Estreilla’s Music

Estreilla hums as she makes my bed in the small room I have to myself here in the “Short term care” unit, where I have been placed because there is no other place for me at the moment, and besides, the powers that be figure I won’t be here in the hospital for very long.  I was expected to leave after two or three day, but two or three days morphed into a whole week maybe I will be permitted to go home sooner this time, but I’m not counting on it.  These visits to the hospital are getting tiring.

In the meantime I listen while Estreilla hums contentedly to herself, maybe knowing I hear her, maybe not, and does she care?  I don’t know…

Hospitals are not generally cheerful places, and I for one am far from cheery as a patient.  The nurses, the technicians, everyone here have remarked that I am a model patient, as I am understanding and in general, fairly easygoing.

They haven’t seen the real me yet.  Oh, what they don’t know.

Of course I am not my usual self.  Perhaps the humming and Estreilla’s cheerful disposition have something to do with how I am behaving.  I really have no idea.  This isn’t like me at all.  It is more like me to unleash an unholy dissertation of discontent when I am ill at ease, or sick, or just plain unhappy with something.  I am hell on wheels.  Being in the hospital is not something that makes me happy.  Even so, here I am, momentarily ticked off to no end, as I shouldn’t be here; they should have cured my illness, whatever it is, the last time.  They didn’t, and I’m angry and confused.

A week ago I came here once again after having been in this place for 18 days for the same reason.  I was retaining fluid, lots of it, and so I am once again placed at the mercy of doctors and other medical professionals attending to my condition.  They seen as lost and confused by my condition as much as I am, and their confusion scares me shitless.  Every day they conjure up a new theory, It’s as if they were drawing names from a hat, it’s like they’re shooting in the dark.  That would not be so terrifying except that it’s me they are aiming at, and with every round being fired. my confidence in them, and my hopes for future well-being wither and die  just a little bit more.

Perhaps in her wordless song I am hearing the presence of God.  I have no idea what she believes about such things, but I hear that God speaks through whomever God wishes to speak, the Divine Spirit moving, flowing, wherever and whenever it sees fit to do so, and if we choose to listen, we are blessed; it’s our choice.

For just this small moment in time, suspended in a wealth of wonder and re-emerging hope, I make the choice to be aware, and listen.  I’m not sure of what I’m hearing or the message it is meant to impart to me, but hey, I’m listening.

An overture of hope…Estreilla’s music, shining brightly amid the seemingly endless and overwhelming darkness of my doubts and fears, very much like the star that shone to the wise men and the shepherds, proclaiming the birth of the ultimate King of Hope.  Funny thing it is, that her name means “Star” in Spanish.  Mind you, it’s not her real name; it’s one I’ve given her as I don’t know her real name, but it does seem like a happy coincidence that I’d pick that name for her.

Part of me wishes I knew the words to the little ditty she’s humming as she finishes making the bed, but on the other hand, perhaps some songs do not need words to speak to our souls.  Maybe the joy in the music is enough.  Maybe it’s all we need.  Right now, maybe it’s all I need.  I hear hope in a melody, and that is indeed all I need, for now.

Estreilla’s music, so full of contentment and optimism, is of those songs.

Corazón Roto

He forgot my birthday.

That was all it was; he forgot my birthday.  It was a minor thing really, nothing that warranted my wrath or demand my vitriol.  It was just a birthday after all, like any other birthday, and to be so angry about such a thing is, indeed, rather petty, non?

Just the same, he’d forgotten my birthday and I was pissed off to no end…

No hearts, no flowers, no happy birthday…just an argument that went on and on between us, with name-calling and mud-slinging, and me saying things I never should have said, things I never would have meant in a million years.  I loved him.  He was my world.  How could I be so angry at such a pittance of a thing like his being forgetful?  After all, he’d had a rough week.  He was angst-ridden and confused.  Finances were tight, and his heart was heavy with things I didn’t want to see or understand.  All I knew is that it was my birthday, that he’d forgotten it, and that I was pissed as hell, ‘cause after all it was all about me, right?

Well no…but what did I know?  A fool and his logic are so easily parted.

So we argued, and we argued, and we didn’t stop, and it went long into the night, until he decided enough is enough.

“I can’t deal with you.  This is too much for me.  If this is all that matters to you, then I can’t stay.  I can’t deal with this…”

He packed up his shaving kit and various other grooming items from the bathroom, the ones he kept at my home, just as I kept a set of such things at his home.  It was our way of living together, but that living together appeared to be coming to an end, all over a stupid thing such as a birthday.

“Where are you going?  What are you doing?” I asked, my voice full of a mixture of fear and anger.

“A way from you, and this.  I’ll send your things from my place tomorrow.”

Done.

“Do I at least get a good-bye kiss?”

“A good-bye kiss is the LAST thing I want to do.   A kiss of any kind is the last thing of all I want to give you.  Have a nice life,” he said.

And his words, harsh and unfeeling, cut me to the bone.  Then there was the fact that we were suddenly a non-entity because of some stupid little thing.  Fools in love, fools out of love, just fools…

And then he was gone.

