funny stuff is too hard!

So here I am, ripe to write because I’m in one of those Emo moods. You know the moods, where you feel all witty and cliche and like the world needs to benefit from the beauty of your home-brewed sorrow and shit. Why is it that whenever I’m in these spaces I have urges to write more, but I can never get the fun stuff down onto paper?

I’m reading David Sedaris’ “When You’re Engulfed in Flames”. And while it’s hilarious, I think to myself, “I can write funnier stories than that”. I mean, with all the crazies I know, the situations I find myself in at work, my sloppy attempts at a relationship, and my unique brand of neurosis – there is a lot of ammo for a good story. But I only seem to pick up the pen (or the laptop) when I’m sulking. Boo.

I’m sorry that you have to take my word for it that I’m a funny person, I really am, but funny people are often lazy. And I don’t wanna blame it on pot or on the fact that I’m overworked and stretched too thin – but then I don’t have any other excuses, so those will have to work for now. But if I wasn’t a pothead or overworked, here are a few of the moments i would have captured for my increasingly depressing blog:

The “Male Erotic Massage” class the boy and I took. This could have been advertised more accurately as “Middle Aged Women talking about Cocks”. The BF and I were the only males there – and consequently, the only ones who chortled every time the teacher (a middle aged women with a retainer. A retainer!) would tell us how these moves had been tested all over America. After learning the 8 basic strokes and 8 “intense” strokes – he and I were convinced that there was a whole market here we could break into for money. I have a few strokes of my own that have been tried all over America. The only thing left to do is name them.

Or what about the adventures of LGBT Meditation? Whoever put this group of hippies together was really something. Unfortunately, I like the crowd and fit in. So that was a little hard to swallow. But mild Buddhism and sitting my hyper ass down in one spot for a few moments has actually been helpful, so I won’t dog the chanters that hard.

Then you have the adventures of the CQ that tried to go back to church, like maybe God had changed her mind about gay sex. Turns out you can’t tell because the church members are too busy telling you how they feel about it.

There’s even the tales of monogamy mayhem – like the weekend the BF went away, and I spent every waking moment cyber-flirting, feeling guilty about it, jacking off, getting high, and repeating the process. By the time he got home and sex was actually going to happen – my dick wouldn’t work for the life of me and I had rug burn on my head. I’m sure he was happy to see me, too.

There are a ton of glorious details to these stories. Details that I’m sure David Sedaris and his funny little notebook would capture, and embellish in Pulitzer worthy ways. But as for me, when the funny and ridiculous happens – I’m too busy enjoying the fact that something funny and ridiculous is happening. Two joints later, and it’s just a memory. Give it a week and it’s a scene in my subconscious from a movie I might have seen. These stories might live on in a parallel universe – one where I am not a lazy ass and might actually venture to write something down. But in this universe, they are only ammo I use to convince myself that I am funny. And I guess you’ll just have to take my word for it.

Public Transportation, Private Problems

I’m a broke person. A broke person who can not afford tickets. I’m a busy person. A busy person who can not spend time writing and proving appeals. But the one day I drive my car to a BART (Bay Area Rapid Transit) station to park, I received two tickets. The problem was that both were unfounded. So I appealed them only to have them upheld with no explanation or justification. So as I pay the $200 worth of tickets and processing fees (icing on the cake) – I find myself furious. Mostly because that is how much I would spend on almost a month’s worth of groceries….

So I did what any pissed off and oppressed blogger would do. I sent them an e mail:

To the BART Citation and Customer Service Team,

I believe that your process for citation appeals and review is unfair and inconsiderate of your patrons. As a person who is forced to ride BART on a regular basis, I spend a great deal of my income on high priced tickets already. The one day I parked at BART and followed ill-posted signs about how to pay for parking, I received two tickets. One for expired registration (which was not actually expired – and doesn’t seem like BART’s place to assess) and one for failing to purchase a parking ticket – which I indeed did. I sent proof of both of these facts with a very considerate letter of appeal, only to receive an impersonal response stating that my citations were upheld – with no reasoning or explanation.

The fact that I must pay in order to request an appeal just points to BART’s acceptance of a policy that takes advantage of the situation and abuses its power. I do not have the time or resources to combat this, and can safely assume that is no matter for you – because BART’s monopoly ensures that I will have to continue riding BART to and from my workplace despite how negligent and unfairly I was treated.

There is no recourse for me to take, nothing to ease my mind, no customer service to value my expensive contributions to your system that took advantage of me. So I have to settle for sending an e mail that will probably be laughed at and ignored in your offices, and to pay your ridiculous fee (with additional processing charges) – in the hopes that karma gives you exactly what you deserve.

But for a young person working at a youth non profit agency surviving on crumbs, I do still cling to the fact that regardless of whether or not you want to hear my voice – it still exists.

Unwilingly yours,

Carnelius Quinn

I love you. Here’s a ring. And chlamydia

The ring in question...

Apparently there is some gruesome test one has to take to prove himself capable (and crazy) enough to be my boyfriend. My new official “boyfriend” was put to that test in the last week – again.

I finally decided to meet my partner half way – and offer monogamy. Something I have a horrible track record with, but realize that if I want to build a stable foundation with him for once – I should try. So the current shift in my thinking is on how to transform monogamy in my mind from being a trap, into being a choice. Because I can list a hundred reasons why I want an open relationship. But I can also list a hundred things our relationship gives me that no other one does. The deciding factor is that there are two hearts on the line. One that is willing to love and accept, and one that wants to see what it feels like to reciprocate.

