As he laid there a chill began to cover his body. His breathing had become shallow and slowly he was losing consciousness. "Is this it?," he thought. There were no lights, no unexplained phenomenon. Just quiet and stillness...peace. The water in the bath was turning cold and as much as he wanted to turn the hot water knob, he couldn't move his body. A lump of clay, sinking into the water, never to be seen again. His body was drained of tears. This is what he wanted, this is what it was supposed to be, silence.
He couldn't remember the last time he experienced such solitude. As morbid as it sounded, it was, oddly enough, very inviting.
There were no flashes of the life that he led, no memories popping into his head, just an emptiness. A void of being. His spirit was so lost and damaged, there he was on the edge,...there was no turning back. He had started the process and was committed to seeing it through....this is what he wanted.
The water had become dark.
The blood he released, was leaving his body and it was only a matter of time, he thought, til it was over.
There was nothing else in his mind. No clearer path. Was this Pride he was feeling? Was there a sense of "accomplishment?"
He heard a sound. The front door was opening and someone was calling his name. A flash of panic came over him and he felt his heart begin to beat faster. His eyes fluttered as he tried to gain some focus. No one should've been coming into the house. His sister and niece were at church, or so he thought. From what seemed a great distance he could hear his name being called, "no." Tears began to roll down his cheek. No, not yet, he thought. It was to soon......
Sunday, May 22, 2011
Friday, May 6, 2011
Aftermath--Chapter 3: An Emotional Hurricane
Dawn was rising. Through the blind slits of his bedroom window, he could tell the that morning was approaching. He sat up on the side of the bed. Slumped, beaten and tired, he raised his head and looked into the dresser mirror. His face was barely recognizable to himself; the tears were heavier, his breathing erratic and his body tense. To his right was a night stand with three drawers. Inside were memorabilia from over the years. Odd items that were remnants and reminders of his late Grandmother's desire to hold on to things. The top drawer contained marbles, and jacks--red dice, and a miniature-battery operated personal fan.
She could find the oddest things when she would go shopping in the years before her retirement, which was a long time ago. Early 80's if memory served him correctly.
In the back of the drawer, underneath some "fuzzy" No.2 pencils were two mini boxes of razors. For a second he asked himself, "why?'
Why did he keep these razors? He had done a majority of the ritual packing and donating of her belongings. All the little knick-knacks she had collected over the years. His Grandmother was the type of woman who always thought that something she had could be used again. A recycling pro before her time.
He held the box in his hand and tried to find the opening. He honestly wasn't sure what he would find once he opened them; for all he knew, they could've been rusted from the years of sitting in her drawers. To his surprise they were not in any way, shape or form "rusty." A sign he thought; in the frenzy and fever of despair, it seemed almost as if they were waiting for him. It wasn't until much later that he realized that maybe, just maybe, these feelings had a place of origin. And he had left them there for this moment.
He stood up and took a cigarette, a Newport Medium and his lighter. He fumbled around the bed, almost bumping into the main dresser. He shifted around the storage unit at the foot of the bed. Bumped into the chair at the window but felt nothing. He walked to the bedroom door and opened it. His balance was off and he needed to grab a hold onto the wall leading into the bathroom. The coolness of the floor resonated in his body, sending a chill up through his legs. He placed his hand on the sink and tried to look into the mirror, but he couldn't, the fear of seeing what he imagined himself looking like was scarier than what his body was now doing. He was on auto-pilot. He couldn't think, he couldn't articulate a word. His mind was racing and his thoughts scrambled. He sat down on the toilet and lit the cigarette. He looked at the door--stood up and closed it all the way. He heard the door latch click--almost with an echoe. He stumbled back to the seat and inhaled the cigarette. The taste in his mouth was bitter and rancid. His mouth was dry and although he felt the urge to pee, nothing was coming out. He turned to his right and looked at the green laquered bathtub. The shower curtains were halfway drawn, so he pushed them back further. He shifted his body diagonally and turned the knobs and placed the water stopper in the drain. The water began to chug out--is this really happening, he thought.
As he watched the water fill, he looked at the bathroom door. The frenzy he was falling into was taking over; his resolve was manifesting itself, it took courage. Although he knew that that wasn't what anyone would think.
The consequences were this--an eternity in some limbo for wayward souls.
It was almost enticing. A place where he could just "be."
His imagination began to take over and the wonder of what was coming, began to seem almost inviting. He rationalized it with this--I'm Gay. I'm HIV+. What was two out of three strikes--why not just make it "three" and call it a day?
GOD knew what was going down and he figured he'd have to answer to HIM, but so what, it didn't matter. In the eyes of GOD, as was instilled in him in his early years, a sin is a sin, is a sin. He was already damned according the bible pushers. The "fanatics" who interpreted scriptures to the best of their human ability. This is wrong and this is wrong and this is wrong. All his life, that's all he heard.
His hands began to quiver as he took a final drag of the cigarette. He stared at them for a moment and thought, "what are you scared of?" He spread his legs and dropped the cigarette into the toilet, nearly tagging his penis. He stood up and removed his underwear from around his ankles. He sat back down, dizzy he was feeling, and lifted his shirt over his head. He then folded the shirt and underwear and placed them to his left underneath the bathroom closet. As he looked up, the ceiling window was getting brighter-- he looked in the closet and noticed the crumbling wall paper and concrete. Years of neglect had left paint chips and dust primarily on the top shelf, but from where he sat, it was all just falling apart. He became disgusted with himself, again.
Without hesitation he sat down into the water. It was luke warm at best but it wouldn't matter in a few moments.
He placed the razor in the soap dish attached to the tiled bath. He put his hands in the water and then underneath his legs, mainly to warm the up, and then quickly brought them out. He grabbed the razor and turned over his left wrist. Hands shaking and tears running down his cheeks, he placed the edge of the razor against his wrist. Pressed down and held it for a moment. He took a breath and dug deeper, this time drawing the razor down toward the inner crutch of his elbow. He hadn't gotten past the wrist-watch area of his forearm, when the blood began to trickle and bubble from the cuts he had begun; he placed his arm into the water and watched to see the flowage. To his surprise it wasn't flowing as rapidly as he thought or expected. Razor still in his right hand, he placed it in the same initial area and pressed harder. This time though, he just keep pressing and digging into his skin. He then used the razor to "part" what little of the inside skin was showing, in hopes of opening the slit even further. He slowly parted the skin like he used to do to his hair as a child. Placing the arm in the water again, more blood began to flow. He looked down at his knees and to the side, he could tell the water was getting darker. But not dark enough. That's when he took the razor in his left hand and proceeded to repeat the prior steps, this time on his right. There was a little pain in his left wrist. "Oh yeah," he thought.
He then placed the edge on his right wrist and dug in--he could barely hold the razor at this point. Then he thought, do it in the water. The water will soften the skin and would make it easier. He did; and it did.
Blood now was trickling down both his forearms. He placed the razor back onto the soap dish and laid back to rest. Tears covered his eyes, almost blinding him--he leaned his head against the wall of the bath and began sobbing silently.
