A piece of a song has been floating in my head, a lyric in honor of Digby. I took it, brief as it is, and set up a post for after his passing. What’s a post without a title and it came to me: “Requium”. Short and simple, the whole post would be:
He danced for those at minstrel shows and county fairs
throughout the south
He spoke through tears of 15 years how his dog and him
traveled about
The dog up and died, he up and died
And after 20 years he still grieves
Jerry Jeff Walker
Mr. Bojangles
That was yesterday.
Digby went to sleep this afternoon, 12:40 just as planned, Carrie on one side, me on the other and the vet, quite aware, directing his assistant to bring the tissue box. He has done this before I suspect. We cried, took his collar, and put on as brave a face as one can at such times. It has been a difficult day.
Then it was back to the car, back to work, and as I cruised along the highway I thought of this post and thought of the title and realized: the title is perfect but the post is all wrong. It is indeed a requiem, but for more than Digby.
Digby joined us almost nine years ago. A little over two years earlier was Washington, that non-watershed weekend when I first spent a night with a man, a rather gay night, and returned, after minor consideration, as straight. It was not long thereafter when Carrie and I floated with the loons, listened to stories of the Bible, and decided to have more children, children that would be the “ours”. And so the twins were born, seemingly on gossamer angel’s wings.
Digby joined us as we moved into a new home, a large home with the backyard of Carrie’s dreams. It was a time of my moving from my own small practice to one that makes the national lists. It was, in short, a time of eternal optimism, right down to the little pup terrorizing any loose shoe in his path.
It is nine years later. We sold the house seven years ago: A beautiful backyard which was good, because there was no neighborhood – a problem in fancy areas, and real estate taxes that would be embarrassing to even mention here. The switch in jobs was a wonderful decision. But before the switch, Carrie and I worked in the same building on common goals, shared lunches or just quick mid-day hellos with the occasional stolen hug. After the switch, a forty minute commute, not so bad, but no longer the working together we once so cherished.
There was more, the economic issues we all face as the little ones became less little and the bigger ones grow into colleges and cars. Once again, not fatal blows: just more of life’s pressures taking their inexorable toll. Still we held it together, we were lovers and friends: we were a family.
Then came TGT, roaring like a freight train, leaving little standing in its path. First the late night conversations, trying to find our way. Then the basement, still a shared house, but not really a marriage, a marriage as most would think of one, anymore.
So today we stood there on either side of Digby, we felt the life drain from him and we cried. After, I tried to do the right thing and put my arm on Carrie’s shoulder. Then by her car, a quick hug for the road. There was a time we would have been in each other’s arms, heads bowed on the other’s shoulder, warm tears mingling together. Not today. I suppose not again.
It was my second cry of the young week. On Sunday while packing for vacation I came across an envelope of pictures from our first vacation together so many years ago – no kids, just the two of us. One picture jumps out at me: Carrie lying on a towel by the side of the lake with a smile, a smile that could light up the night, a smile that came from deep within, from her very core. And as I looked at that picture I realized both what was and what will never be, for I fear that smile, the joy and the innocence walking together, will never be seen again.
Yes a requiem indeed, a requiem for what feels like lives gone terribly awry.
Requiem æternam dona eis, Domine, et lux perpetua luceat eis. (Eternal rest grant unto them, O Lord, and let perpetual light shine upon them.)
Monday, July 30, 2007
Sunday, July 29, 2007
Digby
Just shy of nine years ago Carrie and some of our children went off to a breeder to interview a litter of Golden Retrievers. Some were too aggressive, some to meek, but one after being accidentally kicked by a two year old, came back tail wagging. Digby had found a home. He was your proto-typical Golden – sweet, loving, a family dog, and of course not the brightest. He was also your prototypical pure breed – every genetic condition that inbreeding can create – seizures, hips, ears: a veterinarian’s dream if one wanted to be crass.
I think of Digby as my first dog. We were not a pet family growing up. I once brought home a stray beagle in middle school, but we found him a new home in two or three day’s time. There were some cats, but maybe it was just the family curse: one with cancer after maybe a year and another with a silly habit of resting on top of car wheels. As an adult, Carrie and I tried. A dog from a shelter who liked to escape – best exercise I ever did have – which coupled with a daughter standing on the table indicated using that two week return policy.