I pretended not to care, but I cried all night and into the next day.  I swore I wouldn’t wait by the phone for him to call, but there I was, waiting.  Who was I kidding?  He was my life, my love, my heart, my soul, and he took all of me away with him when he left in anger, all because I couldn’t be more flexible, all because I couldn’t be understanding.

Sometimes love becomes a distant land, while we are foreigners on its shores.  We come ashore with all our dreams in our heads and hearts, disembarking from the means of transportation that got us there with expectations that are, at the very least, most impossible and unfathomable to even the most giving of hearts.  We can learn from our failed expectation and love can grow even stronger and brighter than we ever imagined or expected, but it takes two to give compromise a chance.  It takes two to walk to the center of the bridge of understanding.

One of us refused to move forward, and thus, two hearts remained broken, and lonely.

Two days passed, and he was at my door.  “I can’t live without you,” he said.  “You are my life and I love you.  Can we figure out what went wrong and fix it?”

So we talked, calmly, both of us paying attention to each other’s needs and desires, and intent on coming as close as we could to meeting each other’s expectations.  Love grew brighter and stronger, born of a million years and a billion light-years of life in the stars, and we were One in the Light that love provides.

I’m recalling this for you now because I see what’s going on in your world, and I know how hard it is to get yourself figured out, much less conjure up a sense of understanding for the sentiments and the needs of your beloved.  I know that as much as one loves someone there’s still times when the hearts become indecipherable and the dreams get confused with false hopes.  That’s where I’ve been, and I know that as painful as it is, it’s worth seeing one’s way through all of it.  I mean, if you really love someone, you’ll give them a second chance, a third chance, a three-hindered million chances, as long as they aren’t abusive and enter into being with you with respect and willingness to come clean and be free to understand.  When you really love someone, it’s not just about the steamy nights and the shining eyes or the beating hearts and the rhythm of desire; it’s about not being understood sometimes and finding a way back to clarity, compromise, devotion.  Be devoted, my friend.  You’ll get through this.

I’m just saying you shouldn’t throw away a magical picture for a mere blemish in the framework.  It’s not going to save anything if you’re so concerned with saving face or having your way.  That kind of thinking never works.  That kind of thinking is its own genre of disaster and desecration.

So go home, dear friend, and listen with a calm heart. You don’t have to agree with everything you hear, but be open to what is said.  Be open to life as it really is, and be free to love even in the darkness of a confused moment.  You’ll be happier in the long run.  Nothing worth keeping should be treated lightly, and I know what you have is worth keeping.  You’ve put so much into it, after all, and so has your beloved.

Believe me; learning to bend won’t kill you.  It didn’t kill me.  It never kills anyone.  It’s the breaking that’s deadly.

This Weary Dream

“This Weary Dream”
            Words and music by Rick Westerman-Bellinger

 

My beloved,
I am disappointed,
And I don’t know what to do.
My beloved,
I used to feel anointed,
But I’m lonely without you.

Indecision haunts me.
I am older, but no wiser am I?
Big deals go fying by me.
I hear the clatter of the wishes denied,
And here I am, clinging to this weary dream.
Here I am, clinging to this weary dream.

Beloved,
Is my heart diminished?
Have I pushed the envelope too far?
My beloved,
Tell me when it’s finished,
Will my ending heal these indelible scars?

Indecision haunts me.
I am older, but no wiser am I?
Big deals go fying by me.
I hear the clatter of the wishes denied,
And here I am, clinging to this weary dream.
Here I am, clinging to this weary dream.

Here’s a deadbeat drumbeat I cannot ignore.
Close the heart to what it means and close the door,
But then again, my ageless friend,
What the hell else was I put here for?

Indecision haunts me.
I am older, but no wiser am I?
Big deals go fying by me.
I hear the clatter of the wishes denied,
And here I am, clinging to this weary dream.
Here I am, clinging to this weary dream.

 

 

 

©2012 by Rick Westerman-Bellinger for Shadow Lifters Music.