One thing he knew for sure, no one would find him until after he was gone. It was Easter Sunday. His sister had planned to go to church with her daughter. The day before they had went to the mall to buy dresses for the occasion. It reminded him of the days as a young kid, his Grandmother, or Father, depending on if he was in Jersey playing cards with his friends or not, would take him and his brother to buy new suits for Easter. A very big warehouse on North Broad Street that made custom suits. It was a ritual he didn't like very much, because he didn't like wearing suits period. He especially didn't like being told he was still gaining to much weight. Each and every year through middle school graduation, it was an excursion that made him sick to his stomach.
No one would be coming by the house anytime soon, at least not until the afternoon, when his sister would need to disappear for a while and come over to play games on the computer and smoke tree.
As he laid back into the water, he began moving his arms. Then he would press against them, all in hopes of speeding up the process.
The water by this time was a murky gray. He pulled both wrists up and examined them...the blood was...stopping. "No,' he said.
He began pressing against the sides of the wounds. First the left and then the right. He pressed to push more blood out of his body. More came, but his eyes were beginning to become heavy. It was getting harder to keep his eyes open. He shifted in the tub and did the same to his right wrist. Although the cut wasn't as deep as the left wrist, the blood , albeit slow, was still flowing. He fell back into the tub and felt a chill. The water wasn't cooling down. Normally he would've turned the hot water back on, but he couldn't turn the knobs now. He laid back again, this time, resigning to the fate he had begun.
She could find the oddest things when she would go shopping in the years before her retirement, which was a long time ago. Early 80's if memory served him correctly.
In the back of the drawer, underneath some "fuzzy" No.2 pencils were two mini boxes of razors. For a second he asked himself, "why?'
Why did he keep these razors? He had done a majority of the ritual packing and donating of her belongings. All the little knick-knacks she had collected over the years. His Grandmother was the type of woman who always thought that something she had could be used again. A recycling pro before her time.
He held the box in his hand and tried to find the opening. He honestly wasn't sure what he would find once he opened them; for all he knew, they could've been rusted from the years of sitting in her drawers. To his surprise they were not in any way, shape or form "rusty." A sign he thought; in the frenzy and fever of despair, it seemed almost as if they were waiting for him. It wasn't until much later that he realized that maybe, just maybe, these feelings had a place of origin. And he had left them there for this moment.
He stood up and took a cigarette, a Newport Medium and his lighter. He fumbled around the bed, almost bumping into the main dresser. He shifted around the storage unit at the foot of the bed. Bumped into the chair at the window but felt nothing. He walked to the bedroom door and opened it. His balance was off and he needed to grab a hold onto the wall leading into the bathroom. The coolness of the floor resonated in his body, sending a chill up through his legs. He placed his hand on the sink and tried to look into the mirror, but he couldn't, the fear of seeing what he imagined himself looking like was scarier than what his body was now doing. He was on auto-pilot. He couldn't think, he couldn't articulate a word. His mind was racing and his thoughts scrambled. He sat down on the toilet and lit the cigarette. He looked at the door--stood up and closed it all the way. He heard the door latch click--almost with an echoe. He stumbled back to the seat and inhaled the cigarette. The taste in his mouth was bitter and rancid. His mouth was dry and although he felt the urge to pee, nothing was coming out. He turned to his right and looked at the green laquered bathtub. The shower curtains were halfway drawn, so he pushed them back further. He shifted his body diagonally and turned the knobs and placed the water stopper in the drain. The water began to chug out--is this really happening, he thought.
As he watched the water fill, he looked at the bathroom door. The frenzy he was falling into was taking over; his resolve was manifesting itself, it took courage. Although he knew that that wasn't what anyone would think.
The consequences were this--an eternity in some limbo for wayward souls.
It was almost enticing. A place where he could just "be."
His imagination began to take over and the wonder of what was coming, began to seem almost inviting. He rationalized it with this--I'm Gay. I'm HIV+. What was two out of three strikes--why not just make it "three" and call it a day?
GOD knew what was going down and he figured he'd have to answer to HIM, but so what, it didn't matter. In the eyes of GOD, as was instilled in him in his early years, a sin is a sin, is a sin. He was already damned according the bible pushers. The "fanatics" who interpreted scriptures to the best of their human ability. This is wrong and this is wrong and this is wrong. All his life, that's all he heard.
His hands began to quiver as he took a final drag of the cigarette. He stared at them for a moment and thought, "what are you scared of?" He spread his legs and dropped the cigarette into the toilet, nearly tagging his penis. He stood up and removed his underwear from around his ankles. He sat back down, dizzy he was feeling, and lifted his shirt over his head. He then folded the shirt and underwear and placed them to his left underneath the bathroom closet. As he looked up, the ceiling window was getting brighter-- he looked in the closet and noticed the crumbling wall paper and concrete. Years of neglect had left paint chips and dust primarily on the top shelf, but from where he sat, it was all just falling apart. He became disgusted with himself, again.
Without hesitation he sat down into the water. It was luke warm at best but it wouldn't matter in a few moments.
He placed the razor in the soap dish attached to the tiled bath. He put his hands in the water and then underneath his legs, mainly to warm the up, and then quickly brought them out. He grabbed the razor and turned over his left wrist. Hands shaking and tears running down his cheeks, he placed the edge of the razor against his wrist. Pressed down and held it for a moment. He took a breath and dug deeper, this time drawing the razor down toward the inner crutch of his elbow. He hadn't gotten past the wrist-watch area of his forearm, when the blood began to trickle and bubble from the cuts he had begun; he placed his arm into the water and watched to see the flowage. To his surprise it wasn't flowing as rapidly as he thought or expected. Razor still in his right hand, he placed it in the same initial area and pressed harder. This time though, he just keep pressing and digging into his skin. He then used the razor to "part" what little of the inside skin was showing, in hopes of opening the slit even further. He slowly parted the skin like he used to do to his hair as a child. Placing the arm in the water again, more blood began to flow. He looked down at his knees and to the side, he could tell the water was getting darker. But not dark enough. That's when he took the razor in his left hand and proceeded to repeat the prior steps, this time on his right. There was a little pain in his left wrist. "Oh yeah," he thought.
He then placed the edge on his right wrist and dug in--he could barely hold the razor at this point. Then he thought, do it in the water. The water will soften the skin and would make it easier. He did; and it did.
Blood now was trickling down both his forearms. He placed the razor back onto the soap dish and laid back to rest. Tears covered his eyes, almost blinding him--he leaned his head against the wall of the bath and began sobbing silently.
One thing he knew for sure, no one would find him until after he was gone. It was Easter Sunday. His sister had planned to go to church with her daughter. The day before they had went to the mall to buy dresses for the occasion. It reminded him of the days as a young kid, his Grandmother, or Father, depending on if he was in Jersey playing cards with his friends or not, would take him and his brother to buy new suits for Easter. A very big warehouse on North Broad Street that made custom suits. It was a ritual he didn't like very much, because he didn't like wearing suits period. He especially didn't like being told he was still gaining to much weight. Each and every year through middle school graduation, it was an excursion that made him sick to his stomach.
No one would be coming by the house anytime soon, at least not until the afternoon, when his sister would need to disappear for a while and come over to play games on the computer and smoke tree.
As he laid back into the water, he began moving his arms. Then he would press against them, all in hopes of speeding up the process.
The water by this time was a murky gray. He pulled both wrists up and examined them...the blood was...stopping. "No,' he said.