So to honor the fact that I wanted to explore new turf and dimensions of my relationship ability, I went ring shopping. For someone who is relatively new to internet purchases, this was a HUGE deal. Not only was I being all “mature” by letting my big brain win this time, I was going to get physical proof. So i checked out the sites, decided against the cliche of a ring with a “subtle” rainbow, and settled on a pretty classy titanium ring. I got the approval from his friends – and sealed the deal with engraved initials and everything.

The next week I fluttered about – blabbing to every friend who would hear me and simultaneously trying to keep it a secret from him, regardless of how intune his suspicions were from his friends getting ring measurements for me…

When I got to work Friday, it had arrived. Me not being one to wear “bling” or to have a “man”, I was doubly juiced about life. I debated for a while whether to give the ring with some elaborate gesture in a throwback to the great romances of yester-year…but settled on something more simple. I did, after all, fear commitment. And he does, after all, desire commitment. I wanted to make sure this gesture came across as a bold and loving move on my part to demonstrate my willingness to commit to him, but not as the gesture.

Over an awesome meal of Salmon and accessories (which proves how he deserves the ring yet again, since I was too tired and pissed from work to cook), prior to our gym run – I asked how he felt about monogamy. I knew full well that he was in tune with how I felt about monogamy, but wanted to have a little fun. I told him what I had been thinking; that though I wanted an open relationship, I was considering how a couple had to build trust and respect before they felt safe enough to venture…and that was a nice side effect of monogamy. And I asked how he would feel if I chose to become monogamous until we both felt comfortable enough to try otherwise? Then I popped out the rings and let him know that was what I was choosing to do.

Dear Lord it had never been so quiet. But he stared at it and smiled and slid the ring…as far down his finger as it would go. I hadn’t planned on this glitch, since I got measurements from a friend (who I will kill coincidentally, in the near future). But there it was – my stunted gesture. I was proud at my ability to calm the panic rising inside me: was it a sign?

But then Monday came, and I got a call from a number I didn’t recognize. A number from a trick who would prove my boyfriend right about his open relationship fears. A sex partner had contracted chlamydia, and thought me and my other partners should get tested. Fuck.

Mortified that this would be our first discussion as gaylyweds, I rode the BART home in silence. I had spent the rest of my workday planning a doctor’s visit for the following morning, so I could at least look proactive and semi-responsible when I got dumped.

But he handled it extremely well. Besides a few minutes worth of “I knew it would happen”, and “that’s to be expected in an open relationship”, he hugged me and thanked me for being honest and responsible about it. I waited for more to come, but it didn’t. Really? Had we come this far as a couple? Were we finally at that plateau where we could have something like this enter our realm, and decompose it and keep on moving? Apparently.

But little did I know this first triumph would be followed by my first slap in the face that love means embracing the other person as a whole…flaws and all. What flaws? He didn’t like the ring I gave him, and told me so.

Seems random, I know. But this came up the same night as the chlamydia scandal. Before we even got to the gym. I have a habit of reading random articles online. He saw me online and was curious about the re-make policy for the ring (which can be considered great…he was eager to wear it, right?) After we had checked the policies…he asked what other rings they had. “What’s the matter?”, I asked jokingly. “You don’t like the one I got?”

Pause. Pause. Pause. “It’s not that, it’s just I don’t want to mess it up or scratch it.”

Sure.

“You can’t change your design – I got us matching ones. It was symbolic. I went through hell to choose a design.” At least I was being honest. He didn’t know how much giving him this ring had meant to me…and what it’s wrong size and ugliness to him was ding to my neurosis.

It could have stopped there, but I made a total “chick” move. And I don’t mean chick in a sexist way. I mean chick in the chick-en, just say what you mean and don’t be passive aggressive way.

(As I’m finishing on the laptop) “So, do you want to pick out another ring before I send the order?”

I wasn’t aware that you should never ask questions for which there is only one right answer. Because people won’t get it right.

Pause. Pause. Pause. “No, I -”

“It’s too late to say no.”, I interrupt. That silence was answer enough.

“I’ll keep the ring I have, because you gave it to me, and it’s special.” , he says. He apparently didn’t realize that all this sounded like to me was bullshit.

What to do? I couldn’t possibly blow up in his face about a ring when he had handled the chlamydia thing so well. I was stuck. I wanted to be mad, but this was too many events in one sitting. We had gone from newlyweds to silver anniversary in one foul swoop.

So I said nothing. And got ready for the gym (perhaps a little loudly). And worked out extra hard on different machines than he did to prove how much better I was, and sat in the sauna and sweat it out. The whole while realizing that the bigger picture was more important. He wanted a ring from me. But he was an honest person, and wanted to take advantage of the remake opportunity to get something more his style. Had I relied too much on the friends? Was I being a diva? Of course. But didn’t he know me by now?

In either case, my ring looks and fits fabulous – and I love wearing it. The Chlamydia results came back negative, and though we had to scarf down horse pill antibiotics just in case (along with full blood work for the complete STI/HIV package) – at least we’re on the same testing cycle now. I suppose I’ll order his new ring soon – and eat a slice of humble pie. At least that way when I blow up at him over the next random thing…I can feel a little bit better about it.

Bust A Move

I can’t convince me to believe in myself as an artist. But I’m surrounded by less talented people who make better money.

