if you had less than a minute, what would you choose to remember?
would you choose the simple beauty of a spider web?
would it be hung with diamond dew?
or would you put your mind to an orange, slick with the remnants of a rain shower?
or perhaps, you’d see an orchid clad in rain drops and decide that nothing could be more perfect for that last memory. it’s your choice.
sunrise or sunset? either or, it perfectly represents the week behind me where everything is a bit of a blur. sure, there are stand out moments, but those are mostly the activities that are habitual and not happenstance. there’s work, of course, and not that i often talk about it, but it has been particularly hectic, what with the opening of ___ _____ _____ __________ and the upcoming gala for the _____ _____ ______ ___ _________ the following weekend; if time were a funnel (which it is, is it not?) then you’ve probably noticed how the last bits of it to go through are all of the details, minutiae, last-minute changes (big and small) and you standing there wondering how all of it will get done on time. if you’re anything like me, you start to prioritize, shedding unnecessary in favor of absolutely-must-happen, editing and pruning, letting go of the so-so ideas in favor of those which are outstanding, divine, marvelous and other superlatives. your mental check-list soon becomes your written check-list, tick/tick/ticking off each and every little thing. what have i forgotten? on your way to and suddenly you remember you must; you backtrack and start over, finish what had come into your mind on the way to other things and yes, yes, yes, it was this that i was finishing and not that and you’re back in the groove (you may stop here for a piece of chocolate or a long drink of water–please refresh yourself, i do.) if anyone asks you, you tell them that popping sound they hear is your head exploding–how could there be room left for one more thing and of course, one more thing comes along and you find the room for it next to the ______ and in between _____ and _____ (damn it). somehow, somewhere you find the strength to soldier on, for that’s it, isn’t it? you’re a soldier (BTW, did you know there’s controversy over one space or two after a period? seems two spaces were utilized with the use of typewriters and their spacing issues–every letter received the same amount of space–and with digital keyboards that does not hold true, each letter is afforded it’s appropriate spacing and consequently you only need one space after a period and not two any longer. i’m trying it, what do you think?) but yes, where were we? or actually, where was i? the royal/editorial we such a contrivance, best left for the aesthetes, no? but back to it, the only end in sight is if i were to
and walk away. (one space, not two.)
everything about me now is a little softer, a little rounder, a little more out-of-focus. the past (the distant past, not the recent past) seems clearer and closer, perhaps even more real as i scratch under the surface of memory, fact and the fiction that always accompanies it (the fiction often more true than the fact.)
the sharp edges of youth have eroded, those uncertainties, those fears (some do remain, as they probably always will), washed away with the passage of time; decisions made early in your life that determine the course of your life affected by the prevailing winds, terrain, minerals, resources so that what you thought would be ‘carved in stone’ has been rubbed smooth by that which you have no control over.
they say you determine your future and perhaps, in many ways, they may be right; there are things you can do that will chart your future course, but for many of us, happenstance has been the better plan, or at least the happier plan. it’s not for everyone, the future looms large now, uncertainty a less pleasing sensation than it was even a few short years/months/days/minutes/seconds ago.
bleached out as you are by the sun (or any other light of scrutiny, examination, divining), your edges more an aura than something you could grab a hold of, hang on tight to, steady yourself, right your course, or even retreat and re-focus your energies (the es of life), you may find yourself, as you have in the past, letting go, sighing, ignoring, blinded by the light.
and try as you might to make those determinations, the ones that will prepare a future for you that will rely less on chance and more on, on, on, whatever the opposite of that would be–could it be planning?–matters not, the course is set, you’re already a deep canyon and the future is your delta, its shifting sands your future, but not your end.
two possible drag names: Clare Voyant, Viagara Falls. You’re welcome.
filed under “trade-offs”: the santa ana winds are back and with them come headaches; bloody noses; dry, dry skin, but it will be beautifully clear with mild temperatures.
gimlet-eyed. i’ve always enjoyed that adjective. also, may i recommend the following cocktail: a tequila gimlet. use your favorite tequila, splash it with lime juice and here’s the secret to its perfection: add a dash of cointreau on top. trust me, you’ll love it. (a warning: if you’re not careful you’ll slip off your bar stool without the slightest provocation should you over indulge.)
many years ago, i had a friend who considered himself clairvoyant. always with the “you’ll see, he’ll come around,” or “wear a scarf, it’s going to turn cold this afternoon,” (based on how his thumb felt, or some other body part felt, who can remember anymore?) all i know is that whenever he predicted the future, there was no arguing with him about his forecast. now i think he may have had the best return on wish fulfillment of anyone i ever knew.
