the photo box, edit update

I’ve been busy with numerous other projects, but took a few days to reevaluate some suggested edits from my editor and have decided to delete this chapter and two others from “The Photo Box”. It’s not that I don’t like them, but they didn’t add anything to the memoir I have written. Thought I’d share this one as it’s a favorite of mine, a little darling, if you will.

Sic Gloria Transit [Jason]

Will you leave me alone if I write about you? Stop sending the Polaroid’s, the telegrams. Stop. The movement in the corner of my eye, the dreams where you lay next to me. Stop. Warm, manly, fragile Jason.

Night

There’s you standing in the dark corner of Touché—beer and urine, cowboys and bikers—black leather jacket, shirtless, tall, and strong. Aviators shielding your eyes, long black hair slicked back from your forehead, but for one lock, a rape. Then there are the flies, bar acolytes, floating around you, all hopeful for a look, a touch, a lick of your sweat, to rub against you as they pass by, and you so tall above them, staring at me, then ignoring me—an aphrodisiac, foreplay, a feather against my neck tracing down my scapula, touching a nipple, and along my side—standing in the opposite corner surprised that you’re interested, so not what anyone in the bar would think you’d look at, let alone want. And later, when we were standing so close together talking in one ear or the other, what were we saying? Do you remember cradling my ass in your big hand and pulling me up into a kiss, even I had to rise up to meet your dark lips, white teeth, velvet tongue. That kiss sunk me.

All those men stood back from us, sideways glances charting our progress, setting the tone for their night, while we talked and kissed some more, Levi’s stretched tight across our crotches, hands memorizing the terrain, the highs and lows of our own landscapes; your arms made for holding another man; and desire, a psychic light of want, lifting me off the floor high above you, the magician’s assistant, while the audience applauded your legerdemain. We must have fucked, did we? Do you remember, Jason?

There’s you lying in bed, arms flung above your head and me astride your smooth body, the bristly hairs of my thighs commingled with the silkiness of yours, resting my hands on your chest, the heartbeat of a warrior. I did not know then how delicate you really were, all I knew was that I had capitulated and flung myself, all of me, at you and you had caught me, and worshiped me, much as I did you. Your black hair the night against the clouds of pillows framing your beautiful eyes, nose, a small spray of freckled roses across its bridge, ones that I would count one two three when you closed your eyes and stroked my thighs.

Afterward, you lifted your body up off the bed and giant that you were, strode into the bathroom to piss, legs apart; then to the kitchen for a clean ashtray, grabbing our warm beers from the living room, and finally standing in the doorway, lit from behind, a crazy-ass grin splitting your face until I said, “what?” “Nothing,” you replied as you sank back into the crook of my outstretched arm, and rolled toward me, our bodies matched inch-for-inch or so it seemed at the time, “nothing” you said as you buried your face into my chest. Do you remember that?

There’s you nervous about me meeting your sister, but she and I fall together conspiratorially in the living room, while you bang around in the small kitchen, a useless apron tied at your waist, spatula in one hand, the smells and sounds of dinner swirling around you–a mystic at Delphi reading chicken entrails in the hopes that you’ll be able to discern what we are cooking up on our own. Until your blond-headed sister, the opposite of you, takes my hand and says, “don’t break his heart, you hear?” blue-eyed beauty, all soft curves, but with the same menace on her face that I’d seen in yours when you fucked me. It hurt.

Did you not know how she scared me? How after that evening, I started the withdrawal, the pulling away from you? Slippery, exhausted, limp. I worked hard to make you happy, did we love each other? Did you love me? I believe I thought I could until I couldn’t any longer. Do you remember now?

Day

There’s you sitting in a chair at a smudged window looking out onto a dirty Chicago winter day–that gray sky and gray ground, meeting in your eyes. The dealer’s boyfriend is doing what young men do around you; staring at your crotch, licking his lips, close enough to laugh at nothing, sitting cross-legged at your feet, wanting you to drop your pants–he may have asked you to do so–did you ask me if I minded? Perhaps, I know it happened while I sat there waiting for his master to cut the drugs and roll a joint; he cared so little, just a part of doing business.