Over the course of my life I have used several performance verbs to describe how I spend my time: act, sing, write, dance, direct – none of them having stuck around for a career. And yet I cling desperately to my sealed university parchment – underwhelming in its thoughtlessness “BA in Sociology Drama”. I had to go through two majors – tuition and all – but apparently I was not worth the investment of two degrees; or at least one that distinguished my two specialties rather than one odd field of Social Science performance that confuses people.

And it turns out I confused so many people, myself included, that I am indeed in some odd performance and social science realm – one where benefits and salaries are never guaranteed, competition is fierce, and you’re expected to go above and beyond for less than nothing. But that’s not what grinds my gears. I am at peace with giving myself for something I believe in. I just think somewhere along the line I got stuck giving and never getting anything in return.

At work, I don’t know what the hell I’m doing, but I’m really good at it. In love I can’t choose which side has greener grass – so I live in an eternal flux of co-dependent loneliness. I am getting better at dealing with my family, but only because I’m getting better at self medicating. And the only outlets that get me through lately are dancing, writing, and reading. But when do I have time to do that? That’s where I get pissed off. There seems to be no time in my life anymore to pursue what makes me happy.

When I work my ass to the bone, and can’t afford a $12 Capoiera Class, I have to ask – where does my money go? I was “making it” just as well when I was waiting tables at Bubba Gump’s and washing plastic for Jamba Juice. And now I’m a manager at an increasingly panicked non-profit, supervising and supporting dam near everyone, prostituting the agency for money from anyone, while trying to thrust morale and momentum into an unknown future displaying only that my hours will soon be cut.

When I come home I want to dance. Thank GOD for Carnaval – at least I got to shake my stuff in the streets. Unfortunately, the middle school girls who were a large portion of our contingent were afraid of the half naked chubby bald man with the crazy skirt, breasts bigger and hairier than theirs, and metallic body paint. Fitting how the two skinny guys whose idea it was to go “topless” flake out. So it’s me and the girls dancing. I could have drummed like the other guys…but I wanted to dance. So I did. And if nothing else, the rehearsals worked me out, and I learned the moves quick enough to help a few rhythmically-challenged girls get it together. I won’t be joining the crew for PRIDE, however, because I do not want to be stuck with the little girl crew on the day where all the hotties are naked and celebrating. I’ll have to get my dance on at the stages…

During those dance classes, and in the streets of the parade I felt so light and free. As much as I love theatre, I do not think I am a great actor. Decent writer, yes. Great scene director, for sure. Techie? Not really. My acting resume is saad, and there is not one performance space I’ve worked in that hasn’t been school-related. And that does not make me feel too cast-able.

As far as writing, now that I’m Captain Save-a-Non-Profit…I do not have as much time; or choose to rest my writing muscles outside of work. This sucks I know, as is apparent by the rusty and whiney tones of my recent blogs. I wanna write about life and all the obnoxious lessons I’m learning lately, but self medicate so much that I just wanna sleep when not living through the stress.

Then there is dance, or any opportunity someone gives me to bang a sexy drum. That seems to be when I feel most alive. Other than sex, camping, good friends and food that is.

Let’s see – if I had to break down my current dance history to pretend I had the least bit right to claim proficiency, what would that look like:

Exaltation Youth Choir. We were Kirk Franklin-esque and choreographed our concert and competition pieces. Half step team, half soul train…some moves were great, and a welcome relief from a revival sermon.

Middle School and High School Dances…I won’t pretend I was good at any of these, but I have rhythm and I tried.

Big Sister. I would always swear to hate her, but loved dancing with her when she was left to care for me…which was often. Now we’re as close as ever, and all we need is a living room and a CD player. She also gets credit for introducing me to an eclectic music taste and trying new sounds.

Musicals. If you didn’t know I was gay yet, there you go. I had to ease on down the road in ‘The Wiz’, do the funky chicken in ‘Oklahoma’, embrace an awkward waltz in ‘Street Scene’, scoot out a British line dance in ‘The Mystery of Edwin Drood’, and absorb some minimal stylistic movement and combat skills for ‘Julius Caesar’ and ‘Romeo & Juliet’. If nothing else, these experiences got me to think about connecting emotion and movement to build pictures.

Dance classes at SFSU. This is when I finally decided to try something. 2 units a semester of a physical fun class to make sure I didn’t nerd out 100%. I took two semesters of African Haitian (which showed me just how inflexible I was and began to wake my spine up). It was in African Haitian that I was introduced to drums, loas, mambos, a dance rooted in community and culture, and some sense of feeling filled. I also took a semester of Modern Jazz, which was…eh.

Loco Bloco. Awesome troupe housed in San Francisco that welcomed me into their contingent for Carnaval 2007 and 2008. It is here that I re-find drums and the dances of my ancestors which both relieve all the tensions that entrap me in my daily grind.

Hip Hop @ The White Horse. Who knew my random side job as a barback would pay off? With Thursday night Hip hop classes, and smaller clienntel – I often find myself on the dance floor grooving away my worries and being the happiest guy cleaning glasses you ever met.

So that’s the story of me and dance, and I know I want more of it. But I can’t seem to find a creative way to fit dancing into my life. Sometimes I feel stuck in my situation, but know I am choosing to fight a particular battle right now. I just want to get more aligned with my spirit, so I can sustain the fight. That’s the part of me I feel suffering, and is affecting my balance and presence in all areas of my life. I am taking baby steps, but not the stylish leaps and bounds I should be.

I really do have to find a creative and accessible way to bust a move.