if, as freud believes, that only in our minds can the past and the present coexist, that there is no true forgetting, that every experience leaves a discoverable trace, that every memory of another person is partly a self-portrait (shredded as it may be by time, trauma, love), then this is how i want to remember my father: smelling of gasoline, cut grass and the sweat of a humid summer afternoon in springfield; happy, proud, and with a loving smile, maybe even a little goofy as he is, having conquered the lawn, his army-booted foot atop the spoils of the grass wars, triumphant, a souvenir of his prowess, skill, masculinity. (even the lawnmower is in on the fantasy, grinning as it is with its grill of metal teeth from rubber-tired ear to rubber-tired ear.)
this memory is wish-fulfillment at its worst and an outright lie at its best. the few memories of my father that i have been able to dredge up from my childhood that are not based on photographs or what other people have told me over the years (at least the few years when i was interested enough to ask about him) are pleasing, warm, loving. but there is always the undercurrent of anger, abandonment, violence (supplied as it is by the adults refusal to discuss his goodness, the goodness that you can see for yourself in the photo. it is the image of man who loves someone, is it not? as a child, life is not seen in the grays that adults do, it is always black & white, good or bad.)
would his nurturing, such as it might have been, changed my nature? it’s not easy to imagine the difference his presence in my life may have had on the person that i am or that i was. i have to believe that there would have been friction as my nature exerted itself even as my desire to emulate him smothered my instincts, my sense of identity, my not being his idea of what a son should be.
his father loved me. as gentle a soul, as patient as job, generous, understanding, complicit in the life of the grandchildren around him, and from the photographic memories left for me to divine, the same with his own son. why then, i have to ask, was my own father’s influence denied me? what about him went wrong? and here, now, it comes to mind: could my mother have been wrong? although that seems doubtful based on the reports from the field…particularly after his return from vietnam…but even before then, he exhibited a dark side — discussed here — that seems to indicate she was not.
of course, it’s all “what if?” what if we had had a relationship, in spite of the divorce? what if summers had been spent with dad? what if he had sent me a card congratulating me on good grades or some other achievement? what if we had gone fishing, hunting or he had taught me car maintenance/repair (although mary was a fine substitute for some of these steps on the ladder to manhood)?
is it my failure as a writer that i cannot even imagine how his influence may have affected my life? men were such foreign objects to me when i was growing up (inclusive of uncles and grandfathers, they were all too removed, either emotionally or geographically to have had any measurable impact) that trying to fathom their contribution to the life learning education of a child seems too fantastical to consider. i look now at friends and co-workers who are fathers and i can clearly see the what and the how, the character stamp, the moral guidance, the humor, the sadness, the triumph and the failure of their influence on their children. (some more successful than others, some got it right sooner, no need to practice on the first child and succeed with second where they failed with the first.)
and then there’s this: i know no father of a gay child. how easy would it be to accept that difference as a man, a father? does having a gay child kill your dreams of a legacy, a future, a future where you exist as part of another human being? your quest for immortality snuffed out by a chromosome. oh yes, i know you’re reading this, you liberals, you enlightened ones, and thinking, “it would matter not, hetero- or homo-sexual, i would love them equally the same.” but i challenge you to dig deep and not find that little bit of regret that is hanging around like a cough that you just can’t squelch. (“ahem,” he interjected.)
i would never have looked as eager to be camping with a bunch of strange boys as my father does in this photo. my social awkwardness with heterosexual men at that age (let’s say he’s 12 or 13) was a disability and immediately hung a big fat sign around my neck that read, “not like you”.
oh, i know you’re out there, the gay boys and men who fit as naturally into the hetero world as if there were no difference (or you’ve convinced yourself that you do), but there are many of us who never felt that way growing up. adult life experience does change you, obviously. i do believe i can hold my own in a group of straight men, but i still lack the knowledge of the secret handshake, the code words, the key that opens the door to “hey buddy, wassup?” said in all earnestness, care and brotherly love.
the disappointment then. there is plenty of it. i never called him ‘dad’. if i called him anything as a child, it was probably some derivative of poppa. the only opportunity that i had to address him as an adult, we settled on lee, his christian name and that only came haltingly from my lips; i avoided calling him by name, if i needed his attention i waited until he was looking at me. we spoke hardly at all, the uncomfortableness of being in each other’s company a shroud, a winding sheet. he tried then, during that short period of time, to exert his influence over me, but i ignored it and did as i pleased without a comment from him. and then i left and he left and we left it at that.
it makes me cry. i don’t feel cheated, i’m not angry, i received a huge gift of love from my mother, my grandmothers, from mary and from my mother’s last husband, roy. i am not advocating for the traditional family; i think children can be raised to be loving, caring, contributing members of society by single mothers, fathers, gay couples and any other permutation of ‘family’ as long as there is love in their hearts, but i do feel the loss of the “what if i’d had a dad?” for good or for bad, however it may have played out.