He began pressing against the sides of the wounds. First the left and then the right. He pressed to push more blood out of his body. More came, but his eyes were beginning to become heavy. It was getting harder to keep his eyes open. He shifted in the tub and did the same to his right wrist. Although the cut wasn't as deep as the left wrist, the blood , albeit slow, was still flowing. He fell back into the tub and felt a chill. The water wasn't cooling down. Normally he would've turned the hot water back on, but he couldn't turn the knobs now. He laid back again, this time, resigning to the fate he had begun.
Thursday, May 5, 2011
Aftermath--Chapter 2: The Night Before.....
As the days passed by, he realized something,--he was beginning to procrastinate.
One week ago he was in a place that he wouldn't have wished upon his worst enemy.
Holy Saturday. The Day before Easter.
His relationship with GOD was almost estranged in a way. He wasn't necessarily angry with GOD, but there were times when he felt left out. Alone. Abandoned.
As he walked in the door to his home, he was met with the usual greeting from his kittens. But one or all of them did a "number" on the rug, so he immediately began the clean up process. He wasn't mad at them per say, but he was frustrated that they were only using the litter box every now and then; most times he'd be home, hear the kittens "whining" and know one of them had to go to the bathroom. And if he didn't get up to find which one, there would be a stinky pile of kitten "poo" on the rug that his grandmother was incredibly fierce in it's uptake.
He missed her.
From 2000, up through her death in November of 2009, their Worlds were entwined. They took care of each other until she could no longer care for herself around 2007.
As he looked around the house, he thought, "what the fuck?" Save for a mother Cat and her four Kittens, the house was empty. No sounds. No laughter. Just him and five pussies. Three girls and two boys. Not including his-self.
He sat on the living room sofa and began to stare around the house. The family pictures that once adorned the 35+ year old piano were no longer there--replaced with books and magazines that were to be read.
He looked for the remote to the T.V. Nothing was on, save for some really bad B movies that never should've seen the light of day.
He surfed the television stations. Once. Twice. Then he kept flipping them back and forth. As if waiting for the T.V. to produce some really good shows that would raise his spirits.
"Beer," he thought. He needed a Beer--or some 420. At least he could vegetate for awhile; get the munchies.
He began going through the stations again. And again. And again.
Nothing.
He looked towards the front windows.
By this time, two of the four kittens were on the radiator, on their hind legs trying to get a "claw grip" on one of the blinds covering the windows. He looked for the water spray bottle. That seemed like a good way to teach them "NO."
He cussed some inaudible sound to them and said, "you're pushing it."
He was beginning to feel some hunger pains. But the desire to cook was not in him--just no strength or will to get up and go into the kitchen. That probably would've brought him out of this funk as well. But no, sitting and stewing seemed to be the best solution.
There he sat, and the hours seemed to pass and elongate at the same time. Nothing was happening from his point of view. No one was there--and he didn't know what to do.
Sunset began--he was still on the couch. Sitting up and forward with his hand on his chin watching something on the television, he was no longer there in the house. In his mind, he had gone someplace else and left this shell-of-a-man behind.
He turned on one of the lamps. Sometime later, how long he would never know, he looked over towards the doorbell ringer. His eyes began focusing on something. Then all of a sudden he started seeing colors. A light blue house dress with polka dots. The very one he saw his Grandmother in so many times before when she was alive.
He shook his head to clear his mind and eyes. He was just tired he told himself, and since he hadn't smoked or drank anything, he tried to let it go.
Then something else happened, this time the figure returned. Leaned over and placed it's elbow on the piano. The next thing, he saw another figure emerging from the same area. This one was moving slower and in a straight path across the living room, in front of the television and passed through the love seat and lounge chair. He felt the goosebumps on his ice cold skin rising.
He just kept shaking his head in disbelief. "This is NOT happening ," he said aloud, but there was no denying what he saw and felt. He turned the sound to the television down and looked over at the area where this initiated. He told himself to relax, just relax and breathe.
He decided to just go to bed.
As he walked up the stairs, his mind began racing. Upstairs was dark and he was beginning to feel the anomynity of it all. To not be seen...and that's how it started. The questions, the fears. What if....just, what if he didn't open his eyes in the morning?
The tears began to flow down his cheeks. He went into his bedroom, the bedroom that was once occupied by his grandmother and closed the door tightly. One thing that he didn't need right now was any one of those kittens coming up and thinking it was playtime. They had a habit of jumping up on the bed and chasing ANYTHING that moved. If he moved from one side of the bed to another, they began their "hunt and gather" routine. Any other day he would've welcomed the playfulness.
He walked around the bed to get to the dresser on the other side of the room. He sat down on the edge of the bed, turned on the night-stands' light saw his medications and vitamins. His crying became heavier, his breath was static, he was drowning. He picked up a bottle, Benedryl, prescriptive, not OTC. Taking one or two would give him a more restful sleep...but what if....what if he took more? Half the bottle had spilled into the palm of his hand. A plastic cup of water from the night before sat in front of him--waiting for him to pick it up. He looked from one hand to the other....swallowed the pills and drank the water. Not all of them had gone down the first time. He sipped some more water. Now he began to hyper-ventilate. He laid down on his side in the fetal position. He wrapped one arm on top of the other. His crying had become stronger, deeper, fuller; he turned his head into his pillow and waited.
Some time later, he sat up, his eyes were swollen and puffy. His pillow wet. He looked into the dresser mirror and didn't recognize who he saw--he looked at the Benedryl again, something stronger he thought. His prescription of Ibuprofen was there--why not? They were 800 milligrams. Taking one was usually good for whatever was ailing him--half a bottle--well, maybe that's the push he needed. He got the water, opened the bottle, spilled the white, horse sized pills into his palm and swallowed.
There was a pain in his chest. He threw his head back onto the bed and curled up.
He stared at the ceiling for what seemed hours. He could vaguely hear the sounds of cars coming and going up and down the street. He knew that his eyes would soon begin playing tricks on him--the car headlights, peering through, creating shapes and figures along the bedroom walls. Oh, great---here come the hallucinations for sure. And just as he finished his thought, a figure began to emerge along the window curtains. As if they were being lowered down from the ceiling. He closed his eyes. Was this HELL coming to greet him?
It wouldn't be until days later that his mother said, "you know it's a sin." And as much as he wanted to--he didn't reply, but if he did, he would've told her, "So...being Gay, HIV+, a fornicater in the eyes of GOD,--his ticket was written a long time ago and instilled in him by his Catholic faith.
One week ago he was in a place that he wouldn't have wished upon his worst enemy.
Holy Saturday. The Day before Easter.
His relationship with GOD was almost estranged in a way. He wasn't necessarily angry with GOD, but there were times when he felt left out. Alone. Abandoned.
As he walked in the door to his home, he was met with the usual greeting from his kittens. But one or all of them did a "number" on the rug, so he immediately began the clean up process. He wasn't mad at them per say, but he was frustrated that they were only using the litter box every now and then; most times he'd be home, hear the kittens "whining" and know one of them had to go to the bathroom. And if he didn't get up to find which one, there would be a stinky pile of kitten "poo" on the rug that his grandmother was incredibly fierce in it's uptake.
He missed her.