Curiosity Cleansed the Cat

Lately I’ve been trying to open myself to new things. As I pretend to grow closer towards adulthood, I’m learning the importance of balance. Between work and personal life. Between indulging in vices and managing my health. You get the idea. But I never thought in a million years that I would be chillin’ in my bath tub on a Monday night with a plastic bag full of coffee headed down a tube and up my ass.

But then again, who ever really sees that coming?

Coffee enemas. The new and improved way to get that clogged colon of yours acting right. They work wonders on the skin, are emerging as stress reducers, and give you great sustainable energy. Just ask Janet Jackson, who apparently does this 3x a week.

A co-worker of mine, during a staff meeting check in question about products we would love to create commercials for, said she would make hers about coffee enemas. Immediately after hearing her fabulous commercial – and after a few more follow up questions about what exactly a coffee enema was and why one should suffer the treatment – I had to try it.

I felt like a teenage boy buying a condom in the downtown San Francisco Walgreen’s store. Unfortunately, I was a grown man purchasing a personal douche system. I’m not sure which is worse. The purchasing actually went pretty smooth. I think the cashiers had better things to think about than me. But realizing I had bought the wrong thing….I needed an enema, not a douche…meant that I would have to return to Walgreen’s. This was fairly simple as well, though I felt guilty and embarrassed. The packaging box didn’t help with its blatant advertisements on every angle of the box. But perhaps it was purchasing the enema at the same time as the Folgers that did it.

Perhaps I could have waited a while to try this cleansing system out, but I’m a little too impatient for that. God Bless Greg. My dear (hot) friend who has been much more than a friend for sometime now. He was the lucky one who got to be my assistant for this process. Did I need an assistant? Probably not, but he was coming over to head to the gym anyway – so I figured I shouldn’t go through this alone. I figure he had an intimate knowledge of my ass anyhow. Turns out he’s not such a huge fan of coffee – or enemas – but hung in there with me like a champ.

My heart goes out to those of you who are enema or douche regulars. The process is simple enough to complete, but definitely takes some patience and space to execute. I was not familiar with either of these processes – so had only my imagination, YouTube videos, and Google Images to rely on. So we boiled the coffee. Cleaned the enema kit. Cooled down the coffee. Practiced talking through our routine and using the enema with water. Prepped the bath tub and put a movie on the computer. We prepared to hang a while. And then we got going.

It wasn’t horrible. I think my ass sensed that I was nervous, because my sphincter employed the jaws of life to keep me out. Not being a user of anal sex toys, something was akward about lubing up the plastic part that would find itself lodged where no tube had gone before. I eventually got it in there, and Greg began to raise the enema bag. I could feel the liquid rushing inside me, but was more focused on trying to keep the enema from pushing its way out. After a while I finally relaxed, and the rest of my Folgers brew flowed right in.

The instructions told me that my goal was to hold the liquid inside for at least 12 minutes. Minutes 1-9 were a breeze. So much so that I did bath tub acrobatics – massaging my abdomen, and turning into various poses to ensure the liquid was working its way around inside. It seemed simple enough, and I thought perhaps I did it wrong since I didn’t seem to feel any discomfort. But minutes 10 – 15…were another story. My stomach began to groan with the fury of a thousand middle children. I got raging cramps, and had to all but staple my ass shut to fight against the pressure plunging its way towards my anus.

For a moment I felt as if I were in labor. Wanting nothing more than to get it out of me, but too paralyzed by cramping to get out of the tub. I held it in…minute 12. Cramps. Be strong. Minutes 13. 14. Almost there. On the 15th minute I kicked Greg out of the bathroom…and got more intimate with my porcelain pony than I care to share….but let me tell you this. It was sweet release.

Once it was over, I wasn’t sure if I should be on standby for other avalanches of colon, but it turns out there was no need. My stomach had done all it came to do, and was now ready to be left the hell alone.

Was it akward as hell? Yes.

Was it worth it? Yes.

Is it something I should be blogging about? Probably not. So I apologize for the TMI.

But the following two days, I have felt more energized, and somewhat more grounded. I realize this might just be an elaborate placebo. But I think there’s something to this java infused idea. So perhaps you should give it a shot?

As for me, I think next time I’ll upgrade from Folgers. I wonder how Starbucks would feel about helping me out…

Big Shit

Everyone always tells you not to sweat the small shit. But no one tells you how that works. Or what constitutes small shit versus big shit. Or if you’re not supposed to sweat it…what you should do with the small shit. Especially if the small shit keeps on coming…does it build up to big shit that you have to deal with? Or just stay lots of small shit, like a dirtying windshield – clear enough for you to keep on driving, but noticeable enough to irritate your journey?

No one tells you that the key is to laugh during the short gasps you get in this triathalon called life. And even if they did tell you – you wouldn’t listen. When we get that simple advice we’re usually too stressed and overwhelmed to listen – or worse, we write it off as nagging hippie optimism. But that’s all we have – because our drama is not going to get better or go away. And even if by chance it does, something even more challenging will replace it. And to see this ever increasing mountain as a testament of your strength, rather than proof of how much the universe hates you is rather frustrating. But why?

We are so closed to optimism because we are convinced it means the giver can’t possibly fully comprehend the layers of our problem(s). Even if your friends offer reasoable solutions, you will counter with unreasonable scenarios that will rob you of even having the potential of hope in your situation. Why is it so easy to remain ovewhemled, but so hard to just let go? How invested are we in maintaining a status quo we’ve set up for ourselves instead of making our happiness and well being the norm?