You acted like it didn’t matter and maybe it didn’t. After all, I had acquiesced, not angry, perhaps a bit turned on by the young man’s craven desire. Didn’t I think then that I had you for myself, that no one, no one could take you from me, regardless of their lips and hunger? Our passion for each other did not seem to lessen, ice melting and pulling away from the shoreline, the racket of seagulls outside the frosted window. Do you remember that?

There’s you sitting in your deuce and a quarter, idling on 18th Street while I slipped down into the basement apartment to see a pal and score a bag. My friend dithering and withering in equal measure, “he’s no good for you, Bobpatrick,” his tongue darted out and back in again, tempting, hissing, the radiator rattling under the window. I did not respond, what could be said that would have been the truth, “I know”? A raised eyebrow from both of us.

But I come back up from that little hell, and there you are: sloppy grin, luxurious black hair falling into your eyes, arm across the back of the seat reaching to the window, gesturing with your long fingers, how I loved the magic of your hands, long for them even now, to get in, “let’s go home.” and we did. Was it later that same day, I left you? What excuse could I have given? Do you remember, Jason?

Coda

I called you months later, your sister answered, unhappy with me, but relented and gave the phone to you, a little boy, sad and hurt still, smarting as if I’d slapped you. It’s then I remembered the one night you whispered in my ear as your heart pounded against mine, “I love you.”

True Confessions of a Drama Queen

It’s a hard lesson to learn: the fact that your dreams have no footing in reality, or at least in your future reality. But what do you know when you’re 14 and your inner life is arguing so forcibly with your outer life? When how you feel on the inside doesn’t jibe with the expectations of the outside world if you even think about it so realistically–realistic thought truly the privilege of time and distance from the moment’s reality–you may have just shrugged your shoulders and thought about something less complex and less frightening.

It’s a more visceral response you’re having, you may even find if you dig deep enough now that your memory of the time is nose to the ground, the scent of what is considered right so conflicted with the actual scents you are smelling; the sounds you hear differ dramatically from the sounds you know you are expected to hear; the close ones expected, the distant ones the truth. This ‘knowing’ of course has been observed and not explicitly explained to you, o.k. perhaps once someone may have said, “men and boys don’t cross their legs at the knee or ankle, Robert.” Even your vision is affected by this confusion, the deafening blur of an unspooling reel of film clacking and shuddering through the projector in a final rush of what your life is or might be; the images of the now so clear and those of the future, well those are only hinted at, a feeling really, perhaps occasionally glimpsed: in a magazine, on the television, a boy diving into the swimming pool one summer, or your neighbor’s father shoveling snow after a blizzard.

You construct a delicate balance, a seesaw weighted on one end with someone else’s expectations and on the other with your desires and dreams as ill-formed as they may be at this time in your life. When you stand back and look at this scene you see yourself seated at either end, a stereoscopic postcard from the turn of another century. For your story is not new and never will be; it is just one of many–I would say millions, but who could count them all, perhaps a neuron-physicist in lab coat and thick glasses or a wizened white-bearded astronomer–how you may envision god had you been me then–gazing at the night sky as it blossoms overhead.

I’m sure I could give you a timeline of my short, but potent theatrical glory, but what would be the point of citing this production and that one, this newspaper clipping — with a photograph! — in the “Living” section of the local daily paper and the awards stacking up, actual trophies — a competition that did not involve a ball, a bat, a marching band (exclusive of your dreams of starring in “The Music Man”), and cheerleaders. Although the idea of cheerleaders during the production of a play has some merit, and I suppose the Greeks had it figured out with a chorus commenting on and encouraging the players from the sidelines. hubris in abundance.

My dreams, as it turns out, were exactly what they needed to be: an escape hatch, an ejector seat, a lifeline, a savior (Jesus with the long golden hair or the big brawny fireman, the leather clad motorcycle daddy or the gray-flannel-suit-wearing banker). They leadeth me through the valley of the shadow of death and deliver me to a life that I could call my own.

The Photobox Update: Edits

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my gay manifesto

Why don’t you sit here next to me and put your feet in the water, hmm? See, isn’t that better now? Yes, we’re under attack from the radical Republican right, again [sigh] and we’ve gone through this many times before. We’ve worked hard over the past 50 years to achieve a modicum of legal victories–that, all things considered, shouldn’t have needed to be done. But sexuality being what it is — an easy target for the least imaginative and the most ignorant among us — we find ourselves in a deluge of legislation sweeping away the rights of our brothers and sisters in the trans and drag community. That’s just the first wave of what we know will follow, the stripping away of those rights we’ve fought so hard for, marriage equality being the most significant. Our daily lives will be upended and under constant scrutiny if we’re not successful in stopping these people from achieving the eradication (their word) of our communities. I have a gay manifesto that I want to share with you.