Of course there was Fred and Charlie, a pair of bichon’s we adopted. (I am happy to say spell check in Word does not recognize the breed.) There were a few factual omissions of course. They were 4 ½, not 3 and the fact that the owner’s boyfriend would beat both her and the dogs may have been of some interest. They did not like men, something I still claim to be, so an uneasy truce existed. That is until one night I came home late from work, tax season and all, and as I prepared for bed smelled something: dog pee? Could not really locate it until I put my head on my pillow and realized I had found the spot. They were found a new home, one with no men.
So when we were next ready for a dog, we did it right and in Digby we were amply rewarded, Digby did have quirks – the only Golden who did not like water. He did go swimming once when he mistakenly took a three year olds spastic splashing in our pool to be a sign of drowning. For the first and last time, and without hesitation, he dove right in.
Digby has also proven to be a capable trainer, imparting his unique mellowness to other dogs, particularly his two “sisters”, a five year old Wheaton and a one year old Cock-a-Poo. They took his lead and are as sweet as can be.
I suspect you all know where this post is going. It is time to allow Digby his rest, an escape from physical maladies that keep worsening, one bumping into another. On Tuesday we will say goodbye.
This has caused me to think both of my reactions to Digby’s “going to the farm” as my daughter prefer we phrase it and also my previous brushes with death. I was never good with death – maybe city boy syndrome, the polar opposite of farms with life and death appearing every season. Maybe it was having three grandparents die before it was born and the fourth passing before I was three. It would be until high school that a close family member died, an Uncle, a man deserving of his own little post.
I am sad that Digby is being put to sleep – I will leave the “farm” imagery for my daughter – and have welled up more than once while speaking of it. Yet somehow I feel I should be sadder – nine years, my first real pet, that should not be sadness: it should be despondency bordering on depression. And maybe come Tuesday I will feel that overwhelming sense.
Maybe it is just the perspective that comes from having caught up with death after such a slow start. I have buried both my parents, a few years apart. My father’s death I have written of before, on an anniversary of his death, of being with him as he passed.
But issues of relative grief aside, issues of pets as opposed to humans, the simple fact remains: on Tuesday we will bid Digby farewell and he will be one dog whose memory will remain with us – family and friends - for ever.
May peace be with him.
I think of Digby as my first dog. We were not a pet family growing up. I once brought home a stray beagle in middle school, but we found him a new home in two or three day’s time. There were some cats, but maybe it was just the family curse: one with cancer after maybe a year and another with a silly habit of resting on top of car wheels. As an adult, Carrie and I tried. A dog from a shelter who liked to escape – best exercise I ever did have – which coupled with a daughter standing on the table indicated using that two week return policy.
Of course there was Fred and Charlie, a pair of bichon’s we adopted. (I am happy to say spell check in Word does not recognize the breed.) There were a few factual omissions of course. They were 4 ½, not 3 and the fact that the owner’s boyfriend would beat both her and the dogs may have been of some interest. They did not like men, something I still claim to be, so an uneasy truce existed. That is until one night I came home late from work, tax season and all, and as I prepared for bed smelled something: dog pee? Could not really locate it until I put my head on my pillow and realized I had found the spot. They were found a new home, one with no men.
So when we were next ready for a dog, we did it right and in Digby we were amply rewarded, Digby did have quirks – the only Golden who did not like water. He did go swimming once when he mistakenly took a three year olds spastic splashing in our pool to be a sign of drowning. For the first and last time, and without hesitation, he dove right in.
Digby has also proven to be a capable trainer, imparting his unique mellowness to other dogs, particularly his two “sisters”, a five year old Wheaton and a one year old Cock-a-Poo. They took his lead and are as sweet as can be.
I suspect you all know where this post is going. It is time to allow Digby his rest, an escape from physical maladies that keep worsening, one bumping into another. On Tuesday we will say goodbye.
This has caused me to think both of my reactions to Digby’s “going to the farm” as my daughter prefer we phrase it and also my previous brushes with death. I was never good with death – maybe city boy syndrome, the polar opposite of farms with life and death appearing every season. Maybe it was having three grandparents die before it was born and the fourth passing before I was three. It would be until high school that a close family member died, an Uncle, a man deserving of his own little post.
I am sad that Digby is being put to sleep – I will leave the “farm” imagery for my daughter – and have welled up more than once while speaking of it. Yet somehow I feel I should be sadder – nine years, my first real pet, that should not be sadness: it should be despondency bordering on depression. And maybe come Tuesday I will feel that overwhelming sense.