Self-Portrait

I am male.
I am gay.
I am a follower of the teachings of Jesus Christ.
I also listen to the Buddha, and Mohamed, and Confucius, and I sometimes quote the Book of Mormon.
I am flirtations.
I do not accept “small talk” as a means of conversation.
I live in a cerebral world.
I believe the simple act of holding hands is sexy as hell.
Valentine’s Day sucks.  Cupid is nothing but an armed, naked toddler with wings.  He’s not cute; he’s a terrorist.
While carnal pleasures entice me, I believe sexual intercourse without the presence of the Holy Spirit is nothing.
If your first concern is how “big” I am, I am most likely more than you can handle, not because of the size (or lack thereof) of my penis, but because of the size of my heart and its desires.
A snake can only be charmed if it is receptive to the charmer.
My private universe is big enough for everything except darkness.
Music makes my world.
So do erudite individuals.
Happy endings are for fairy tales; I live in a real world.
I’m good enough for God; I should be good enough for you.
I am all sweetness and light if I like you.  If I don’t, I am most assuredly dangerous.
I know what “ostentatious” means.  (I know many people who don’t.).
I won’t be caught dead carrying a purse that doesn’t match my eyes.
If you think you know me, you haven’t seen anything yet.
I have not read a newspaper in fifteen years.
I want forever from a lover; temporary hook-ups are for schoolboys and fools.
I know I will have found the man I can love forever when I find one who can see me shirtless and love all the scars on my chest from various surgeries and who won’t run away screaming, and who can deal with my health issues and my ornery critter nature.
Love me, love my cat.
Dishonesty is inappropriate and I won’t tolerate it.
I was born, not hatched.  Don’t treat me otherwise.
My heart is as much of a mess as my house.  Can you dig it?
Rules were meant to be bent, not broken.
I look like hell.  Please acknowledge this and smile.
I love cooking a mean for a man and having him enjoy the hell out of it.
I throw things when I’m angry.  Heads up!
Beauty is only skin deep; irresistibility comes from deep within the soul.
I own the truth about myself.  I expect the same from others.
Church is important.
The environment is important.
Saving the whales is important.
Cookies are important.
I am a tree-hugging liberal.
No matter how divergent from mine your point of view is, I will listen and I will respect you, but I won’t necessarily invite you to dinner.
Life is too short to quibble about small things, so I don’t.
You are all that matters.
Despite the fact that I am dead serious about these things, I am still laughing at everything written above.  I hope you’re laughing too, but I hope you take me seriously…
After all, I take you seriously, even amid the laughter and the smiles.

The Misogynist

Marty hates himself just enough to be angry at the whole damn world.  He misses the boat more often than not, and barely has a clue, but that’s not the worst of it with him; he’s just not “there” enough to matter to himself or anyone else, and that’s the whole shame of it.

He’s rude to the waitresses. He’s rude to himself.  He smokes a lot of weed.  He drinks a lot of beer.  He’s obsessed with his penis and he thinks everyone around him should be as well, which is nothing more than a sign that small things do in fact matter to him.

Marty isn’t nice to anyone.  He isn’t nice to me.  I treat him to all the best party favors and all he has to say is that he doesn’t like the color of anything.  He’ll never be happy with anything.  He needs his pain.  It’s the only thing that keeps his house standing.  Without the pain, he’d have rubble and dirt.

I wonder if his mother loves him.  I imagine she does, though I figure he very rarely talks to her, and I’m thinking when he does, he’s abusive as hell, but still she probably loves him.  Or then again, maybe he’s the way he is because his mother doesn’t love him.  Maybe she didn’t want him in the first place.  Maybe like one of my cousins she hated his daddy and transferred the hatred to her child, and that left him like he is, hating himself just enough to be angry at everything.

He doesn’t smell bad.  I like his after shave.  It’s the only thing I like about him.  Marty is gazing into the night with defiant eyes and I can only hope he doesn’t notice me too much.  After all, he’s not nice to anyone, and when he does notice me, he’s not nice to me either, and that’s a bummer.  I don’t heed that tonight.

You see, I’ve got my own matters for concern.  I’ve got my own world to pull apart and set to rights.  I don’t have time for Marty, and he sure as hell doesn’t seem to have time for me or care if I have time for him.  Vicious circles spin, and we are unkind to each other because we have no time to play Mister Fix-It with one another, and maybe that’s our downfall, his and mine.

Compassion; I should know what it is by now.  I’ve had my share of heartaches and bullshit, and I should know what it is to hurt.  I should know what it is to ache so desperately that life itself becomes the greatest burden time can bring.  I know it all, you know; well, I think I do.  I do to a point, but not completely.  You’d think I knew enough to know that Marty needs someone to reach him even when he protests that he doesn’t want to be reached, even when he suspects everyone around him of atrocities they could not commit even if they tried.

Marty lights a cigarette. I cough from the smoke.  It’s aggravating my asthma, but I don’t tell him about it because he doesn’t much care.  He stares at me for a moment, like I’ve got some nerve disturbing his private Hades with my coughing.

So much for my sense of compassion, which has suddenly retreated like the coward that it sometimes is into the neon fog of the night and the loud room we are in at the moment.

We’re all of us bouncing like pinballs off the walls of an angry world…

Nobody has to live in hell, unless of course they want to, and Marty seems to want to be there, so who am I to intrude?  I’m nobody.  He is steadfast in his devotion to the anger and the hatred, and I am not one to  contradict him.  I have no right.  I am an outsider.  I am just as steadfast in my need to stay away from him.  Should I be like this?  I have no idea.  All I know is what I am and what I feel, and this is what I feel; he is his own man and I can’t own anything of his without his permission, and that’s simply that.

We are all of us steadfast in who we are and in remaining as such even when the world tries desperately to tell us otherwise.

Or so it would seem, until one realizes that in one way or another, we are all Marty, and we’ll be damned if Marty isn’t us as well.

Dave

The two of us became acquainted almost by accident.  I needed an identity, and he was handy, waiting in the wings.  I was his voice, and in turn, he became mine.  His voice became the voice of a man who dared not speak.  We were, in fact, much alike, in that our values were the same and our dreams were intertwined.  We were unalike in that while he was outgoing and bold, I was shy, skittish, and sometimes, very broken.  Sure, he could be broken too, but mostly he was tough as nails and he could take the heat that I couldn’t.  He cried when I cried, but unlike me, he learned to stop hurting so much.  I never did, and maybe sometimes I held him back.  You didn’t see me holding him back, because he wouldn’t let you, or at least, he wouldn’t think he had let you.