when the fog pulls back, and the new year is revealed, it’s a splendid opportunity to make a list or two.
i tease you, of course. i would no more make a list of resolutions than you would dangle from the top of the burj khalifa a la tom cruise in “ghost protocol”. [p.s. to tom cruise: darling, we get it. you're a man. stop trying so hard, you'll be happier. --rp]
you won’t find a top ten list here nor will there be a ‘best of’. i loathe those kind of lists (but secretly use certain lists published in certain, uh, periodicals, as reading guides for the coming year, shhh!)
i will admit to making lists for work, organizational skills being what they are in 2012, a good to-do list is irreplaceable and frankly, je suis un homme d’un certain âge, and so a to-do list goes without saying, otherwise some little detail will be left behind, the dust of the highway coating its suitcase as it watches the backside of my car disappear in the setting sun. (i shudder with the thought.)
there is the possibility that i will try to make a more concerted effort and tend the garden with a little more love this year than i did in 2011. it is also possible that i will try to lose those few extra pounds that are hanging around my waist like so much excess baggage (i could take a tip from the airlines and charge myself for the extra weight, could i not?) which, of course, means that i will have to eat less and exercise more. dammit.
i could try to be a little less curmudgeonly and smile more around the neighborhood–although i may find that quite impossible all things considered–if you’ve never lived in an association — don’t. take my advice and run in the opposite direction should you ever think it “can’t be that bad.” it can and it will.
would it be too much to ask myself to stop laying on the horn when some idiot cuts in front of me without using their signal? perhaps, i could first stop thinking of them as self-entitled idiots and more like myself, perfect in almost every way. [he said without the slightest hint of irony.]
this is beginning to sound a bit like a list and as you know, i loathe lists. so adieu, mes amis, and let’s all welcome 2012 with compassion for those less fortunate, a smile on our lips, a kind word for a stranger, a hand stretched out to those in need, and a little bit more love in our hearts.
i will if you will.
late in october 1982
here i am now, at the middle again, although this time i’ve slipped quietly into the future side of the middle of the story even though i am still looking backward. i’m holding my breath, sleekly gliding under the surface of memory, the imperceptible movement beginning at the hip, thigh, knee, calf, ankle, arch, heel, toe, propelling me forward (a shudder, a spasm), the noise of the outside world muffled by the time above and the depths below; i’d dived in from the river bank unnoticed as you passed by on your raft, a hand dangling, your rudder; my eyes closed at first, but now open, the distortion of viewing life filtered through the cleansing waters of time causing not the slightest disturbance on the surface. if you’re looking down into this story, all you’ll see is the slick shadow of my passing, the light glinting off my skin, hair, bone, a trout among the river rock and shadow.
i close my eyes again, the water streaming through the hair on my head, flattening my eyelashes, rippling through my mustache and over the stubble on my chin, across in a caress of the hair on my chest, slowing down and tugging gently at my swim trunks, their soft pink color in contrast to the tan of my legs and the golden hair glimmering in the palm-diffused sunlight. i don’t even think i’m holding my breath any longer, the pool too short to drown in, the first time in months that i’ve not been afraid to breath and surely not ready to surface yet, i flip around and push off from the stucco, a torpedo with my arms at my sides, as aerodynamic (if you’re in the water, shouldn’t it be aquadynamic?), the parentheses a breath at the surface, and sleek as an otter, a seal, sade murmuring from the poolside speakers, the throb of music like the blood in your temple, chest, groin.
how do you know when you’re in love? it’s the question you ask your mother/father (whichever is available) when you’re a teenager. you look closely at them as they answer, divining the truth from the arch of their brow, the tremor in their voice as they search for a long ago feeling that they can communicate to you, the smile on their lips as they remember their first love, “you’ll just know,” they say, but what if you never asked that question? what if you never fell in love as a teenager because you were afraid to expose yourself, your secret loves locked away, buried treasure, you the count of monte cristo, blackbeard; the call of the wild thrumming inside your head, your lovelife (a fiction, but as valid as the truth.)
as it turns out, “you’ll just know” is as perfect an answer as there ever was.
late in may 1982
death does you no favors. when my mother died on the 23rd, my friends and i were yet unaccustomed to what was required, i am so sorry to hear about your mother. i was so sorry to hear about your mother. i am so sorry to hear about your mother. i was so sorry to hear about your mother, from the present tense to the past tense, she was a wonderful woman. she is a wonderful woman, what is correct? at the news, should you consider it a past event (which it is), but for the person whose mother has died, it is still a present event, ongoing, without end, but not occurring in the future, what to do then?