Maybe it is just the perspective that comes from having caught up with death after such a slow start. I have buried both my parents, a few years apart. My father’s death I have written of before, on an anniversary of his death, of being with him as he passed.
But issues of relative grief aside, issues of pets as opposed to humans, the simple fact remains: on Tuesday we will bid Digby farewell and he will be one dog whose memory will remain with us – family and friends - for ever.
May peace be with him.
Friday, July 27, 2007
On Being Alone
Some months ago I found a gay men’s book club, relatively local, a nice website listing all the books. I went to Borders and a few nights later was flipping the pages for the June entry. For the first seventy nine of those pages I was wondering what was the point – sure the author was gay as was the main character, but still it seemed rather universal – a book, no more, no less. Then I read page eighty: the protagonist, a gay man in his thirties goes to a bar to be surrounded by others, others of his persuasion:
“He’ll soon be too old for this club, which pulsates with bass lines, youth and arrogance. In a few years he’ll find himself exiled, patronizing the piano bars favored by men of a certain age who mistakenly believed there was still plenty of time to find that someone special and settle down.”
I read it again, nearly committing it to memory. I have been in that piano bar – in our town it is called The Townhouse – and have watched those men, ones who seem to be rooted there, the hardcore regulars. They are nice men I am sure, and I have spoken with a few but standing there on a Saturday night at times their loneliness seems palpable.
I have thought about writing of this, and suspect I may have in passing, but then last night I read of Spider’s eight little factoids, I read the first one:
“. I am scared to death... of being left alone and not having anyone…. I am petrified of getting old and not having anyone…. I crave someone who thinks I am as special and wonderful as I think they are.”
And just as I read page eighty multiple times – hell, I was just able to pull the book off the shelf and turn right to the paragraph – I re-read Spider’s words multiple times. Both times a chord was struck, the same chord.
While the chord is the same, my hearing of it has changed, a change borne of two more months in my journey. When I read Brian Malloy’s words what seems like so long ago, the answer was clear. Not to be gay, not to lose Carrie, to run back to the nest where in so many ways there is so much love and happiness.
Last night as I read Spider’s words, there was a different reaction. One that I indeed may end up “lonely” but I do have my friends – including Carrie if I am capable of treating her with the respect she rightfully asks, I do have my family which considering I have six children is not inconsequential, and with time I should end up with at least one new bestest friend: myself when I grow into accepting that person.
But ultimately, I share the terror. What sane person would not? I suspect Spider will find that person – any who knows him through his writings and comments would agree he’s way too special not to be snatched up. And maybe I will or will not find that perfect person, but considering the brevity of my sojourn in this strange new land, I too cannot complain having made some new friends and started building this new life.
And ultimately while I share the terror, those psychological night sweats, I realize that while I could have done many things differently these past twenty-four months, there is one immutable piece of the puzzle. I am gay and when I am out there being gay, whether in a bed having sex or in restaurant with one of my gay friends talking or just here blogging, that the gayness is real and in many ways feels right.
Note: The book quoted is Brendan Wolf by Brian Malloy. And Spider should require no introduction around here.
“He’ll soon be too old for this club, which pulsates with bass lines, youth and arrogance. In a few years he’ll find himself exiled, patronizing the piano bars favored by men of a certain age who mistakenly believed there was still plenty of time to find that someone special and settle down.”
I read it again, nearly committing it to memory. I have been in that piano bar – in our town it is called The Townhouse – and have watched those men, ones who seem to be rooted there, the hardcore regulars. They are nice men I am sure, and I have spoken with a few but standing there on a Saturday night at times their loneliness seems palpable.
I have thought about writing of this, and suspect I may have in passing, but then last night I read of Spider’s eight little factoids, I read the first one:
“. I am scared to death... of being left alone and not having anyone…. I am petrified of getting old and not having anyone…. I crave someone who thinks I am as special and wonderful as I think they are.”
And just as I read page eighty multiple times – hell, I was just able to pull the book off the shelf and turn right to the paragraph – I re-read Spider’s words multiple times. Both times a chord was struck, the same chord.
While the chord is the same, my hearing of it has changed, a change borne of two more months in my journey. When I read Brian Malloy’s words what seems like so long ago, the answer was clear. Not to be gay, not to lose Carrie, to run back to the nest where in so many ways there is so much love and happiness.