I want to kiss my lover in public and hold his hand, not just in a metropolis where our act would be lost in the swirl of humanity, but in the town square of small-town America. I don’t want my kissing him or holding his hand to be an Act of War. a Declaration of Independence, a Mein Kampf. I want it to go unnoticed, to be unremarkable, to fold itself into the fabric of our lives, all of our lives, in such a manner that you would not see the warp or weft, a finely woven piece of silk.

I don’t want my wedding announcement to be news or held up as a sign of the progressive politics of this newspaper or that community. Instead, I want the farmer in South Dakota to show his wife of 40 years our wedding picture and say, “don’t they look happy?”

I want to look into the eyes of a stranger and not see suspicion or revulsion because I gesture a lot, use complex language, elongate my vowels, drop a curler or two, or call my best friend “Mary” even though he looks like a lumberjack.

I want to be able to assume my world is right instead of fighting for my rights. I want to be as steadfast in my knowledge that the world works in my favor as the last white, heterosexual male in the farthest corner of the state of Maine thinks it works for him.

That seems a reasonable request. Let’s work toward making it true.

Memoir-in-progress update: The Photo Box

Photo by Patrick Waddell, Margate Terrace, Chicago, 1974

In the final stretch in preparation for my editor’s second editorial assessment read-through. Cleaning up little grammar bumps and grinds as well as tightening my memories to reflect the times more accurately. Which has led to what I’m calling “memory exhaustion” (see below). “The Photo Box” is an exploration of my journey to adulthood during the sexual revolution of the 1970s and the historical markers along the way that help define me.

At a certain age, let’s say mine for instance, if you stop for just the briefest moment and contemplate all that has come before; the nap in kindergarten on the rag rug, the beret in Germany, the leash your mother used to keep you close by when you were a toddler, the smell of your father coming home from the post, having your faced buried in your grandmother’s bosom as she hugged you tight, learning to read, the triumph of an ‘A’, the infatuation of a third-grader for his teacher, the smell of Jurgen’s lotion (chocolate covered-cherries), Petey-bird,  Pepper, Cuddles, Charlie Brown (dachshund, not comics character), boy scouts, boys club, big brothers, boys state, secret crushes, snapping sherry’s training bra in 6th grade, disappointing Mr. Robinson in 8th grade, “petunias never cry in an onion patch”, being teased for your femininity-your ‘otherness’, being beat up, playing the cello piano recorder (none that well), not being able to carry a tune–but so desperately wanting to, your first play, the laughter of the audience–the laughter you caused, applause, straight ‘A’s, your secret boy crushes, your sexual experiments with the neighbor boy your age, your mother, Mary, grandparents, uncle, aunts, the sissies, learning to drive, that red pick-up and then the ‘mud queen’, a sort-of-girlfriend, the lack of caring when it failed, college, getting drunk, smoking a joint, French class, theatre, train trips, Minnesota winters, sugar beet processing plants, acid trips, making out with girls (and boys), communal showers, dancing, ballet, modern, Isadora Duncan, Chicago, your first blow-job, the Goodman, friendships that start sticking, trips home as an adult, going it alone, roommates, apartment living, moving, helping friends move–the piano in the stairwell debacle, a Cubs game, the ‘El’, an erection on the 22, Black girls with transistor radios blaring, walking home during the day, late at night, the first Taste of Chicago, summers, winters, falls, springs, waiting tables, Lenny, Jimmy, John, Michael, Lee, Mr. King the Salad Queen, Michel, Arnie, Klaus, Bill, Toni, the Pakistani contingent, the fat fuck of a maître d’ whose name I can never remember until I’m away from writing materials, but whose face and handlebar mustache and grasping hands and leering eyes–little piggy eyes–I can recall clearly, Punchinello’s, turtle soup, Pudgie, Le Pub, disco, the hustle, polyester and bell-bottoms, boyfriends–most of them I remember, some have slipped the knots and run away from my grasping need to document every little fuck-and-suck, the thief, the priest, the cellist, and his lover, red high-tops, drinking wine at l’Escargot, getting picked up on Michigan avenue by my LaSalle street banker, lovers who liked to watch from a cracked door, holidays and birthdays, celebrating, drinking (I know I mentioned that before, but it bears repeating), making ‘herbal’ tea out of stems and seeds of the last of the bag of marijuana, smoking cigarettes–Kool’s, Marlboros, Merits, Benson & Hedges, Camels, Gitanes, espresso, lemon rind, miller beer, and Asti-Spumante, Laura Nyro, Joni Mitchell, LaBelle, and Joan Baez, I’m sure there are others, but what do you care?, and I’m not even 28 yet; uptown, downtown, mid-town, and SoHo, the meat-packing district, the Mudd Club–my punk phase (only because the boys were cute…and easy), Black Flagg, Henry Rollins (lust), the Russians, the French, the English, I Claudius, Violet and Wally, 4 flights of stairs, despair and the agony of loss, euphoria, the manic-depression of going nowhere (fast), 29; you may find yourself dead-tired.