to ignore it risks offending the bereaved, but talking about it is uncomfortable and requires, at this stage of your life, skills that may be beyond your capabilities (haven’t we all gotten much, much better at this now? just a few years later we were able to negotiate the rocky shoals of death of close friends taking the hands of their lovers, parents, sisters, brothers, stroking an arm, looking them in the eye, smiling in understanding of their grief. after all, it was not unlike your own.) but before then, experience lacking, my friends were worthless to me. they could not understand my grief or if they did they did not have the words to express it–not that i would have heard them, my hearing impaired by the loss. (it was as if all sound had been blocked by cotton stuffed in my ear canals. it remained so for weeks.)
two nights after her funeral, back in the city, i could not sit alone in my apartment and instead of turning to my friends, i forced myself upon two men whom i’d met a couple of weeks earlier. i walked over to their apartment and insisted that they love me. they did their awkward best to calm me; we smoked a joint, we drank a few beers, they touched me, stroked me, undressed me, swallowed me, ate me (little bites of nipples, armpits, necks, ears, thighs, balls and cock) grabbed me by the hair, a push-me pull-you of sweating, groaning, release. they fell asleep on either side of me, a hairy arm thrown over my chest, the scratch of leg hair, a puppy pile. but i could not sleep and quietly extracted myself, dressed and slipped back into the night. i never saw them again or if i did i never recognized them nor they me. i never thanked them for their hospitality, the love, a poultice, with which they tried to heal me (if they even knew what was ailing me.)
i went to work, hungover, distracted, anxious to be done with the day(s) so that i could start the night(s) all over again. everything accomplished in daylight was by rote (lessons learned) without enthusiasm, shell-shocked by the hole of loss (an echoing cave), all of this time erased, wiped away, unremembered, eager to leave, cocktails on the way home, drunk and out again in the dark (do you see a pattern here?) once, during these 29 days i thought i’d fallen in love, spending hours of my night life and days off in his bed, the noise of the street coming through the open window, but i gave him up for you.
late in june 1982
“how do you know when you’re in love?” was not the question i was asking myself one early evening during cocktail hour at a halsted street preppie dive. i’d displayed myself on a stool, ragged levis pulled tight against my spread legs, elbows propping myself up on the bar, leaning back, sucking on a bottle of beer or holding it against my crotch (subtlety not my strong suit) in a display of abject wantonness, still on this course of self-immolation, the fuse lit, doused in alcohol, ready to go up in flames without a thought of self-preservation; the future inconsequential, non-existent, illusory, a mirage.
but there you were, all business suit, vest, tie, beard, drink in hand, standing across from me and then standing between my legs, touching each other (was there a kiss?) and i thought i’d hooked you, but you slipped away, a card pushed in my pocket, “call me,” and out the door, gone. if i’d lost in the past 22 days i didn’t recall, but losing you that night propelled me out of the bar, walking home in the late spring warmth, west on diversey to my apartment where i may have seen it for the first time with my eyes open and my head clear. i did call you, we made a date for dinner a week later (29 days) and met cute (it does happen) at my friend’s restaurant.
we’ve told this story often enough, but it still charms me…my friend, the owner’s wife, sits down with us and acts as if we’ve known each other forever, including you in our stories as if you knew them already, acting as if our past had been completely reconciled with our future. did she know even before we did? or was it already apparent and only the participants were blind/deaf/dumb to the fact that we had fallen in love, always the last to know?
you just know.
there is a period of my life that i’m trying to reconstruct that isn’t as clear to me as other parts of my life have been. there is a general feeling that i can remember, but the details are shrouded in a fog of forgetfulness. it isn’t a long period of time, just four weeks and one day, and bracketed as it is by deep despair and complete elation, you’d think that it would reveal itself, but no. i may resort to embellishment of the general feelings, knowing as i do my modus operandi during that period of my life, and perhaps that will provide the truth of the emotions from that time if not the actual day-to-day facts.
how often can you write about the clouds, the sunrise, the canyon, the bluffs, the palms, the pacific ocean? when do you think you’ve said, you’ve written, you’ve photographed these same things enough?
you’re not expecting me to answer those questions, are you?
aren’t these photographs enough proof for you that there is no limit to the variations, the subtleties, the grand gestures nature provides us each and every day? do you not see beauty everyday?
i challenge you to prove me wrong. tell me of the day you did not encounter one beautiful thing, moment, animal, word, thought, deed, action, heartbeat, kiss, look.
you know what’s good? christmas cookies with your morning coffee.
you know what’s good? being in your pajamas at 7:11 a.m.
you know what’s good? a warm puppy (or two) licking your hand, hoping for a treat.
you know what’s good? sunday morning knowing that you don’t have to go to work on monday.