Dave haunted chat rooms.  He was familiar with several “channels” on Internet Relay Chat, and sometimes on AOL.  He was my alter-ego.  He became my voice.  He was much like me, and yet nothing like me.  He was the man I dared not be.

Dave was gregarious and magnanimous.  He was athletic and debonair.  He was a wise-ass and the king of showbiz.  While he could be deadly serious if he wanted, more often than not he’d shrug off the darkness of the world in favor of dry wit and a helping hand.  Laughter was his stock and trade; tears were merely the tools he used to express his human imperfections.  Dave was just as gay as I am, but he was more of a man about himself than I could have been at that time.

Dave had the steel-trap mind of a Rhodes Scholar and the faithfulness of a golden retriever.  He loved to make the whole word laugh.  Dave was brave.  Dave was carefree.  Dave was smart, but he never let on that he was.

He showed me the ropes and I followed his lead.  He knew what to say when I didn’t.  Dave knew it all.  I counted on Dave.

I became Dave.

Yet in some ways he and I barely knew each other.  For all that we were alike in so many ways, he was the sort of alter-ego to go his own way and be his own man.  He was, after all, independent of anything and everyone; he was a guy’s guy, and he never let anyone think otherwise, except for a very few, who shared the world he lived in with me, the one who created him and gave him the right to be alive and free.

He was free.  I was never free.  No, not really free, ever.

I was the empty man who needed someone to speak for me, and Dave spoke for me.

Even my lover knew about Dave, and sometimes even called me “Dave,” just because he figured it fit, and because he saw what I didn’t, which was that he and I were one and the same.  He said he couldn’t stand my name, and yet he called me by it, and he called me Dave as well.

And Dave cried with me when the love of my life died.  He ached.  He railed against the world.  He angrily raged against time and space in my name.  He fought tooth and nail for me.  Dave was gentle and compassionate; he had fists of iron and a heart of gold, and could display either as convincingly as anyone possibly could.  He was a dog loved by cats.  Dave knew what differences were all about, and he celebrated the uniqueness of everything around him.  He cherished uniqueness.  He cherished each and every one of you who interacted with him.

Dave provided the voice of an anonymous blog before “blog” became a word.  He was ahead of his time.  He was ahead of himself.  Inconsistent yet definite, he moved through his world with a sense of confidence that I could not muster.  Dave laughed at his own jokes while suffering the weight of his existence and that of those about whom he cared the most.  He found lasting friends through that anonymous blog, and some of them are with me now.  They know and love Dave well, and the closest of them know me as well as they know him now.  They see the man behind the mask and the alter-ego.

Dave has gone away now.  He has found himself in another world beyond here, living in a place where dreams go to their well-earned rest.  He was always a bit of a gypsy, after all; he would move on eventually, that’s for certain.  I see vestiges of him in my life from time to time, but Dave has retired from the daily routine of my life.  That rough-and-tumble wise-ass has a home in memories, and sometimes I call on him to remind me of who I am.  The thing is, where he was once free and I was not, we now are both able to be ourselves.  I am able to be myself.  The voice I have and the voice you hear is not his, really; it’s mine, for real.

I’ll never stop caring for that creation of my heart and soul, the offspring of my need and desire.  I created him from the self that lives in me and he in turn brought me out into the light where I belong, so he served his purpose well.  Of course, Dave wouldn’t say those words.  He’d never tell you those things.  He’d just tell you that he gave me a much-needed kick in the ass, which of course, is what he did.

Everyone cushions themselves in an identity that isn’t as real as it appears to be, to either the outsider or the one projecting himself or herself.  I am glad that the people in my life have gotten to know Dave through what he had to say and in whatever he did, and I am grateful he made friends when I was afraid of the aftermath of having done so, and I am pleased that now, as Dave takes his bow and makes his graceful exit, that I am able to take the lead, attempting to fill his shoes, and hopefully doing so with a similar panache and sense of style.  I’ll never be what he was, but then again, I’ll never not be, because you see, we were one and the same, in a sense.  It’s just that you only got to see one side.

Now you see beyond that.

My name is Rick, and I am gay.  I am Christian.  I am a decent human being who should, like any other human being, be allowed to walk in the light of day without shame or fear.  As for you all; you are my friends, because any friend of Dave’s is a friend of mine.  I trust his judgment.  He knew what he was doing, even if I didn’t.  He knew how to handle himself.  He taught me how to take care of myself.  He pops in from time to time to set me back on the right track, and in turn I’ll let him be himself in my heart, for you, and for me, and for the sake of lifting the burden lies produced and which no longer concerns me.

I guess you should be thanking Dave for giving me to you.  He is, after all, how I found you and how you found me.  He was my conduit and the catalyst.  Dave’s heart was the road that led me to reality.  He’s visiting other worlds now, perhaps, and yet he remains with me.  You’ll see him whenever I crack a silly joke.  You’ll see him, but more than that, you’re seeing me, because he’s part of me and always was, even when I displaced myself from him.