From 2000, up through her death in November of 2009, their Worlds were entwined. They took care of each other until she could no longer care for herself around 2007.
As he looked around the house, he thought, "what the fuck?" Save for a mother Cat and her four Kittens, the house was empty. No sounds. No laughter. Just him and five pussies. Three girls and two boys. Not including his-self.
He sat on the living room sofa and began to stare around the house. The family pictures that once adorned the 35+ year old piano were no longer there--replaced with books and magazines that were to be read.
He looked for the remote to the T.V. Nothing was on, save for some really bad B movies that never should've seen the light of day.
He surfed the television stations. Once. Twice. Then he kept flipping them back and forth. As if waiting for the T.V. to produce some really good shows that would raise his spirits.
"Beer," he thought. He needed a Beer--or some 420. At least he could vegetate for awhile; get the munchies.
He began going through the stations again. And again. And again.
Nothing.
He looked towards the front windows.
By this time, two of the four kittens were on the radiator, on their hind legs trying to get a "claw grip" on one of the blinds covering the windows. He looked for the water spray bottle. That seemed like a good way to teach them "NO."
He cussed some inaudible sound to them and said, "you're pushing it."
He was beginning to feel some hunger pains. But the desire to cook was not in him--just no strength or will to get up and go into the kitchen. That probably would've brought him out of this funk as well. But no, sitting and stewing seemed to be the best solution.
There he sat, and the hours seemed to pass and elongate at the same time. Nothing was happening from his point of view. No one was there--and he didn't know what to do.
Sunset began--he was still on the couch. Sitting up and forward with his hand on his chin watching something on the television, he was no longer there in the house. In his mind, he had gone someplace else and left this shell-of-a-man behind.
He turned on one of the lamps. Sometime later, how long he would never know, he looked over towards the doorbell ringer. His eyes began focusing on something. Then all of a sudden he started seeing colors. A light blue house dress with polka dots. The very one he saw his Grandmother in so many times before when she was alive.
He shook his head to clear his mind and eyes. He was just tired he told himself, and since he hadn't smoked or drank anything, he tried to let it go.
Then something else happened, this time the figure returned. Leaned over and placed it's elbow on the piano. The next thing, he saw another figure emerging from the same area. This one was moving slower and in a straight path across the living room, in front of the television and passed through the love seat and lounge chair. He felt the goosebumps on his ice cold skin rising.
He just kept shaking his head in disbelief. "This is NOT happening ," he said aloud, but there was no denying what he saw and felt. He turned the sound to the television down and looked over at the area where this initiated. He told himself to relax, just relax and breathe.
He decided to just go to bed.
As he walked up the stairs, his mind began racing. Upstairs was dark and he was beginning to feel the anomynity of it all. To not be seen...and that's how it started. The questions, the fears. What if....just, what if he didn't open his eyes in the morning?
The tears began to flow down his cheeks. He went into his bedroom, the bedroom that was once occupied by his grandmother and closed the door tightly. One thing that he didn't need right now was any one of those kittens coming up and thinking it was playtime. They had a habit of jumping up on the bed and chasing ANYTHING that moved. If he moved from one side of the bed to another, they began their "hunt and gather" routine. Any other day he would've welcomed the playfulness.
He walked around the bed to get to the dresser on the other side of the room. He sat down on the edge of the bed, turned on the night-stands' light saw his medications and vitamins. His crying became heavier, his breath was static, he was drowning. He picked up a bottle, Benedryl, prescriptive, not OTC. Taking one or two would give him a more restful sleep...but what if....what if he took more? Half the bottle had spilled into the palm of his hand. A plastic cup of water from the night before sat in front of him--waiting for him to pick it up. He looked from one hand to the other....swallowed the pills and drank the water. Not all of them had gone down the first time. He sipped some more water. Now he began to hyper-ventilate. He laid down on his side in the fetal position. He wrapped one arm on top of the other. His crying had become stronger, deeper, fuller; he turned his head into his pillow and waited.
Some time later, he sat up, his eyes were swollen and puffy. His pillow wet. He looked into the dresser mirror and didn't recognize who he saw--he looked at the Benedryl again, something stronger he thought. His prescription of Ibuprofen was there--why not? They were 800 milligrams. Taking one was usually good for whatever was ailing him--half a bottle--well, maybe that's the push he needed. He got the water, opened the bottle, spilled the white, horse sized pills into his palm and swallowed.
There was a pain in his chest. He threw his head back onto the bed and curled up.
He stared at the ceiling for what seemed hours. He could vaguely hear the sounds of cars coming and going up and down the street. He knew that his eyes would soon begin playing tricks on him--the car headlights, peering through, creating shapes and figures along the bedroom walls. Oh, great---here come the hallucinations for sure. And just as he finished his thought, a figure began to emerge along the window curtains. As if they were being lowered down from the ceiling. He closed his eyes. Was this HELL coming to greet him?
It wouldn't be until days later that his mother said, "you know it's a sin." And as much as he wanted to--he didn't reply, but if he did, he would've told her, "So...being Gay, HIV+, a fornicater in the eyes of GOD,--his ticket was written a long time ago and instilled in him by his Catholic faith.
Sunday, May 1, 2011
Aftermath--Chapter 1: Dis-Ease
He didn't know where to begin. The events of the last week had left him numb and his thoughts were jumbled and confusing, at best. When he slept, his dreams were vivid and surprising, especially with what he could recall the following morning. Words floating through his mind like cars lined up going through a toll booth. Each one waiting to get through the gate. Blood was spilled. His blood to be exact. How he got to that space in time was still a mystery. Every moment, each breath, each pain filled second of that time was still fresh in his mind.
It was Saturday, the day before Easter. The day began just like any other Saturday for the last two months. Wake up to feed the kittens and their mother. Make the necessary patrols around the house looking for kitten "poop." It was beginning to frustrate him, this routine that had become his life.
Oatmeal and orange juice;a shit, shower and shave. A run down into the basement because he didn't bring up the clean clothes last night. The kittens following him around like the Pied Piper of Hamelin. There was a certain level of pride he took from that--at least some-"thing" found him interesting, he thought.
Dressed and ready for the day, he left for a voice lesson. He had started his vocal training again--the desire for musical theatre was returning and he had found a teacher that he was comfortable with, and with whom he felt, could get him back in vocal shape. In the few short weeks that they had been working together he noticed that his level of confidence was returning--which made the choice he would later make even more bizarre.
The session went well--but there was an uneasiness he had been feeling, a dark cloud was beginning to take shape in his mind. When the lesson was over he smiled and said goodbye to his teacher. She reminded him to bring the german operatic piece they would begin working on, "An Der Musik." He smiled and said, "sure," and left the studio.
As he walked along the cobbled path he remembered the previous Saturday, when his eldest nephew had accompanied him to the lesson. He needed to go to a group therapy session for troubled teens. As they sat there, HE thought this is good. A place where his nephew could talk, openly and honestly, and be around people who were experiencing the same sort of things.
As HE waited for the bus, he looked down the street to the building he and his nephew were at the week before, "it couldn't hurt," he thought. But for whatever reason, HE decided to just get on the oncoming bus and head home. The thought of "sharing" wasn't what he was in the mood for--big mistake he would later find out.
The bus ride home was quick. Not to crowded and not one obnoxious person.