I’m not writing this to convince you to be happy through your trials. I am writing this to remind myself that I have to be. I apparently have some measure of talent. I care about the world. I believe that regardless of how outnumbered goodness is in this world, it is still worth investing in. This places me in a scenario where traditional success and happiness might not come my way. But since when did I lead a traditional life? I am learning to re-think the way I value my riches. By nature of being Black in this country, gay in this world, caring in this economy, community driven in my career – I have agreed to take on some weight. Maybe not the weight of the world, but the weight of MY world. And lately I spend every free moment lamenting this life I don’t have time to live because I’m too busy being tired, frustrated, or venting.

The simple solution would be to find a new path if the one I’m on makes me so unhappy, right? But I’m not unhappy at all. I am unbalanced, and that’s the shift. I love my job, regardless of the ridiculous situations and hurdles I am placed in front of. I have faith in the intention, creativity, and beauty of my team. But as a super student and workaholic, I was just starting to figure out what my identity includes OUTSIDE of work. There is so much more to me than where I work, but my choices in life lately do not reflect that. I limit myself constantly, spend energy blaming my job only to return to work there, and repeat the cycle. A cycle that is unfortunately common in my chosen field.

But I’m not in this field by choice. I was placed in this field to use a skill set I apparently had but couldn’t articulate. What is important is that I am choosing to stay in this field. I want to empower myself in this situation, because I can leave at any moment. I am young enough to make moves – but I feel honor an pride and worthiness in doing what I do. That self-investment is worth more than salary to me. But that commitment makes it all the more important to invest in the areas of my life outside of work that make me who I am. To go on the camping trips, to dance, read, write, take long uber-gay candle-lit baths, and rock out in crazy outfits.

I can’t take my frustration out on the world if I’m choosing to stay in my situation. I just need to get a grip on why I’m staying. I can’t keep avoiding people I care about as I delude myself that it is only until I get better at enforcing my priorities. Baby steps is the key. Not being upset at being overwhelmed, but expecting it, honoring the feeling, and doing something besides wallowing to balance that energy in my spirit.

Fuck you, I know this all sounds common sense. But this shit is huge for me. Which makes it hard to deal with the little shit – like people’s attitudes, or parking tickets that fuck up your paycheck to paycheck routine, or commuting, or no groceries, or double booking friends, or not having clean underwear. They still exist, and can still fuck up my day. But a fucked up day doesn’t make a fucked up week, month, year, or life. And that’s whats up.

I don’t have time to dwell on how bad I am in relationships while there is someone busy trying to love me. I don’t have time to feel like I abandoned my family when I have nephews and nieces growing into young adults who need an ally. I don’t have time to pout about not being in a play, when opportunities to dance are always around. I don’t have time to feel embarassed about how small my apartment is when most of my friends have roomates. I don’t have time to get pissed that I never travel when there are so many local things I haven’t seen. Okay…so maybe I do have time for those things, but couldn’t that time be better spent?

I know this all seems simple logic, and you might very well have figured much of this out already. But it’s the simple logic that gets most easily lost in a chaotic world.

M4M

I’m not sure what I’m looking for, but I don’t know what that has to do with finding it…

Yet as I go through this reflection on myself,

Scared to start something new until I come to some conclusions -

Who I am, Who I’m striving to be, What kind of relationships I truly want…

I question the idea of a soul mate, and wonder if I’d still sabotage it even if I found him.

Relationships – it’s all in the intentions and the timing.

Unfortunately, being a gay male, we usually don’t abide by anyone’s clock but our own.

I just want a guy to intuit me. To realize sometimes I mean what I say, and other times I really don’t say what I mean.

I want to find someone comfortable being the sole owner of my heart, but open to sharing my body.

Willing to go on adventures, to be spontaneous, to live life when it comes to us.

But secure enough to pull out of the rat race now and then…and cherish the little neck of the world we’ve created for ourselves.

Where are you? My contradictory knight in shining armor?

You, who will know when to support me.

When to call me out.

When to let me be right.

When to lovingly set me back on track.

That special someone who can laugh at my jokes – and pick the truths from them when they’re coming from hurt.

That man who is comfortable being a man…who loves a man.

Who is someone I can look up to, now Down Low for.

Comfortable enough with himself to let me be comfortable – at my own pace.

Strong enough to seek me out for love and support and guidance,

And share the burden of being on my team.

That special guy, who loves me unconditionally – and won’t put up with my shit.

And at the same time, joins my in a dreams…knowing I have the power to make them come true.

When will he join my team, our combined forces making strides in this swiftly spinning world.

And fight with, for, and beside me.

Every queen wants a good man, but that’s not specific enough.

There are tons of good men out there who aren’t right for me.

I need that man whose unique brand of crazy, of ambitious, of loving, of creativity, of perseverance, and of faith compliments mine.

Someone who can handle the fact that as fast as I move, as overwhelmed as I may get, as self absorbed as I might seem – I am not bigger than the potential of our love.

And will not ever choose my Ego over him – as much as that same Ego might flare in heated moments.

The man who will trust in my promise to always come back to him – willing to communicate as well as give him voice.

The centered man who will never lock me in a box – dependent on my empty promises to give his life security, validation, and purpose.

But who will leave me free to choose him daily.

And I will choose him daily.

For the strength in the freedom he gives me.

The wonder in the love he shows me.

The sincerity in the support he provides me.

And the truth in the respect he offers me.

Is all I ask in exchange for my devotion.