He gave life to this empty heart and put the pieces of my soul back together when I barely believed I had one at all.  I am thanking him for that, and for so many other things.  It’s not that I don’t have a choice, because I do, and I choose gratitude, and in choosing gratitude, I choose light, and life, and the here and now, where you are, with me.  You are with me, aren’t you?

 

What’s For Dinner, Handsome?

I haven’t seen Janis and her wife, Dina, since sometime before Kevin died.  Over the years we’ve communicated through emails and on rare occasions, via phone calls, but we haven’t physically been in the same place together since around the time of Kevin’s passing.  They were actually his friends before they were mine; they were two of the few people he was willing to come out to back then, and because I was a part of his life then, he introduced me to them.  We’ve always liked each other, a great deal.

So what a surprise it was when I got an email from Janis last night telling me that she and Dina would be headed up this way on a road trip to visit friends and family since they both had this week and next for a vacation.  Of course I wanted to see them again, and they were more than happy to be seeing me after all these years.  We shot emails back and forth at each other, and arrangements were made for the three of us to have dinner together.  They’d pick me up at my place, and we’d head off for the north country and a change of scenery for all of us.  We listened to a Jackson Browne CD all the way, because of all the singers Janis and Dina like, that’s one we all three could agree that we liked, and the clatter of chatter and laughter accented the music nicely.

The restaurant was lovely.  It wasn’t anything special, but it was certainly pleasant enough in its own rustic way.  It boasted a nice, fairly quiet atmosphere, even though it catered somewhat to families and tourists.  Oh, and the waiter; what a handsome specimen of a man he was.  Oh yeah, simply delicious…

Of course I noticed…

He handed us menus, encouraging us to take our time in deciding.  The atmosphere was relaxed and pleasing, as was he.

“Do you find anything you like?” Janis asked.

“Oh yeah,” I said, peering up from my menu.  “The beefcake…”

Janis and Dina stared at each other, then at their menus.

“I don’t see anything called ‘Beefcake’ on the menu,” said Janis, with a smile.

I smiled slyly.  “There isn’t,” I said.

“Uh…Rick?  You ARE going to behave yourself aren’t you?” Janis asked.

“When have I not behaved myself?” I asked in response.

“The appropriate question would be,” said Dina, When HAVE you ever behaved?”

“Hey, since Kevin died I’ve been a very good boy,” I protested.

“But when he was alive and you were together, you flirted, shamelessly,” Janis reminded me.

“Well…I never…”

“Oh yes you have, and I’ve seen it,” she said.

Cue the re-entry of Mister Delicious…

He took Janis and Dina’s order, then gazed at me.  Oh, what a delectable boy he was!

“Have you decided what you’d like?” he asked, while he prepared to write my order on his notepad.

Janis and Dina both watched me very carefully.  I have a feeling they meant to tell me something, but I wasn’t listening. After all, I’d already had a glass of wine, and I can’t help it; lately a glass of wine is all it takes to make me a little frisky.

“I most certainly have,” I cooed.  I think I even sorta winked at him.  Oh, never mind the sort of…

But I caught myself, and decided discretion was the best approach.  “I’ll have the oriental chicken salad platter,” I said.

Our illustrious handsome waiter looked a little confused.  Perhaps he picked up on what I was doing, as I guess I wasn’t exactly subtle.  “I’ll put your order in,” he said, and made a fairly quick exit.

Dina looked at Janis.  “The same old Rick?”

“Uh-huh, the same old Rick,” Janis replied.

I don’t know what our handsome waiter thought of my behavior.  I don’t much care.  For the first time in many years I’m feeling free about myself, and so what if I’m something of a shameless flirt?  I’m enjoying myself and I’m not exactly hurting anyone, nor am I all that serious about the flirting.  It’s just my nature.  It’s just the real me I’ve kept hidden even from myself for far too long.  I figure it’s high time I let loose and was totally me.

The night before, at our church choir rehearsal, the director commented on how much better I sound lately.  I’m the only tenor in our small church choir, which has in many ways become The Little Engine That Could, And Rod, the director, wants more from me and my voice.  He told me that because I am the only tenor, I need to make myself known and he likes it that I’m finally letting loose and singing my little heart out.  “It won’t hurt my feelings if the only thing I hear is the tenor part,” he said.  “The other parts are important, but the tenor part soars above all of it, and you being the only one, you need to make yourself heard and be as out there as you can be.”

A while ago, when I outed myself to the whole church congregation, he’s the one who stood up and said my sexuality doesn’t matter to him.  I’m glad it doesn’t.  I’m glad he accepts me as I am without question.  I’m glad that seems to be the case with most of those I have loved for so many years.  That said, while it doesn’t matter to him, it does to me, because in revealing myself to my world and walking out into the light, which is where all of us belong, leaves me the opportunity to truly become who I am and realize myself for real.  This is who I always was; I wasn’t able to show it before, because sometimes I wasn’t sure who to show it to and to whom I should keep it hidden.  Being gay leaves one questioning many things, not just about oneself, but about all the other selves one comes in contact with; who will be happy with one being oneself, and who won’t? It’s a question someone isn’t “out” has to ask themselves constantly.  I’m done with those questions now.  I am myself, without apologies.