As he got off the bus and began walking the three blocks to his house, he took in the neighborhood. This was his home, but he felt so out of place. A recurring feeling, for how long, he couldn't remember.
As he turned the corner to his street, he looked to the house he had grown up in, across the street from where he now resided. The home of his late Grandmother. The home, where he had cared for his "Nana" for the last 15 years up through her death in November of 2009. The home, where he would eventually care for his dying and Alzheimer stricken Grand-Uncle. The home, where he would finally begin taking care of his 47 year old cousin, who's father had just passed and who had her own mental health issues to deal with--alot for one man, who he himself was living with a chronic ailment for the last 21 years. An ailment that when initially was discovered, was thought to be a terminal illness. An ailment that had been a thorn in his side, his cross to bear, his punishment for living a life that was by some considered, sinful.
It was Saturday, the day before Easter. The day began just like any other Saturday for the last two months. Wake up to feed the kittens and their mother. Make the necessary patrols around the house looking for kitten "poop." It was beginning to frustrate him, this routine that had become his life.
Oatmeal and orange juice;a shit, shower and shave. A run down into the basement because he didn't bring up the clean clothes last night. The kittens following him around like the Pied Piper of Hamelin. There was a certain level of pride he took from that--at least some-"thing" found him interesting, he thought.
Dressed and ready for the day, he left for a voice lesson. He had started his vocal training again--the desire for musical theatre was returning and he had found a teacher that he was comfortable with, and with whom he felt, could get him back in vocal shape. In the few short weeks that they had been working together he noticed that his level of confidence was returning--which made the choice he would later make even more bizarre.
The session went well--but there was an uneasiness he had been feeling, a dark cloud was beginning to take shape in his mind. When the lesson was over he smiled and said goodbye to his teacher. She reminded him to bring the german operatic piece they would begin working on, "An Der Musik." He smiled and said, "sure," and left the studio.
As he walked along the cobbled path he remembered the previous Saturday, when his eldest nephew had accompanied him to the lesson. He needed to go to a group therapy session for troubled teens. As they sat there, HE thought this is good. A place where his nephew could talk, openly and honestly, and be around people who were experiencing the same sort of things.
As HE waited for the bus, he looked down the street to the building he and his nephew were at the week before, "it couldn't hurt," he thought. But for whatever reason, HE decided to just get on the oncoming bus and head home. The thought of "sharing" wasn't what he was in the mood for--big mistake he would later find out.
The bus ride home was quick. Not to crowded and not one obnoxious person.
As he got off the bus and began walking the three blocks to his house, he took in the neighborhood. This was his home, but he felt so out of place. A recurring feeling, for how long, he couldn't remember.
As he turned the corner to his street, he looked to the house he had grown up in, across the street from where he now resided. The home of his late Grandmother. The home, where he had cared for his "Nana" for the last 15 years up through her death in November of 2009. The home, where he would eventually care for his dying and Alzheimer stricken Grand-Uncle. The home, where he would finally begin taking care of his 47 year old cousin, who's father had just passed and who had her own mental health issues to deal with--alot for one man, who he himself was living with a chronic ailment for the last 21 years. An ailment that when initially was discovered, was thought to be a terminal illness. An ailment that had been a thorn in his side, his cross to bear, his punishment for living a life that was by some considered, sinful.
Monday, March 21, 2011
What is "Too Much?"
No. He wouldn't stop. He had to get this out even if it meant, embarrassment.
He had become accustomed to tear stained pillows every once in awhile. It was cathartic in a sense. These were the moments of vulnerability he was afraid to express. These were those moments that left him open for attack.
Attacks. Whether real or just percieved,....He was haunted by the truth of his life.
A jumbled mess of emotional rollercoasters that seemed to grab hold and throw him into a pit of despair with each passing day.
What kind of shit is that for a black man? We are resilient. We are independent. We are confident.
The fear of letting go of the baggage was intriguing. Sometimes he felt that holding on to all that is what defined him, what made him him. "Silly," he thought. But an honest observation because, "We must live in the Truth."
Truth. Can be so painful sometimes? But it's supposed to release you, right? Truth, albeit painful, was a step in the right direction. Truth was the mirror he looked into each morning. Sometimes he loved what he saw back and sometimes he despised what he saw....a shell.
Going through the motions of living.
At 45, he thought things should be different.
He knew that happiness was a goal. He knew it was a necessity. But how to go about it was still a complete mystery. He's known people that have cut off every connection they had in their life just to find some small light that will lead to a door, that will reveal a World of promise and opportuniting.
The days of waiting for someone to knock on his door and sweep him away to "la-la land" were gone, or at least, he was working on it.
At 45, he was scared of delving into a work ethic that would keep him active regularly. The only down-side with this proposal was his health.
He could become incredibly fatigued if he pursued the "day to day" hustle necessary to maintain a successful career as an Actor.
By being on "the move" constantly, networking, going to this event or the next, to mingle with people who were in pursuit of the "dream."
He often wondered if people realized what it took exactly to make a career as a "working Actor." The amount of energy and tenacity it took to become a "Star."
He wondered if they knew the difference. Anyone could become an Actor. It wasn't rocket science after all. But to be a "Star," was a whole competely different set of job descriptions.
You have to be self-ish. Utterly and completely narcissistic. "The World revolves around you and you alone." You must become a "commodity," a brand. A marketable product that each and every person in this World would want a piece of,....Women should want you, Men should want to be you. Children should look up to you and you should be able to command an audience in the 6 digits or more category. You should come from humble beginnings, everyone loves a "beat the odds" story of success.
These were the things he knew he could not offer. No matter how angry he could become with another human being, at the end of the day, that person's needs would come first. No matter how "selfish" he tried to be....he would give you the last dime in his pocket, just because, whether you actually needed it or not, He would want you to be secure.
He thought about the early years. When he would sit and watch the "Donny and Marie" show and sing along. He would watch the Carol Burnett show and wish he was having as much fun as Carol and the other actors on the show.
He would watch the "Brady Bunch" and wish he was in a family as loving and caring and loyal as what he saw.....He would then think how shameful it must be to NOT want to be in the family you were born into.....
The Eldest son of a broken family.
The tears have begun again.........Was he manic? Was he a depessive combination of experiences and regrets......the cynic in him answered, "of course. But so we all are.....HUH?
What the fuck does that mean?
......He's head began to ache.
He had become accustomed to tear stained pillows every once in awhile. It was cathartic in a sense. These were the moments of vulnerability he was afraid to express. These were those moments that left him open for attack.
Attacks. Whether real or just percieved,....He was haunted by the truth of his life.
A jumbled mess of emotional rollercoasters that seemed to grab hold and throw him into a pit of despair with each passing day.
What kind of shit is that for a black man? We are resilient. We are independent. We are confident.
The fear of letting go of the baggage was intriguing. Sometimes he felt that holding on to all that is what defined him, what made him him. "Silly," he thought. But an honest observation because, "We must live in the Truth."
Truth. Can be so painful sometimes? But it's supposed to release you, right? Truth, albeit painful, was a step in the right direction. Truth was the mirror he looked into each morning. Sometimes he loved what he saw back and sometimes he despised what he saw....a shell.
Going through the motions of living.
At 45, he thought things should be different.