For the right to unpack my bags and stay a while in the cocoon of his love.

Knowing that there is where I can find a support when I’m the underdog.

There I can find validation, when all my idea needs is a chance.

There I can find peace when the world is tearing me down.

And re-kindle my rainbow and flame – when I’ve done more than I can do.

To create a home together,

Whose stability anchors us as we fly freely and honestly through life.

And despite what gay relationships could be, should be, will be, have been, stereotypically are…

We will be just be two individuals who work well together,

And choose to every day.

In My Skin

 

Trapped in this new me, but I feel so free.

As I explore and discover…reveal and uncover – myself.

I could never see the ease in life, because the alligators were in my way.

Hiding the true simplicity of appreciating each day.

And as I let go

And stopped caring about what I didn’t know…

And told myself to stop thinking and just flow,

I realized that life doesn’t happen yesterday or tomorrow.

And by regretting and foreseeing…I was living in sorrow.

That there was so much more,

To do and explore…

And now I feel freer – than ever before.

Because wherever I go – well there I am.

And regardless of if I begin with a plan…

What will happen will be,

The day will reveal things to see…

And I’ll deal with the challenges and do what I can.

But the living in fear of what might or not be -

Is no longer the destiny that I want for me.

Because though there will be challenges – often and real,

I can live in my moments – and feel what I feel.

For tomorrow might bring things I don’t find okay,

But why would that stop me from living today?

I have a great skill,

And a much greater will…

And can truly make wonders from perceived disarray.

But I thought this confidence was so far away…

When it was waiting for me to say I was okay,

To forgive and to heal

Look at myself and be real,

And then it would join me on this brand new day.

But now that I have it, and can see things anew…

And know that life’s moments are fleeting and few.

I’ll do what I can,

For once be a man…

And do what feels right for myself, and not you.

Life…Upside Down

There are some things a roller coaster shouldn’t do to a person. “X” at Six Flags Magic Mountain does them anyway. And believe it or not, the 3-hour wait for this 40 second adventure is well worth it.

I’ve always loved roller coasters. I mean LOVE. Borderline inappropriate, twinkle in my eye, daydream about love. But this weekend, my determination to get some coaster in my life…and my determination to be a better uncle, led me into an impromptu weekend that was a little more draining than I expected.

It started when I got a little too “family oriented” Sunday. While visiting with my sister, talking over all of life’s irritating lessons, I was seized with a mind to do for my tribe. This was probably somewhat influenced by Aunt Norma’s funeral this week, and me feeling like I haven’t been around as much as I could be for family. I invited my nephews to Fright Fest at Magic Mountain. We’ve gone to Magic Mountain several times before, just the three of us. It’s always a blast…a tiring blast. Me being the roller coaster junkie I am, and them loving coasters too and needing to get away sometimes…makes us perfect road buddies. Since I hadn’t rode a coaster in 2007 yet, and was overdue for uncle time, I figured this would be the perfect weekend to make some progress.

I didn’t realize this should have been an uncle weekend I planned ahead for.

I know I’m supposed to live more in the moment, but the full week I had made me want to live in the moment – in bed. But I had made a promise. Despite having a funeral that week, a conference, a late Thursday and Friday work night. I told my nephews I would be there at 5:30 am Saturday to start the adventure. I didn’t stress off the trip until mid-week, when I asked my sister about my nephews’ season passes. “Season Passes? We didn’t get those this year.” Perhaps I should have asked this before I invited them along. Hotel? Gas? Amusement Park Food? In the middle of a pay cycle in which I’m overdrawn. Shit. But I was going to be damned if I broke my promise, so onward I went. Trying my good friend Maliyah’s approach to money troubles. Don’t let them own you, breathe, and make an affirmation about it. Ok…let’s see. “I am excited about my investment in my nephews, and trust that everything will work out as it should”. Worth a shot.

And it worked relatively well. It just stinks to be the broke crew at the expensive park during Halloween season. I wanted to get my nephews light sabers, and tons of lemon slushies, and the hilarious souvenir photos from the rides – but just couldn’t afford to. I’m sure it put more of a chip on my shoulders than theirs…but it was there nonetheless. I hope to have made up for it with the coasters. Andrew is 9 and a braveheart. Taking on rides that flip you in 4-dimensions with a smile. Brandon is 14 and has officially noticed girls. And every moment between rides was looking for the next girlfriend. Sigh. But they are great guys, and I love them, and I think we did the park justice. the highlight was definitely Colossus – a glorious wooden coaster with parallel tracks to let the trains race. And for the Halloween season, they place some of the trains on the tracks backwards. Which is insane, but the most amazing ride…especially at night.

We had a great time. Besides our initial wait for “X”. We were excited it wasn’t shut down for once, as we have come to expect. But what we didn’t understand was why it broke down four times throughout our queue. We wanted to leave…to ride ANYTHING…but decided we hadn’t waited 1 hour…2 hours….3 hours….not to ride it. So we waited, and it was worth it (relatively).

The unfortunate thing about amusement parks, besides their insane prices and apathetic teen staff , is this concept of “Fast Track”. I didn’t know it was a pet peeve of mine until I almost started cursing people out. You know what I mean, those tickets you can buy for $25 extra that allow you to skip to the front of the line for multiple rides? So your rich ass can laugh at those of us who waited in the heat forever to ride the attraction? As my nephews and I began to call them…cheaters. Consider this. You finally see your goal. You’ve made it through turnstile after turnstile. Ignored the loud group in front of you. Been patient with the people behind you who think walking into you repeatedly will get them on the ride faster. The public displays of affection. The 5 dollar soda-machines. The slow crawl forward as you select a riding row, and watch others take off painstakingly slow one after the other. You finally arrive. You’re next in line, and some asshole who bought a “Flash Pass” walks his pasty ass into your seat – with permission? No. I hate waiting like the next guy, but that’s a part of the deal.