And I’m having fun at last.  I’m really having fun, even on the bad days when the memories of the past haunt me.

I know I deal with this subject over and over again, but the thing is; there’s always a new way of stating something, especially when the something in question is profoundly grounded in who one is.

I’m not always going to meet with approval as I am myself, and frankly, I don’t expect to be.  I figure the road is going to be rocky one and I’m going to take a few hits here and there along the way, but that’s okay with me, really.  I’m brave enough now.  I’m strong enough to withstand the storm of others and their closed minds.  I can deal with it.  Can you?

I will walk forward from here and become myself, the self I buried deep down inside the weight of shadows.  I’m digging up the real me and letting him be reborn, ‘cause I’m telling you, I really like him a whole lot, and if you give him a chance, I think you will too.  Nowadays I’m walking in the sunshine, and I feel its warmth on my face.  I feel the grace of a loving God who includes me and you and all of us in the blessed light of grace and salvation.  Take my hand, and walk in the sunshine with me.

Let’s make a date to get together, and we can spend some time talking, and checking out the guys together as they pass by…

Isn’t this lack of anonymity a real kick in the head?

Almost There

I hadn’t shaved in days.  The motel bed was a mess, and I smelled of sweat and desire.  Even so, I felt detached from the whole deal.  Maybe I wasn’t paying attention.  Maybe something distracted me.  Maybe it was my heart telling me this wasn’t a good place to be.  I have no idea.  All I know is that I was there at that time and everything felt oddly out of sync.  Sometimes he made me feel so good, but mostly I felt so bad.

This wasn’t about love.  This was lust in its purest and dirtiest form.  This was not a healthy moment, and when I think of it so many years later, I realize that I should have stayed home rather than straying from my own.  The pieces didn’t fit and there was no peace of mind, for either of us.

He blew me up from the inside out, and I thought I liked it.  Maybe I did, just a little, but in the long run there’s always so much about being blown apart that ravages reason and leaves one desolate and feeling odd.

When I was in college I had this friend named Vinnie.  Now, Vinnie fancied himself something of a stud, and so did the ladies, I guess.  He was always on the prowl.  I don’t know a night where he wasn’t up some girl’s skirts in search of a ladder to the stars, and he was insatiable.  He drank lots of beer and called me his best buddy when we were partying together before he’d head toward the bars and the ladies and the hedonism that was his bread and butter.  He gave me a run for my money and I for my part simply went along for the ride.  He liked to roughhouse with me now and then, and I liked that about him.  I didn’t dare tell him that sometimes I found the wrestling somewhat erotic.

A few years later I found myself in a motel room with someone who thought quantity was better than quality, and I learned to make love with a recklessness that betrays logic.  Nowadays that sort of shit would be just plain stupid; there are too many deadly diseases out there.

I still get tested.  I cringe with every test…

Then I fell in love.  He was the perfect man.  He didn’t do motel rooms.  He didn’t do abject lust.  He believed in love and he believed in forever, and I believed right along with him.  We had it all, or we thought we did, when we were together.  The relationship we had was somewhat disjointed but it was beautiful in its confusion.  We were in a good place together, and there wasn’t a motel room in sight.  He slept in my bed, and I lived in his heart.

He lived in my heart as well.

When he died, the world swung sideways and I went the other direction for a while.  I had a one-night stand with a guy who was more a victim than a lover, and I fell for a mad narcissistic biker.  I learned not to trust anyone anymore.  I learned to close doors.  I closed myself away from myself.

I closed myself off, in part, from all of you.

Now the doors open wide and I’m in the process of finding out so much about myself that I’d forgotten was there to begin with, and you know, this guy I’m finding isn’t such a bad person.  He’s really a lot of fun.  He’s really very huggable and friendly.  He wants to touch and be touched.  He wants.  He needs.  He reaches outward.  It’s all an outward bound journey from now on, okay?

I’m a reckless flirt and a frisky pony.  Welcome to the rodeo.  Yippee-yi-yo-KY…

All of this takes me by surprise.  This thing about me not being a good boy shocks the hell out of me sometimes.  I’m liking this thing I am seeing myself becoming; it’s a reverting and an evolution all at the same time, and as confusing as that might seem to you, or to anyone else, it’s just fine by me. I rather like it.

I’ve come alive and I’m free to fly from here into whatever magical world awaits the heart and soul of any man.  I’m tearing up the contract I made with the past and entering into an agreement with my future.  Bridges burn as a result of a heart on fire, and I am flaming proud of being me these days.

By no means is this a done deal; the process of rebirth and renewal happens piece by piece, little by little, and sometimes it hurts a little, but the hurt is part of the deal one learns to live with, and look; the best stuff never happens all at once nor does it ever happen painlessly.  Change is bitter and weird, and sometimes it’s downright overwhelming, but it’s there and it is what it is.  Everybody’s gotta do it sometime.

This is my time.  The road is clear for the moment, and I’m walking forward toward the light I should have been looking for oh so long ago.