He knew that happiness was a goal. He knew it was a necessity. But how to go about it was still a complete mystery. He's known people that have cut off every connection they had in their life just to find some small light that will lead to a door, that will reveal a World of promise and opportuniting.
The days of waiting for someone to knock on his door and sweep him away to "la-la land" were gone, or at least, he was working on it.
At 45, he was scared of delving into a work ethic that would keep him active regularly. The only down-side with this proposal was his health.
He could become incredibly fatigued if he pursued the "day to day" hustle necessary to maintain a successful career as an Actor.
By being on "the move" constantly, networking, going to this event or the next, to mingle with people who were in pursuit of the "dream."
He often wondered if people realized what it took exactly to make a career as a "working Actor." The amount of energy and tenacity it took to become a "Star."
He wondered if they knew the difference. Anyone could become an Actor. It wasn't rocket science after all. But to be a "Star," was a whole competely different set of job descriptions.
You have to be self-ish. Utterly and completely narcissistic. "The World revolves around you and you alone." You must become a "commodity," a brand. A marketable product that each and every person in this World would want a piece of,....Women should want you, Men should want to be you. Children should look up to you and you should be able to command an audience in the 6 digits or more category. You should come from humble beginnings, everyone loves a "beat the odds" story of success.
These were the things he knew he could not offer. No matter how angry he could become with another human being, at the end of the day, that person's needs would come first. No matter how "selfish" he tried to be....he would give you the last dime in his pocket, just because, whether you actually needed it or not, He would want you to be secure.
He thought about the early years. When he would sit and watch the "Donny and Marie" show and sing along. He would watch the Carol Burnett show and wish he was having as much fun as Carol and the other actors on the show.
He would watch the "Brady Bunch" and wish he was in a family as loving and caring and loyal as what he saw.....He would then think how shameful it must be to NOT want to be in the family you were born into.....
The Eldest son of a broken family.
The tears have begun again.........Was he manic? Was he a depessive combination of experiences and regrets......the cynic in him answered, "of course. But so we all are.....HUH?
What the fuck does that mean?
......He's head began to ache.
The Truth about...Him.
He realized that he didn't know anything about relationships. How to start one, how to be in one, how to maintain one. His life had been a series of one night stands. Bookstores and bathhouses. Sexclubs and after-hour house parties. This is what he knew to be dating. This is what he knew about getting to know someone. This is what he knew about Love.
The left over party-ers, to drunk and horny to go home...alone. To lonely and sad to spend time on their own. Without the prescence of another...no matter who it may be; although he had standards, three o'clock in the morning isn't the time to be picky. He was out for a reason he thought, might as well make good use of the time. I mean, who's going to see, right? The clerk behind the register could give to shits. As long as you didn't start any trouble and were relatively respectful. There were nights when he created fantasies for himself, to pass the time. To make it more interesting, but most of all, he would be wanted. And if he was lucky, by a whole lotta men. He would be able to pick and choose at his will, whom he would allow the privledge, to be with him for a certain amount of time. Don't misunderstand, he wasn't trolling, he was "hunting" for a certain type. Actually, it depended on his mood and the type of crowd that were milling about the theatre/book store. The nights varied as to the clientele, some nights, Older White Men with a mix of young black men from all over the city. Young men who were out of place in their neighborhoods. Young men who couldn't express themselves sexually in the crowds they associated with or disclose to their families for fear of alienation. Puerto Rican men who left their families for a couple of hours, to indulge in a personal delight that isn't considered masculine. Asian men, Muslim men, now whether they were actual "practicing" Muslims or just into the "look," you can never know but one thing was always certain, this wasn't their normal behaviour during waking hours.
Bathhouses were a little different. You could literally live out of one. He knew quite a few men who did for one reason or another.
He believed at times that he wasn't destined to "be with anyone." His mother once told him straight out, that any relationship he had would be fucked up because of her and his father. He loved to blame them every so often....He kept it real, for sure.
He looked back through his mind and tried to see all the faces he came in contact with....from his very first hookup as a teenager, to his first fuck with an authentic Italian man, from Milan, Italy. Paulo was his name. "Pronto, Posso parlare con Paulo?", was a phrase he learned after he left. Then the random bed partners. A plethora of German, Swiss, French, Belgian, Dutch lovers/whores and hoes, he fitted himself into that description as well.
His time spent working in a male brothel in Cologne, Germany. The drugs that took hold of his life.
What was the life he wanted back then???--it consisted of working in the brothel, going out for drinks and a meal with the other men/boys/husbands/fathers...cause truth be told, they were all there, working for one reason or another. His were selfish. Speed. Ecstasy. They were like childrens dime store candy. Acid became a guilty pleasure. Strawberry Dots, Purple Hearts. The terribly mind altering mix called Platinum with something that looked like a bag of silver on the small square as it's sign.
This is to much he thought...........
The left over party-ers, to drunk and horny to go home...alone. To lonely and sad to spend time on their own. Without the prescence of another...no matter who it may be; although he had standards, three o'clock in the morning isn't the time to be picky. He was out for a reason he thought, might as well make good use of the time. I mean, who's going to see, right? The clerk behind the register could give to shits. As long as you didn't start any trouble and were relatively respectful. There were nights when he created fantasies for himself, to pass the time. To make it more interesting, but most of all, he would be wanted. And if he was lucky, by a whole lotta men. He would be able to pick and choose at his will, whom he would allow the privledge, to be with him for a certain amount of time. Don't misunderstand, he wasn't trolling, he was "hunting" for a certain type. Actually, it depended on his mood and the type of crowd that were milling about the theatre/book store. The nights varied as to the clientele, some nights, Older White Men with a mix of young black men from all over the city. Young men who were out of place in their neighborhoods. Young men who couldn't express themselves sexually in the crowds they associated with or disclose to their families for fear of alienation. Puerto Rican men who left their families for a couple of hours, to indulge in a personal delight that isn't considered masculine. Asian men, Muslim men, now whether they were actual "practicing" Muslims or just into the "look," you can never know but one thing was always certain, this wasn't their normal behaviour during waking hours.
Bathhouses were a little different. You could literally live out of one. He knew quite a few men who did for one reason or another.
He believed at times that he wasn't destined to "be with anyone." His mother once told him straight out, that any relationship he had would be fucked up because of her and his father. He loved to blame them every so often....He kept it real, for sure.
He looked back through his mind and tried to see all the faces he came in contact with....from his very first hookup as a teenager, to his first fuck with an authentic Italian man, from Milan, Italy. Paulo was his name. "Pronto, Posso parlare con Paulo?", was a phrase he learned after he left. Then the random bed partners. A plethora of German, Swiss, French, Belgian, Dutch lovers/whores and hoes, he fitted himself into that description as well.
His time spent working in a male brothel in Cologne, Germany. The drugs that took hold of his life.
What was the life he wanted back then???--it consisted of working in the brothel, going out for drinks and a meal with the other men/boys/husbands/fathers...cause truth be told, they were all there, working for one reason or another. His were selfish. Speed. Ecstasy. They were like childrens dime store candy. Acid became a guilty pleasure. Strawberry Dots, Purple Hearts. The terribly mind altering mix called Platinum with something that looked like a bag of silver on the small square as it's sign.
This is to much he thought...........
