higher authorities. It seemed like the wisest decision to make.

But to see in C.’s eyes how terribly uncomfortable he was when he apologized, I had some thought in my mind that what was occurring was somehow unnatural and wrong. Maybe some people would have gotten some kind of sick satisfaction in the way that his body practically vibrated, forcing out the words. Not me. This must be what a parent feels like when he punishes a child. You know it’s the right thing to do, but it is hard to see. I’m just too soft.

I am more than just a token.

No, I’m not dead. Ok, now that that’s cleared up...

Some things have been happening in my life. A few weeks ago, my general practitioner told me that I needed to have a colonoscopy because he feared that the pain in my lower abdomen was diverticulosis. I was unfamiliar with what that was, so I came home and checked it out on the Internet. Do you ever wonder how we survived before the Internet? I do. Anyway, it is a disease where a part of your intestines bulges out on the side, leaving a sort of pocket for assorted foodstuffs to get lodged in. The partially digested food just sits there, festering and creating a lot of digestive problems, not the least of which is infection. Plus, it is not really correctable outside of surgery. You can understand my trepidation, then, yesterday when I went to the Internist to get things down there “checked out.” I couldn’t eat for more than 24 hours and had to drink 2 liters of paste before I went. When was the last time that I didn’t eat for 24 hours? Hell, when is the last time that I missed a meal?

Anyway, it’s not diverticulosis. My intestines, in fact appear to be healthy and in perfect working condition. Chris was there during the procedure and watched the video screen the whole time. He said it was fascinating and that my intestines look like a Gothic Cathedral. I’m not sure exactly what that means, but when you live with a Graphic Designer, weirder statements have occurred... (Refer to “Not Knots for Naught”.)

So, on one hand my intestines are not acting all funny-like because of some dramatic intestinal disease. This is good. On the other hand, finding out what is causing the discomfort will be another challenge. Thank you, Higher Being. Just kidding. Please do not smite me. Smiting bad. I do, however, have the sudden uncontrollable urge to someday be able to use the cool, paste tense form of that word... ‘Smote’ just sounds cool as hell.