P.S. his name is Gerard, the maître d’ whose name I can never recall–it came to me in the shower just now and even though I had no writing materials at hand…I managed to make it through washing my hair, peach scrub my face, body wash, stand under the rain shower head and stare off into space, dry myself off, open the door to let the steam out, shave, moisturize (what? you don’t?), dress, and get to the computer with his name still on my lips. I guess I’m not that tired after all.

#fbf this perennial chestnut: Christmas 1988

Christmas 1988 at 6817 N. Wolcott Avenue, Chicago, Illinois.  Although we had started modestly enough (just one guest on Christmas Eve that first Christmas six years before this one), our ‘tradition’ of hosting a Christmas Eve party quickly went viral (used in a 21st century way and not in the musty old 1980’s way), and among our group of friends and associates became the much anticipated event of the season. Or so they told us. One still does, when she calls around this time, she always asks what time she should arrive and could she bring something.

Sometime shortly after Thanksgiving, Michael would bake the fruitcake and start the process of embalming it with cognac, a cheesecloth laid over it like a shroud—if you looked closely you could see a map of Turin. Then the cleaning would begin; wood floors to be waxed and polished, dusting, windexing—so much glass!  so many tchotkes!—the crystal washed and checked for chips—those damn Donghia wine goblets—touch-up paint, wash and iron the curtains, table linens, and associated presentation cloths, serving pieces to be silver polished, the immense Fitz & Floyd vegetables-in-the-shape-of-a-turkey soup tureen to be taken down from its roost on top of the china cabinet and cleaned—ready for Michael’s delicious nouvelle cuisine version of Polish borscht–yes, yes, I know, so many paradoxes in ‘nouvelle cuisine‘ as a qualifier for ‘borscht’ but the fact remains, that is exactly what it is, a nouvelle borscht.

Then the menu must be planned; we had a framework on which we hung new foodstuffs over the years.  The evening would start with champagne and hors d’oeuvres, just little somethings to keep everyone somewhat sober before dinner, because we served crates of wine.  In fact, the whole wine selection that came after the menu was set was a job unto itself–we would drive over to Sam’s (or was it Joe’s? Mordechai’s?) It was a name I could never remember even then, like those secret handshakes between straight men that have eluded me all these years; at Southport and Armitage or somewhere equally out of area, in a run-down brick building with sloping foot-worn wooden floors and a basement cave with low ceilings and stacked cases of wine leaning in at you in any and every direction you turned (you would suffer vertigo and claustrophobia simultaneously) and somehow, Michael would — occasionally with my input — pull together a wine menu that perfectly complemented this:  the nouvelle borscht with mushroom uszka, the fish course served as a terrine in white, green, and red strata with Bibb lettuce reduction (more wine!), a meat course (this year it was rack of lamb with herb/garlic mustard rub), the meat served with a medley of vegetables and new potatoes, followed by a salad and a cheese plat. Did I mention that appropriate wines accompanied each course? By this time, miraculously, everyone was still sitting upright.

Because after all of that, then the desserts began rolling out, unveiled, curtains up!  Christmas cookies (5 or 6 or 10 different kinds, maybe not 10 kinds, but dozens nonetheless), fudge and candies, followed by a pièce de résistance, a cake, baked from scratch and decorated and perched provocatively on its cake stand, worshiped like the virgin birth (hosanna!), us the animals in the stable, and Michael, the North Star showing the Magi the way (true).

