Wednesday, December 31, 2008
Heading through the Stargate
Sunday, December 28, 2008
30 day notice
It's official. Our landlord has been notified that our apartment will be vacated, cleaned, and our keys will be turned in by January 26th. Neither of us have jobs, we don't have a place to live, but we're headed north to Portland. The strange part is that none of this feels strange at all. We pride ourselves on our spontaneity, and somehow always figure things out without much anxiety.
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
Attractive, Inaccessible People
Saturday, December 13, 2008
Corner of Terror
Tuesday, December 9, 2008
The Next Post Won’t Be Depressing
I have many ideas for posts that begin to take shape, but then something more pressing seeps in and I can’t focus beyond it, so I’m giving in. As our lives are somehow turning toward a move to Portland, and therefore away from the Midwest, I am thinking about the amazing people I will not likely be closer to anytime soon. This I can deal with, at least for now. As it happens, I am looking forward to a more Urban existence, and will most likely be nearer to some dear friends anyway, but that story is for another day.
I have a friend who will never be closer to us, no matter where we move in this life.
I Googled her name yesterday. I can’t fathom what I was hoping to find. Perhaps a memorial site put up by her parents that we were somehow not informed of? We all have small tidbits of cyberspace that will live on as long as the interweb does, and I did get several hits in reality. In my mind, I was going to find a YouTube video of her saying:
I’m fine. I’m content where I am. I miss you guys. When can we have another Thanksgiving in pajamas? I’ve learned the secret, and I will see you again.
The background song is always Breathe Me, and she is wearing red. This is not a dream. It’s a place my mind goes when I’ve had enough.
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I have now learned a grief lesson twice over. There comes a point, months later, when the eye-popping, chest-caving-in type of sadness lessons, and life becomes a new normal. That has been the hardest time for me, by far.
I don’t like this. It’s not funny anymore. No, really, I want to see my friend again. I didn’t get enough yet. Let’s start over at the place where this all derailed, only this time let things end fairly. I spend time in the parallel universe where we are celebrating a wedding; Longitude is wearing a tux (a Hawaiian shirt?), and we are all barefoot on the beach.
Fast-forward to our daughter and theirs at a petting zoo, clambering all over the animals. Another day, at yet another backyard bonfire, her husband plays the guitar while she laughs and teases; they disappear into the tall rows of corn, leaving the rest of us to occupy their kids. “Mommy and Daddy will be back soon. They’re playing.”
In my mind it always goes much, much further. Logic tells me to stay away, grounded in reality. But somehow putting myself through pain, whether I’m daydreaming, watching Angels in America, or Googling, carries me.
Monday, December 1, 2008
December 1st Remembrance
I was wondering if, on this World AIDS Day, I could tell you about Jeff?
I’ve been thinking about him daily lately for reasons unknown. Whether it’s the anniversary of his death approaching, the fact that I met him in the Fall, or some other cosmic intervention I can’t be sure. I miss him.
Jeff was this strange, bouncy, slender, comic of a person. When referring to an aspect of his personality or one of his latest actions, we would say, “that’s Jeff”, and smile. It would take up much of the interweb to describe what his friendship meant to me, so I’ll try to keep to the point. He was an amazing hugger. I think his hugs changed the world.
I recently realized that the Catholic church was teaching me to hate, during my formative years, no less. It was not all bad; I am proud of some of what religion taught me, but that is another post.
A few days ago, I was at work, and an employee whom I had never met before admitted in casual conversation that she did not learn Spanish because she lived in California and “couldn’t stand the Mexicans”. I tried, as I often do, to put myself in her frame of mind, to try to understand why she would think this an acceptable statement. I suddenly, uncontrollably flashed back to a time almost ten years ago.
I remember an unsolicited feeling of disgust, fear, and self-loathing brought on by any mention of gay men (or lesbian women, to a lesser degree). For over twenty years, I had been brainwashed to “love the sinner, hate the sin”, and to pray for the dammed soul of those who “chose” to have same-sex relations. Shortly after high school, I was able to break free from the darkness of these thoughts and realize, thanks to life experience, that my church was unbelievably wrong. I now know that palpable feeling was hate, and I can’t figure out any explanation other than it was a learned behavior. The deepest undertow of this triggered reaction was always dislike for my self, because I like to think that my adult self was trying to emerge from under the flood of Catholic belief.
I remember being trained to say that I had no sympathy for those who “brought HIV on themselves”. Literally, trained. I actually remember being coached by our youth leader on how to “defend” myself against the influence of gay people. These beliefs were so deeply rooted in my brain that to this day I am still amazed sometimes that I am the person I’ve become. It must have taken a miracle, or an average man.
I can’t remember how I was convinced to take my first trip to a gay bar, with my new roommate. Jeff was sitting in the beer garden, laughing, and telling a story about getting stung by a bee while working at Dairy Queen. We were introduced, and since I was a nursing student, he asked me what he could have done to make the pain stop. I told him he could have used a paste of baking soda and water, and he said he had tried, but all he could find was gravy powder. So far, I could not figure out why I was supposed to be hating him. For the first time, my Pavlov’s dogs reaction had not been triggered. He went on to ask why there was a weird scab forming, and I said it was because his phagocytes were busy repairing the damage. “Oh girl, my phagocytes!” We laughed. I loved him.
Heading to C-Street became our weekly vigil. The love and acceptance poured over me and washed away that terrible, conditioned feeling I now know as hate. At the end of one night, Jeff hugged me goodbye. The bar was gone, music stopped, voices silenced. His hug was the kind that made you feel like you were the only one on Earth, and that the only place he wanted to be was in that embrace. I was overwhelmed by his affection, after only knowing each other a few short weeks.
He made up a name for me. He encouraged me during a difficult hairstyle transition. He made his boyfriend buy us drinks. We laughed at the regulars: Chew Cow, K-Mart Queen, Debbie. We cleaned the Dairy Queen when we weren’t getting paid so he could come to the bar sooner. My fondest memories are of that time in my life, and may always be. I had never experienced such unconditional acceptance. I knew from then on, I owed the same to Jeff, and every other person on the planet, and have never turned back.