Anyway…the lines were scarier than the goblins, demons, clowns, and zombies parading around in Fright Fest Fog and Smoke. Six Flags made a huge investment in Halloween apparently, but some of it was really well done. Walkways with creatures…haunted houses with light shows…it was cool. So we rode what we could, got scared where we could, and then headed to Venice Beach.

My good friends Jason and Laila let us crash in their living room…and thank God for video games. I was able to get some adult time – after a day of brotherly arguing and displays of manhood in multiple lengthy lines. Woke up, had some breakfast, did the farmer’s market thing, and hit the 5 freeways on the drive home. So sitting in my house, alone finally, and tired as f*ck…I think it was a good weekend.

I only got about 8 hours of sleep total, and drove about 15 hours between it all – but I kept my word to my nephews, saw some good friends, flipped my internal organs in a thousand ways with a coaster fix, and lived in the moment. Not too shabby for an October Weekend, I guess.

The Intervention – Volume 1

 

The personalities are officially merging. And I don’t know if I’m crazy in the first place for having so many, or if it’s crazy that they’re trying to work together now…but either way this is going to be a process worth keeping track of.

My life hit a rather low point a the other weekend, and a few things came crashing down. I know that sounds dramatic…but I believe without a shadow of a doubt the universe was trying to kick my ass into gear. I think I’ve had enough of living my life from the sidelines.

We all know that breakups are reflective times – we want to put the file away in a drawer – taking careful note of what was our faults, the other persons’, how this story is portrayed in the media (A.K.A. the friend circle), and take away a few notes for next time. Well, when I realized just how much of my last relationship meltdown was my fault – I believe that was the catalyst for a lot more. Don’t get me wrong, I do not think everything was my fault, or that I’m 100% responsible for my partner’s experience, but I definitely am 100% responsible for sabotaging myself.

This is not about that relationship. This is about all relationships. How I perceive myself versus how I am perceived. My level of intention and commitment to my relationships. To friends, to family, and most importantly – to myself. I have put a lot of stock in relationships in the past – so much so that I border on co-dependent, which is dangerous for a Sagittarius. Investing so much in one person at a time – that best friend, or lover, or long lost friend whose life has recently aligned once moe with mine. My happiness and social life starts to revolve around this person, must to the detriment of my other relationships. I’m an amazing friend when my energy is focused on you – but what about the 90% of time it’s not? And that is one of the challenges – I love meeting new people, but have trouble maintaining healthy relationships. Possibly because I see a little of myself in so many types of people. But most likely because I inherently avoid going deeper. And yes friends, it’s about to go there…I believe this has a great deal to do with me living a life of secrecy.

For an openly gay man, I live a life full of secrets and shame and loneliness. I do not want to make this solely about being gay, because I understand there is more to me than just that. I do, however, feel that all the areas of my life I am trying to live out fully are compromised by my shame and insecurity around being gay. I have had trouble embracing more than the title with my loved ones. It feels as if I came out just so they would have an idea about what was going on when I dropped off the face of the earth. I do not live and breathe it around them. I come home to superficial conversations, skirting around religious issues, not prioritizing family functions so I can save my family the embarrassment. Yet I’m out. To all the people I meet nowadays, not to those that matter. Those who might enjoy getting to know me for me. Those who i fear will leave me and not love me, but am not giving the chance to prove me wrong.

Maybe I should warn you – this is gonna get a little on the analytical side.

I also feel like my exploration of gay identity inside my closet, made possible by the wonders of sites like gay.com and craigslist, contributed to me isolating parts of myself from each other. Never being genuine though I was always in some part being who I was. Online hook-ups, choir rehearsal, girlfriends, best friend-with-benefits, responsibility, carelessness. All these qualities had to be mutually exclusive for some reason. And I never wanted to face the truth of them all co-existing inside me.

So we have a family who doesn’t know me because my coming out was the end of the road as far as I was concerned…since I sank into the shadows. We have friends who I am fake with, and friends I am real with but insecure around so I have extreme highs and lows. If those are the templates from which I’m building my idea of a relationship, then of course the partners have some pretty hefty baggage to support, right?

And the ridiculous thing is that I found partners willing to support that baggage – and still found a way to destruct them. Granted, it might not have been meant to be….but I cut short the possibility of a more full and meaningful relationship several times. I’ve only had 5 relationships in my life. Two with women, high school, while I was still figuring things out. But they were important women, still in my life. One with a man while I was closeted – who was the catalyst for my coming out…but changed his tone once I actually did. One with a man, who was my first true love – since our relationship lived in the real world – vacations, a family holiday, housemates, life plans. And one friend-turned-more, that was at a level I’m still trying to reach in being comfortable in my own skin. All of these people are important to me, and have definitely shaped who I am – and what I think love is. But with all of them, I had some level of anxiety, secrecy, and self-shame.

I embrace now that I have baggage, as all of us have, and just need to learn to accesorize it.