The coffee service and dessert plates—Bavarian bone china by Haviland, my mother’s last gift to me before she died; she’d bought it in Germany and for all those years had kept it hidden until one of the last times I went down to visit her before her death, there it was sitting out and she said, “I was going to give this to you when you got married, but I can’t wait any longer, I want you to have it now.”  And so, for many years, just the act of using it made me cry, which is why it seldom got used, with its translucence and delicate hand-painted roses and gilt edges. I am better about it now, or what I mean is that I cry less often now when it is used.

And then we would push back our chairs and groan and grin foolishly at each other in abject love and friendship and there would be hugs and kisses (and cigarettes, because when you’re drinking and eating that much, you should break it up with smokes).  Someone would remember the dog with a “where’s Nicky?” but by then, he’d given up on begging and gone to sleep curled up by the Christmas tree in the living room, patiently waiting for his presents (he had his own stocking).

Through the whole evening there were the carols of conversation (this dinner in 1988, there were a dozen of us at the groaning board) and the giggles of delight at a well-placed observation or sly joke or jab of outrage at a previous comment or a whispered “I love you” as many of us by then were couples and you’d catch a wistful look and a hand clasped in conspiratorial ardor.

With our coffees and Armagnacs and after dinner spirits (the remains of wine, champagne) we would adjourn to the living room where the shimmering tree would witness our groans of relief and at the sight of so much friendship and camaraderie we would share our love for each other with gifts and laughter and the splendor of giving and receiving.

The Photo Box, update

“The Photo Box” update: was doing some historical research online for my memoir when I stumbled upon this postcard from my maternal grandparents motel in Gillette, Wyoming. They, Bessie and Ralph Holmes, owned this motel and another down the street called Apache Corners (Apache, for sure, Corners may be incorrect) in the 1940s till the mid sixties. Always a treat to visit because we got to stay in one of the rooms, which seemed so sophisticated to my seven year old self. Anyhoo, spent $4 for the postcard and consider it money well spent. Love the internet!

The Photo Box, a Memoir

I’m writing a memoir, “The Photo Box”, and have worked with Jay Blotcher to help me write the best memoir I can. He’s got 30 years experience and his insights, knowledge, and critiques I have found invaluable. I believe his assistance will be of great value to me and my work.

“The Photobox” is an exploration of my journey to adulthood during the sexual revolution of the 1970s and the historical markers along the way that help define me.

How art and work saved me.

It’s not often we contemplate the path(s) not taken; the what if, the I could have, the if only. Those thoughts are difficult to face; they oftentimes involve friends, family, lovers, and many of life’s dark mysteries, a potent and dangerous combination for ruminative reflection [redundancy intended, like a double-dip cone.]

As it was for me at one point in my life. I had come to a fork in the foot path, a four cornered intersection on a highway, a railway station, a harbor; and I knew I had to make a decision (the details are unimportant; I had run out of soul though, it had been sucked out of me like your dental hygienist sucks out the excess saliva from your mouth, whefght.) It was impossible for me to go any further without it. I quit.

And I remained unemployed for several months. To make my rent, I painted the stairwell (four flights!) of my apartment building. I relied heavily on the kindness of my friends. They fed me, they took me out, they nursed and nurtured me. Somehow I got my soul back and my head screwed on, if not tight, at least tighter.

Someone, a friend, said, “Come work with us.” And instead of (or not only) having artist friends, I now brought their work to the marketplace. I designed, I managed, I cajoled, I suggested and I nudged. I talked, I schlepped, I listened and I learned. I used language, style, gesture, and dramatics (oh yes, i pulled out much from my little black bag of theatrical legerdemain). I grew up. The future (my looking glass/crystal ball) seemed, if not rose-tinted, at least wiped clean of the smudges left from gripping it so tightly in my two hands for fear of breaking it.

I moved onto another job in another art venue. It felt like the right thing, at last. I don’t know how it is for you, but I’m particularly sensitive to my environment and the psychic temperature of the room, here, at this new work opportunity; I felt safe.