Last night as I read Spider’s words, there was a different reaction. One that I indeed may end up “lonely” but I do have my friends – including Carrie if I am capable of treating her with the respect she rightfully asks, I do have my family which considering I have six children is not inconsequential, and with time I should end up with at least one new bestest friend: myself when I grow into accepting that person.
But ultimately, I share the terror. What sane person would not? I suspect Spider will find that person – any who knows him through his writings and comments would agree he’s way too special not to be snatched up. And maybe I will or will not find that perfect person, but considering the brevity of my sojourn in this strange new land, I too cannot complain having made some new friends and started building this new life.
And ultimately while I share the terror, those psychological night sweats, I realize that while I could have done many things differently these past twenty-four months, there is one immutable piece of the puzzle. I am gay and when I am out there being gay, whether in a bed having sex or in restaurant with one of my gay friends talking or just here blogging, that the gayness is real and in many ways feels right.
Note: The book quoted is Brendan Wolf by Brian Malloy. And Spider should require no introduction around here.
Tuesday, July 24, 2007
Rent versus Buy
It is a common question in my line of work: lease or buy a car, rent or buy an apartment. It is a question which leads to more questions. How much can you afford each month, do you have the down payment, and of course, how long are you staying – the commitment factor. I even toyed with this idea in terms of my own living arrangements. (For the moment the basement is the right price (or should I say rent), but that is for later.)
As I lay in bed tonight I realized that this same question – rent versus buy – applied to my gayness. Forgetting latency, deep suppression, and the like, it is fast approaching two years of my journey, two years of exploration with men – sexually and emotionally, nearly two years of long talks with Carrie and a full year and a half of pouring myself into these pages. A long time by any measure.
During these two years I have not been an owner. Sure, I have discovered the gayness, but I have worked hard to keep it as a rental and a short term rental at that. There are advantages to renting – beat the heck out of the car and bring it back to the dealer after thirty six months, get bored of the neighborhood and pack the furniture into the U-Haul after a year or two. No need to pool all those pennies for a down payment and no risk that you cannot sell it at the end.
Of course when my clients ask about renting and buying there is the concept of equity. When you buy you have something. Each month besides paying interest, you are paying down a loan and thereby owning even more. All in all a very good thing for one who is staying.
I have re-read the above a number of times, looking for the next paragraph, looking to end the post gracefully, but it seems that the post, succinct and to the point, stands on its own. It is 3 AM and sleep beckons.
As I lay in bed tonight I realized that this same question – rent versus buy – applied to my gayness. Forgetting latency, deep suppression, and the like, it is fast approaching two years of my journey, two years of exploration with men – sexually and emotionally, nearly two years of long talks with Carrie and a full year and a half of pouring myself into these pages. A long time by any measure.
During these two years I have not been an owner. Sure, I have discovered the gayness, but I have worked hard to keep it as a rental and a short term rental at that. There are advantages to renting – beat the heck out of the car and bring it back to the dealer after thirty six months, get bored of the neighborhood and pack the furniture into the U-Haul after a year or two. No need to pool all those pennies for a down payment and no risk that you cannot sell it at the end.
Of course when my clients ask about renting and buying there is the concept of equity. When you buy you have something. Each month besides paying interest, you are paying down a loan and thereby owning even more. All in all a very good thing for one who is staying.
I have re-read the above a number of times, looking for the next paragraph, looking to end the post gracefully, but it seems that the post, succinct and to the point, stands on its own. It is 3 AM and sleep beckons.
Sunday, July 22, 2007
Armageddon: Not Really
It is before 7 AM, the car is still there and I hit the road. An easy enough reverse commute back to the ‘burbs, back to the office. Not much more than twelve hours has elapsed. Fire up the computer and settle in to what should be a long day considering the meager sleep of the night before. Driving in the car I hear reports – scattered thunderstorms – heavy at times. Not really relevant for a day spent in my office.
By 8:30 the sky has darkened. Actually it looks like midnight and the rains are falling. Lots of rain. The parking lot – a sprawling affair which in eight years prior has never had more than a puddle starts to flood. The rains continue, the waters rise. I see a group of co-workers looking out the window at our cars, my car, and realize the water is almost touching the bumper. I break down – off with the shoes and socks, roll the pants above the knee and move my car to higher ground. Once in my car, I realize that I am prepared – my shorts and tee shirt from the prior night. I march back in style – ready for the beach.
