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.
Monday, March 21, 2011
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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