No babe, there are no regrets.  I only have hope.  It guides me.  It should guide all of us.  It can guide all of us if we but open ourselves to its presence and let it work its wonderful magic on our souls and our destinies.

This big puzzle has a few missing pieces yet, but I’ll find ‘em all, come hell or high water.  I’m working at it day and night.

And every piece I find makes the journey more worth its while.

The Big Red Menace

He loved that damned truck.  Never mind that it was nothing but a bucket of bolts whose shocks were shot and that if he went above 50 mpf the son of a gun shimmied crazy mad.  In a world full of SUV’s, sleek sports cars, and automobiles so smart they’d practically do the dinner dishes for you, Kevin drove this big old twenty-year-old red pickup truck, and he loved that damnable thing.  It was his baby.

He never really had a name for it, like some guys do for their favorite ride.  It’s like I told my friend JoAnn when she and I and her husband Rod were driving home from a Presbytery meeting earlier this spring; he didn’t have a name for it, but I had several, that’s for sure.

The Red Menace.  That’s what I called it.  Kevin referred to it as, “The Baby.”  I called it the Big Red Menace.  I mean, that truck was a danger to society, as far as I was concerned.

And yet, when I look back on the past, as what I was comes to life in the wake of me outing myself to my friends and family, which has reawakened memories long buried, that big red bucket of bolts provided some of the best memories of Kevin that I have.

I remember Saturday afternoon jaunts in that truck as we’d drive out in to the middle of nowhere to “explore.”  Kevin had a thing for bridges, and he liked to go different places in search of bridges he hadn’t seen before.  If we found one on our journeys, he’d stop the truck, get out his artist’s sketchbook, which he kept behind the seat, and while I watched for oncoming traffic he’d make detailed schematic drawings of what he saw, while I waved a bright orange rain slicker like a flag at any approaching automobile so it wouldn’t run over him.  I was left with those drawings after he died; I gave them to his nephew, who was all of three when he died.

Then there was the Saturday afternoon where we were driving into the middle of nowhere, and he couldn’t decide which roads to take.  “Should I turn here?” he’d say.  “I don’t know,” I’d say.

“Should I go left or right here?” He’d ask.
“How should I know?” I’d reply.

This scenario repeated itself several times, until Kevin finally said, “Come on, Rick.  What good are you anyway?  Why do I take you anywhere with me?”

“Because large dogs shed?” I ventured.

He chuckled.  “So do you. What’s the difference?”

Most of the time, he sort of knew where he was going.  Other times, he didn’t much care; we were, after all, exploring.  It was just my luck that my boyfriend fancied himself the Vasco De Gama of Upstate New York.  When I actually had the nerve to tell him which road to take when he asked me on one occasion, he said, “are you sure?”

“Well…sort of…”

“Okay, I’ll take your suggestion, and if we end up getting lost, I’m blaming you,” he said, smiling.

“Now listen, buddy,” I countered, “Think about this for a minute; you wanna blame me, but you’re the one asking the almost-blind guy for directions?  Don’t you see something wrong with this picture?”

And so we rode along in that damned truck on the weekends, and once, when he was taking time to go visit his mother’s uncle in Pennsylvania, we drove all the way to see him in that big red menace of a truck.  This is when we ended up at this old inn in the Poconos, because it was raining cats and dogs, so to speak, and that sucker didn’t like getting wet.

That truck was so much a part of the man who owned and drove it.  I learned things about him while riding with him in that truck which I otherwise wouldn’t have know, like for example, how afraid of guns he was.  See, the truck had a gun rack, and it had a shotgun in it—a real one—not just a toy.  “You don’t hunt,” I said, “so why the gun?  What do you need it for?  Do you even know how to use one?”

“No, in fact I’m afraid of guns.”

“Then why the gun in the gun rack?”

“Because I figure the more I see one the more desensitized to guns I’ll be, and then when I see a cop packing heat, I won’t be scared shitless.”

Somehow that made perfect sense to me, and to tell the truth, that was so, “Kevin.”

I truly disliked that truck at the time, and often, I told him so.  “You really should sell that thing for scrap metal and buy yourself a decent vehicle,” I’d say.

“Don’t make fun of the baby,” he’d retort.  He was unrelenting.

Really, that Big Red Menace was the least favorite part of my life with Kevin, or at least, it was at the time.  We humans are such fickle and foolish creatures, however; we never know what we’ve got until it’s gone.  We learn to love some parts of our lives only when they have left us forever.  I swear, much as I might have loathed that damned truck, I’d give anything to ride shotgun at Kevin’s side in that red truck again, ‘cause that would mean he’s still here with me, and I miss him, even now.

There is, of course, a lesson in all this, which is why I’m writing all this down in the first place.  I mean, this isn’t just about recalling some good memories and entering them here for the sake of posterity; it’s about the lessons that experience teaches.  That lesson?  Be careful what you take for granted.  Nothing lasts forever.  There is no permanence in this life.  Don’t miss the beautiful things while you’ve got them to cherish, and remember most of all that just because something appears shock-worn and distressed by time and space doesn’t mean it doesn’t have a singular beauty that is what it is because it’s subtle and quiet about itself.