It is apparent to me that I was/am a lucky man. I found a job that I have been able to turn into a career (who would’ve thought?) that not only has provided me with creature comforts but also has been a source of deep satisfaction and continuing education (to learn each day, such a gift!) Of course, as with most things in one’s work life, this journey has not been without its trauma, but, even in retrospect, those bumps were minor inconveniences.

It’s possible that I would have found my way into this business without my friends. It’s also possible that I would not have (that prospect gives me chills). I do know though, that art saved me. And the work of art saved me. It would not have been otherwise. I love everything about it (alright, not everything, but most everything, okay?) There’s the talking, the sharing, the leading, the community, the friends, the thrill of discovery, the intent of the artist, the subtleties, and the obvious, the sharing. Did i say that already? Regardless, it bears repeating.

It’s a Sunday afternoon and I’m sitting here at my keyboard reminiscing about work. I’m thankful for that.

(Painting by Sandro Chia. Photographed at the Guggenheim Museum–New York City, summer 1983.)

Diagnosis

In July 2021 I was diagnosed with Parkinson’s Disease; I was 68 years old.

It wasn’t a surprise, in fact, it was a relief. It helped explain all of the physical things that had been going wrong over the last several years. The hoarse voice was the first indication. Over the past 2 or three years, whenever I spoke with people, my voice would catch, sound scratchy and invariably, someone would say, “are you okay?” And, of course, I was okay, “my voice was just changing as I aged” and it didn’t cause me any discomfort. I thought it was just part of aging. When I mentioned it to my PCP, he didn’t feel it was cause for worry.

Over the next year or so, I noticed my penmanship deteriorate and get smaller and more cramped; even harder to read. I had always prided myself on my cursive and printing hand–my mother insisted on the Palmer Method and I emulated her flowing hand-writing. To witness it’s decline was disturbing, but how do you codify that? It didn’t ‘hurt’ anywhere. I didn’t tell my PCP that my handwriting was getting worse, why would I?

The dizziness was another matter. I had had an ablation in 2014 to stabilize my atrial fibrillation, my blood pressure was relatively stable, although on the low side, I was on a blood thinner. I tried to sit up slowly, stand up slowly, hold steady for a few seconds before moving in order to alleviate the dizziness, but nothing seemed to help. My cardiologist and my PCP were confident that I was okay. But waves of dizziness would still catch me off-guard and oftentimes for no apparent reason. I began shuffling when walking instead of striding with confidence.

Working from home during the pandemic, I noticed that my posture was not as straight as it used to be and my partner, Michael, thought my face looked ‘angry’ and unmoving. It didn’t hurt, so why would I bring it up to my PCP? Then I started choking while trying to swallow–that’s scary. It was so bad that a couple of times I thought it might kill me. I made an appointment with my GI specialist for an endsocopy — results came back negative — no obstructions, nothing out of the ordinary. This I did discuss with my PCP.

Michael and I made a list of the little things that seemed to be going wrong with me. He went online and seconds later came back with a similar list of ailments and problems that were all signs of Parkinson’s. My PCP finally said I should see a neurologist as they had exhausted their avenues of inquiry. I was referred to a neurologist that specialized in neuro-motor functions and specifically worked with Parkinson’s patients. I was anxious waiting to see him, worried what a diagnosis of Parkinson’s would mean to my future.

The neurologist came to the waiting room and called my name, studying me as I rose and walked toward him. He led me to his office and asked why I was there. I pulled out my list of symptoms and handed it to him. Before looking at the list, he said, “You have Parkinson’s. I could tell when you walked toward me just now in the waiting room.”

Well, at least what was happening to me had a name, in a way, that made it a little easier to comprehend all of things that had been happening to me over the last few years. The neurologist explained to me that many people with Parkinson’s go undiagnosed for many years because the physical issues all seem so random.

He prescribed Sinemet and days later, my symptoms lessened. He’s had me going to physical therapy–there are exercises designed specifically for Parkinson’s patients that help manage the neural deterioration associated with the disease.

More on this journey to come…

Sweeter Voices Still

Look what came in today’s mail! I’m honored to be in the company of these writers. Many thanks to the editors, Ryan Schuessler and Kevin Whiteneir, Jr. for including my essay, “How to Operate a Hide-a-Bed” and to @beltpub for believing in the power of the written word.
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#lgbtq #anthology #voices #fiction #nonfiction #memoir #poetry Support the arts, it’s just $20! #gaywriter #gaylife #midwest