Friday, March 18, 2011
And He Continues......
That was all he could think...All he could do was replay the action. Make sure there were no mistakes.
There were no mistakes...things happen for a reason.
Paths are taken and journeys begun.....it was the anticipation that killed him...that made him gasp for air.
He refused to allow his imagination to get the best of him, he was an adult.
He could logically work through this....he would not allow his fantasies to take control; Even though they were good and wonderful and joyous and the very nature of giving into them, that's what frightened him.....it was to close to the Truth that he longed for...it's meant to be a human experience after all........
Why the fuck not? Right?
He took a breath. Closed his eyes, and dared himself.......
There were no mistakes...things happen for a reason.
Paths are taken and journeys begun.....it was the anticipation that killed him...that made him gasp for air.
He refused to allow his imagination to get the best of him, he was an adult.
He could logically work through this....he would not allow his fantasies to take control; Even though they were good and wonderful and joyous and the very nature of giving into them, that's what frightened him.....it was to close to the Truth that he longed for...it's meant to be a human experience after all........
Why the fuck not? Right?
He took a breath. Closed his eyes, and dared himself.......
At once he was transported to a spacious, airy room. The walls are an off white and hold black and white photographs depicting the Harlem Renaissance. The people, the streets, the life. There is a warm breeze coming through the patio doors leading to the sandy, white beach.
The sound of the waves gently massaging the coastline......oh hell, this was going to be a good one. He decided to stop playing it safe. Because he now realized, it was Safe to Play. This is how stories are told and developed...get in touch, he thought.
He was more normal than he gave himself credit for.........A King Size bed with down comforters and large pillows are laid across the top of the bed. Here, He is sitting at the headboard, stretched back and relaxed. Reading and taking notes. He, the One, is sitting on the end, crossed leg, going over some papers and asking him questions....."What do you want to do today?", he says. He, the other, smiles and looks up, "the sun's out, ...Lincoln Center?" He, the One, smiles--it lights the other's face--and shrugs and says', "This is very cool." He smiled broadly and thought, ..."blushing? It can't be..", but the redness in his cheeks betrayed him.....
Sunday, March 13, 2011
A New Direction.....
He had escaped high school in one piece. The very idea of not having to return to that institution was surreal. No more bullshit. No more teasing. No more alienation. He can start over. Participate more often in things. He didn't know what the -things- were but he knew that they would be different.
Anything was better than the constant barrage of put-downs. Constantly being on the defensive because he didn't know who was going to fuck with him that day, that moment, that year.
He remembered in grade school how it all began...although, admittedly, he was a bit foggy on specifics--it after all had been a long time ago. The first memory he had was around fourth grade. He didn't remember who he fought but he remembered it was at the end of the year. Why did kids always do that...wait til the last day of school to jump, or settle an argument? Or payback for something they probably didn't even remember? He guessed that's why they invented Summer School.
Really! What teacher wants to spend their summer teaching the same kids they taught during the regular school year? It almost defeats the purpose, right? You just have to spend more time with the little demons. "Oh," he thought, "...that's mean."
He thought about a lot on the trip up to the school. His new life was beginning and it was exciting. He couldn't remember packing his bags but there they were in the trunk of the car. All stuffed and full of his life. Short though it may be, he collected quite a few things. His collection of comic books he left behind at home. With strict instructions for them not to be touched. He knew he was lucky if one crate was still intact when he came home for a visit. His brothers would probably wait a couple of weeks to go through and lay claim to a collection of comic books he'd had since he was a young child. They'd go through it just to show they could...brother's, go figure. They'd take a few and leave the rest remembering to arrange the books in the same order they were found in...again, they never knew when he would return home for a visit. Not for a long while, He was sure they would think.
Those days were a distant memory for him, one he wished he could re-visit, if not for just one moment.
Time to move on, he thought.
Fast Forward in time to the present. He has many stories he'd like to share. To extend a helping hand to those who will follow...how he wished he could be there....in the future. He didn't want to sound morbid but the truth of the matter, no matter how pessimisstic is sounded, he was not guaranteed another week of life. There was nothing to fear at the moment but he had lived with the notion of not surviving the Millenium for so long, the actuality of the situation was, he had out-lived just about everyone in is life.
He had acquired an expertise in "things" not commonly practiced. Observations that are generally taken for granted were of astronomical proportions to his state of being. A gift to some and a curse to others. The weight of which is not known by the bearer until the moment of awakening. He took a breath.
Anything was better than the constant barrage of put-downs. Constantly being on the defensive because he didn't know who was going to fuck with him that day, that moment, that year.
He remembered in grade school how it all began...although, admittedly, he was a bit foggy on specifics--it after all had been a long time ago. The first memory he had was around fourth grade. He didn't remember who he fought but he remembered it was at the end of the year. Why did kids always do that...wait til the last day of school to jump, or settle an argument? Or payback for something they probably didn't even remember? He guessed that's why they invented Summer School.
Really! What teacher wants to spend their summer teaching the same kids they taught during the regular school year? It almost defeats the purpose, right? You just have to spend more time with the little demons. "Oh," he thought, "...that's mean."
He thought about a lot on the trip up to the school. His new life was beginning and it was exciting. He couldn't remember packing his bags but there they were in the trunk of the car. All stuffed and full of his life. Short though it may be, he collected quite a few things. His collection of comic books he left behind at home. With strict instructions for them not to be touched. He knew he was lucky if one crate was still intact when he came home for a visit. His brothers would probably wait a couple of weeks to go through and lay claim to a collection of comic books he'd had since he was a young child. They'd go through it just to show they could...brother's, go figure. They'd take a few and leave the rest remembering to arrange the books in the same order they were found in...again, they never knew when he would return home for a visit. Not for a long while, He was sure they would think.
Those days were a distant memory for him, one he wished he could re-visit, if not for just one moment.
Time to move on, he thought.
Fast Forward in time to the present. He has many stories he'd like to share. To extend a helping hand to those who will follow...how he wished he could be there....in the future. He didn't want to sound morbid but the truth of the matter, no matter how pessimisstic is sounded, he was not guaranteed another week of life. There was nothing to fear at the moment but he had lived with the notion of not surviving the Millenium for so long, the actuality of the situation was, he had out-lived just about everyone in is life.
He had acquired an expertise in "things" not commonly practiced. Observations that are generally taken for granted were of astronomical proportions to his state of being. A gift to some and a curse to others. The weight of which is not known by the bearer until the moment of awakening. He took a breath.
Friday, March 11, 2011
In the Beginning...
He didn't know what to feel. His mind was a jumbled mess of faces and memories. Like a merry-go-round, up and down, around and around. Faces he'd known from the past. Memories clouded with doubt, fear and anxiety.
He wished he could make it all go away. I guess that's where the drugs came in good use. A distraction from the truth.
Truth. It's such an overused word. It's been used to convey realism. Reality. The moment. It's also been warped to justify something for someone. Anything to find some kind of peace. A time out from the reality of the real.
These feelings he has are strong. Instincts natural. Like breathing. But there was more to it and he would soon need to come to terms with it.
As a child, he loved spending time with his great-grandmother. The lilt of her voice. The fullness of her smile. The warmth of her hug. It was his security blanket. It was what made him safe.