There’s a big ugly red menace of a truck bouncing down a highway toward the sunset and my heart goes with it.  My life is like that truck these days; it is worn with time and has all manner of cracks and faults and sometimes it doesn’t run at all well, but it’s mine and I’m living it the best I can.  This is what I’ve got, and as long as I have it, I’ll do my best not to take it for granted.  Yeah, I’m waking up to myself at last, and I’m here to tell you that we all need to open our eyes to ourselves.  The light shines bright.  Come with me.  Bounce into forever with me.  We only get this chance and then it’s off into the wild blue yonder with us all.  We only get this dream once.  Make something good from it, no matter how dark it appears.

We are rough diamonds in the dark, each and all of us.  Our time to shine comes when we let the light shine on us, with grace to polish us, washing us clean and bright.

Remembering Matthew

Lately I have fallen over the edge of myself.  The night creeps into my senses and the memories come back.  I’m roaming through shades of things I’d long since left behind, like you and your motorcycle roaring out of my life into the great unknown of being without me, and while it hurt me to see you go, I still recall you somewhat fondly.  It’s not that I’d ever want you back, my dear; I’m merely looking into the eyes of my memories, and seeing you as you were back then.  You weren’t so bad back then.  You were a good boy.  So was I.

Together the two of us were a couple of bad animals.  We danced with innuendo and flirted with disaster.  I was the damsel in distress; you called the shots and I followed your every word.  You were the orchestrator of lust and magic.  I was an unsuspecting cog in a careless wheel.

I’ve always had a thing for motorcycles, and I sure as hell had a thing for you and yours.  Looking back, I’m not sure if it was you or the bike I loved and wanted more.  In any event, I followed your lead, and you led me into a place where I was free from the past I’d let wear me ragged.  You were willing to stay with me when you could, as long as I was happy with the casual arrangement and your return trips to Canada.  You were willing to stay for awhile, but you never said it was forever, did you?

I’m the one who said that, though I never said it out loud.  You weren’t supposed to hear it…

And when you did, all hell broke loose and you were gone like the wind.

I still dig motorcycles, baby, but I don’t dig you at all.  I’m no longer angry at you; I’ve learned that forgiveness has no room for anger, and I have learned to forgive.  Even though you broke my heart when I let it get too close to you, even though you swore you never wanted to ever see me again, and yet you stalked me for the longest time, I’m not angry anymore, because I’m not hurt anymore, and I have a place in me that forgives even one such as you, for there was a time…

Yeah, there was a time when it was good, and when I had hope for the future, and when I didn’t grieve for the one I’d lost any longer.  You made it possible to heal—not only then—but now as well.

I really never expected, nor did I want, to ever hear from you again.  I can forgive from a distance better than right up close, so I guess I have a lot to learn, but maybe now I will learn what I haven’t.  Maybe hearing from you again is a good thing.  You have undergone so many changes, sir.  You left me in the dust for what you thought was a ticket back to the daughter you thought you’d never see again, and in fact never have.  You left me for a woman who made you renounce who you were even though the truth is we never can, because we are as God made us.  Married briefly, divorced less than amicably, on our own and barking up any old tree you can find; yeah, that’s you babe.

And here I am, wondering what to do, what to say.

I’d like to say the game is over because you and I both know it is.  It was over a very long time ago.  Move on with your life, dear Matthew; I have moved on with mine.  It’s your turn now.

Honey, I don’t want a man like you in my life.  That’s not to say I regret anything with you, because I don’t.  I remember the good times, the fun times, the times when you said you’d save me from myself, and you did.  The thing is; that guy I was back then isn’t who I am now, and I am free of so many things now that I wasn’t free of back then.  The beautiful truth is that I love you for what you were to me once, but not what you would want to be for me now, and I’m not ready to throw away this sense of healing for your sake, ‘cause that’s just not in me, and it shouldn’t be.

So listen, babe, go into yourself and find the soul you lost so many years ago over things you couldn’t control, and when you’re done retrieving yourself from the depths of your self-created haze, open your eyes, lift up your head, and say “yes” to survival and motion.  Don’t drown yourself in the waters of the past.  No life should be lost that way.

Yes, I would like that we could be friends again, but this time from a distance.  I don’t ever want to see you up close ever again.  I might be here to listen, but I am not here to be loved by you.  I’m just here; that’s all there is to it, babe.

The ties between us were broken long ago.  Some ties can never be mended.  Let yourself be alive to change.

My mind is open, but not so open that it falls out of my head, as they say, and my heart is in its place, where it belongs, waiting to be loved by someone who really means it.  You never meant it, really.  We both know that.

In closing, thank you for thinking of me.  I think of you sometimes too.  The thing is; I think of the good times and blot out the horrid moments with the expanse of a forgiving heart, which doesn’t mean much other than that I can forgive.  It doesn’t mean I can forget, and I don’t.  I forget nothing.  Yeah, I regret nothing, but I don’t want to repeat the past, because history should teach us something or else it’s not good for anything.

Be well and be at peace, dear sir.  Don’t ask for more than that from life.  I don’t, and because I don’t, I’m much happier now.  You deserve to be happier too, I suppose.

Goodnight…