So recently, when my good friend (see the unicorn tribute) moved to Australia, I lost my confidant. Dealing with the idea of damaged love, breakups, self reflection – was all too much for me to do alone. And to top it off – my attempts to be friends with exes, and prove friends who say its not possible wrong, were failing miserably. Looking through the phone of names and numbers I should have felt comfortable to call for support – I realized that different situations call for different people. But at the end of the day, it gets old to hold up so many fronts. And if that’s the case – what I have is an audience. Not friends.

And when I couldn’t find solace in family. When friends seemed too far away. When I lack the companionship I so long for. I turn to faith. God. spirit. And I realized that my spirit is weak. I have not been feeding it. My soul is tired and in pain, and longing for something. I’m not religious dogmatically, but I am very spiritual, Growing up in a church environment, though restricting at times – gave me a wonderful foundation. It’s where I learned community, how to value and treat people, right and wrong – and I don’t care what you say…we all need some starting sense of that, and lots of love. Not to mention church was where I began to explore creativity, performance, and being a leader – all things that characterize my career path now. Church is a huge part of who I am – but a small part of who I am makes me uncomfortable and un-welcome in the church. And I have not healed from this trauma yet.

But I have through the years, found God in subtle and creative ways. When traffic lights go my way, when I get an awesome opportunity at work, when money works out just right around rent time, when I get in touch with a long lost loved one. I still sing old choir songs in the shower and in traffic. I pray, in conversational ways while doing mundane tasks. I feel that I am participating in things that will make a positive change in the world, and for the most part carry myself with dignity and respect for my fellow (wo)man. I am a loving person with an open heart, good natured, sincere, intelligent, supportive, and thoughtful. I feel that God loves me. I am not sure which religion I believe in – but I believe they all come down to faith, and all that faith goes somewhere. Does something. At least serves as a motivation to do things and get through things you otherwise wouldn’t.

So I don’t want to go to church and feel pressured to concentrate on hell and shame and outing the queer people still allowed to participate in secrecy. I feel upset that my daily good life is outweighed by Sunday Christians who live sinful lives throughout the week. Sure, I do too…but I don’t judge you about it. I support you when you want to change, and love you as a human when you want to indulge. But I was taught real Christians live by example – not by institutional bullshit. But there are some real Christians at my church…who were closer to me than a lot of my family. And so much of my family are ministers, church mothers, missionaries, pastors, and various other leaders…that church and family are blended. They are all this huge network of love and tradition and standards and support that held me as I found who I was. And now that I’m the person i’ve become…I don’t have access to them anymore. And that makes it hard to feel real anymore. To have a meaningful relationship – if this huge part of you doesn’t feel it will ever be validated. And for some reason, I really want that validation. To know that it’s okay to be gay and spiritual and in love and in a meaningful partnership. One that doesn’t have to carry all this weight. That doesn’t have to live in the closet. But I’m scared that I’m going to have to learn to validate that for myself.

So feeling a lack of allies and supports – scared of friends, cautious of lovers, burdened by family, denied access to faith – almost broke me. This was the beginning of the downward spiral. And I sat there, blocked. Feeling emotions I couldn’t describe. Feeling this intense love for my friends, and needing their support – but feeling too out of the loop to seek it. Ignoring calls. Barely making it through workdays. Being way too critical of myself (yes, even more than this). Feeling a longing to nurture my soul. To get some strength. Stamina. Some way to pull me through, because I did not forsee this getting any better.

And ultimately, my multiple personalities come into play. I wonder why I’m not a libra, since there is always such an internal struggle. I always weigh both sides of situations, and even when I’m spontaneous – it’s usually in the most prepared way. So I can’t just let myself dwell in thoughts of “everything’s wrong”, and “nothing ever…”. I will always think in detail. What’s wrong? What does it really mean? What do you need to do? Where do you want to end up, and how should you start to get there? Sometimes, when you just wanna sit with an extreme emotion – it’s frustrating to have an internal personal trainer forcing you to think about how it could be worse, and get moving. But that’s a way I started relating to myself since I often find myself isolated from the friends who provide that feedback.

The Intervention:
So the Intervention will have three phases: Self-Esteem and Internal Strength, Meaningful Connection and Love, and Embracing and Uniting my Identity.

Phase one is nurturing myself through things I love and enjoy but do not commit to or invest in. The gym, music, art, writing. Getting in touch with myself – so relationships don’t sweep me away. But I can be grounded in myself in times of solitude as well.

Phase two will be intertwined with phase one, but be focused on rebuilding and being present in my friendships. Because this is good practice, and I want to appreciate the people I love, and have them there as a resource.

Phase three will involve some form of confrontation or revelation with my family and church family. I’m not sure what this looks like, but I fear it. I fear really living the life I say I want to live – openly, consistenly, regardless of others. But I will. Even if those others are the basis of so much of my identity formation. I owe them the chance to get to know and love me. And am not protecting them by living in secrecy. I really feel that I will have to reconcile this hurt, or at least actively engage in it to get the courage I need to have the types of relationships I want. I can’t be determined by my own homophobia and what might be a false sense of obligation to people who might love me unconditionally.

The point of phase 2, besides active practice in healthy relationships – will be to build a support system in case the confrontation of family and church goes horrible. Then I will know where I stand, who my supportive family and friends are, and be able to build a life – an open life – with those who love me for who I am. So step-by-step I’ll see where this path takes me…and I actually feel freedom in creating it, because part of the plan is not to think – that has been a defense mechanism I’ve used to keep me from truly living.  It’s time to live, and embrace the challenges as they come. Not fear them.