He never forgot the last time he saw her, before her passing. Funny, he couldn't even remember if he had attended the funeral. Strange he thought.
He had returned from a trip overseas. Six months spent traveling in a bus only to take up roots in a small foreign town with a penchant for theatre. He would only be in the States for two weeks. After which he would return to Europe and begin a new chapter in this dream of a life. He went to visit her, surprise her. No one knew he was coming back to the states. He wanted to shock them all, only, when he went to visit her, it was she who shocked him.
"You don't look well, what's wrong?", she said. "Nothing," he told her. "You sure, you look different."
This had been extremely unsettling for him. "How did she know," he thought.
He came from a family that had very strong instincts. The unknown was something that was attainable to certain members of his family. It was difficult to fully mask his feelings so he tried to play it off as best as possible.
"I'm just tired from all the traveling Mom, that's all." She let it go but he knew she knew there was something wrong.
As a child, he often knelt by his bedroom window. Sometimes late at night when everyone in the house was asleep. The summertimes were his favorite. A light breeze coming through the dusty screened window. He was attracted to the sounds of the night. There was a purity in it that was a stark contrast to the sounds of the day. "Daytime, he thought, is so busy. Not like the night. Still and fragrant." The distant sounds of the highway. He would imagine where those cars were going. The people in them. Were they happy? Sad? Were they coming from some party or moving away? Question upon question, with a fantasy that followed.
As he became older he noticed his thoughts directed more towards the people out at night. Why were they up so late? Couldn't they sleep too? Maybe they were coming from a movie? Dinner with friends?
"Silly," he said.
His teenage years were rough. He always felt different. Out of place. He once asked his father if he was adopted. His father told him to stop being foolish. He just lowered his head as if there was something to be ashamed about. Is it really that bad of a question? He didn't fit in with anyone in his family. He didn't like sports, so the basketball games played between his father, brother, uncle and cousins were always a source of discomfort. "You've got to hustle more," he would hear. Move that "tub-a-lard", "butterball." Who needed enemies, he had a family, was all he could think.
In time he developed ways around the embarrassment. Comic Books. With them, he found a world that was tolerant of different people, and if they weren't, there was someone or a group of people, willing to fight for what was right.
A world where, in the end, the bad guys were defeated or at least in the third issue.
Hanging around the older women was comforting. They took pity on him. They could see that he was more "sensitive" than the other boys, more delicate. But not fragile. They knew that he saw things differently.
There are two moments in his life that he can never forget. One his graduation from high school and his graduation from college. Four years apart and almost identical in events.
High School graduation was June of 1983. It was a very hot summer. For whatever reason he got into an argument with his father over his dress attire for the ceremony. He wanted to wear just a dress shirt, slacks and tie. But for some unknown reason, his father wanted him to wear a suit. Full on three piece suit in the beginning of summer. He always wondered if God would hate him for cursing his father.
He argued his point but father wouldn't allow it. It wasn't until they were at the graduation and he was lined up with his classmates that his father realized something. Very few students were wearing suits. His father tried to help by offering to hold his suit jacket. He declined. "Might as well make him suffer as well," he thought.
That was the intuition he inherited from his mother's side of the family. As the ceremony music began to play he suddenly realized that this was it. He would leave this hellhole of a life behind and start new. It wouldn't be until years later that he saw this as a pattern. His method of operation for exorcising demons and moving on to bigger and better things. Always running from the truth.
He wished he could make it all go away. I guess that's where the drugs came in good use. A distraction from the truth.
Truth. It's such an overused word. It's been used to convey realism. Reality. The moment. It's also been warped to justify something for someone. Anything to find some kind of peace. A time out from the reality of the real.
These feelings he has are strong. Instincts natural. Like breathing. But there was more to it and he would soon need to come to terms with it.
As a child, he loved spending time with his great-grandmother. The lilt of her voice. The fullness of her smile. The warmth of her hug. It was his security blanket. It was what made him safe.
He never forgot the last time he saw her, before her passing. Funny, he couldn't even remember if he had attended the funeral. Strange he thought.
He had returned from a trip overseas. Six months spent traveling in a bus only to take up roots in a small foreign town with a penchant for theatre. He would only be in the States for two weeks. After which he would return to Europe and begin a new chapter in this dream of a life. He went to visit her, surprise her. No one knew he was coming back to the states. He wanted to shock them all, only, when he went to visit her, it was she who shocked him.
"You don't look well, what's wrong?", she said. "Nothing," he told her. "You sure, you look different."
This had been extremely unsettling for him. "How did she know," he thought.
He came from a family that had very strong instincts. The unknown was something that was attainable to certain members of his family. It was difficult to fully mask his feelings so he tried to play it off as best as possible.
"I'm just tired from all the traveling Mom, that's all." She let it go but he knew she knew there was something wrong.
As a child, he often knelt by his bedroom window. Sometimes late at night when everyone in the house was asleep. The summertimes were his favorite. A light breeze coming through the dusty screened window. He was attracted to the sounds of the night. There was a purity in it that was a stark contrast to the sounds of the day. "Daytime, he thought, is so busy. Not like the night. Still and fragrant." The distant sounds of the highway. He would imagine where those cars were going. The people in them. Were they happy? Sad? Were they coming from some party or moving away? Question upon question, with a fantasy that followed.
As he became older he noticed his thoughts directed more towards the people out at night. Why were they up so late? Couldn't they sleep too? Maybe they were coming from a movie? Dinner with friends?
"Silly," he said.
His teenage years were rough. He always felt different. Out of place. He once asked his father if he was adopted. His father told him to stop being foolish. He just lowered his head as if there was something to be ashamed about. Is it really that bad of a question? He didn't fit in with anyone in his family. He didn't like sports, so the basketball games played between his father, brother, uncle and cousins were always a source of discomfort. "You've got to hustle more," he would hear. Move that "tub-a-lard", "butterball." Who needed enemies, he had a family, was all he could think.
In time he developed ways around the embarrassment. Comic Books. With them, he found a world that was tolerant of different people, and if they weren't, there was someone or a group of people, willing to fight for what was right.
A world where, in the end, the bad guys were defeated or at least in the third issue.
Hanging around the older women was comforting. They took pity on him. They could see that he was more "sensitive" than the other boys, more delicate. But not fragile. They knew that he saw things differently.
There are two moments in his life that he can never forget. One his graduation from high school and his graduation from college. Four years apart and almost identical in events.
High School graduation was June of 1983. It was a very hot summer. For whatever reason he got into an argument with his father over his dress attire for the ceremony. He wanted to wear just a dress shirt, slacks and tie. But for some unknown reason, his father wanted him to wear a suit. Full on three piece suit in the beginning of summer. He always wondered if God would hate him for cursing his father.
He argued his point but father wouldn't allow it. It wasn't until they were at the graduation and he was lined up with his classmates that his father realized something. Very few students were wearing suits. His father tried to help by offering to hold his suit jacket. He declined. "Might as well make him suffer as well," he thought.
That was the intuition he inherited from his mother's side of the family. As the ceremony music began to play he suddenly realized that this was it. He would leave this hellhole of a life behind and start new. It wouldn't be until years later that he saw this as a pattern. His method of operation for exorcising demons and moving on to bigger and better things. Always running from the truth.
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