The rains did end and the water did subside and it was an easy ride home marred only by my trepidation of arriving after missing a night. I walk in and the phone rings – a daughter saying turn on channel 7 and hanging up. Must be pictures of the flood – cool. But no, there has been an explosion in the City, a massive steam pipe, geysers, a tow truck swallowed.
Now this would be an eye-catching story any place, any day. But it is not any place, it is not any day. It is twelve hours after I had left the City, left a parking space a few short blocks from the explosion.
I am not an overly religious man and I do realize that if there is a God, he has bigger fish to fry than moi, but floods, explosions…. There may be a message in this, but I for one plan on ignoring it.
The rest of the week is not worthy of a post – it was brilliantly mundane. Welcome home dinners, a Harry Potter pre-party followed by the obligatory line-up at Borders. Bicycling with a friend, watching the dogs romp and throwing steaks on the barbie (though at times I think throwing Barbies on the stakes may be more me).
But I mention it all the same because the week in many ways felt right – the time with Phil and the time with the family. I have written much as to finding the balance – that fine line for me of accepting myself, of living a life that includes my gayness while also continuing to live my family life. For a week it worked. I have no illusion as to the fact that there are many days ahead – both easier and harder.
By 8:30 the sky has darkened. Actually it looks like midnight and the rains are falling. Lots of rain. The parking lot – a sprawling affair which in eight years prior has never had more than a puddle starts to flood. The rains continue, the waters rise. I see a group of co-workers looking out the window at our cars, my car, and realize the water is almost touching the bumper. I break down – off with the shoes and socks, roll the pants above the knee and move my car to higher ground. Once in my car, I realize that I am prepared – my shorts and tee shirt from the prior night. I march back in style – ready for the beach.
The rains did end and the water did subside and it was an easy ride home marred only by my trepidation of arriving after missing a night. I walk in and the phone rings – a daughter saying turn on channel 7 and hanging up. Must be pictures of the flood – cool. But no, there has been an explosion in the City, a massive steam pipe, geysers, a tow truck swallowed.
Now this would be an eye-catching story any place, any day. But it is not any place, it is not any day. It is twelve hours after I had left the City, left a parking space a few short blocks from the explosion.
I am not an overly religious man and I do realize that if there is a God, he has bigger fish to fry than moi, but floods, explosions…. There may be a message in this, but I for one plan on ignoring it.
The rest of the week is not worthy of a post – it was brilliantly mundane. Welcome home dinners, a Harry Potter pre-party followed by the obligatory line-up at Borders. Bicycling with a friend, watching the dogs romp and throwing steaks on the barbie (though at times I think throwing Barbies on the stakes may be more me).
But I mention it all the same because the week in many ways felt right – the time with Phil and the time with the family. I have written much as to finding the balance – that fine line for me of accepting myself, of living a life that includes my gayness while also continuing to live my family life. For a week it worked. I have no illusion as to the fact that there are many days ahead – both easier and harder.
Saturday, July 21, 2007
Myths
To understand the week, one has to understand the month prior – a month of straightness, weekends spent fixing the bedroom formerly known as ours: wall paper removal, painting, bonding with Carrie. Enough to re-kindle my Achilles heel: being only a little gay. Concurrently Phil disappeared. E-mails to nowhere it seemed. Of course I am aware of his technological challenges but why let reason stand in the path of paranoia. “He doesn’t like me anymore. No, impossible, his steady must think I am around too much, and wants me out.” Raging ego with healthy paranoia: a combustible mixture.
The week is already looking a bit complicated, and it has not even started. Thursday a child returns from camp and that evening is the gay men’s book club: I swear I will get there some day. I still read the books knowing that I may not make it. Friday – well, if you live on planet earth, you may have heard a book is being released. It is also the third Friday of the month – married gay group.
I check my cell last Sunday and a voice mail – Phil’s e-mail is down and he thinks maybe I fell off the edge. We go with a novel concept – we call each other. He is available and while I will not find myself in the City on business, it is a quick enough drive, particularly in the summer months. So Tuesday it is – 7:15 PM at his apartment: Maybe play a bit and then a drink and dinner and surely a quick ride home, no train schedules for me. I get a spot in front of his apartment, good till 7 AM, not to worry.
Now it is time for Nate to show his past patterns, the seemingly innate ability to get it wrong. Carrie knows where I am going and the assumption of my coming home. Why even discuss the alternative. I really do think I am coming home, but as Tuesday progresses I realize that when we made the plans, Phil had made a passing comment about spending the night. I realize that showing up at work the next day in the same shirt may be a bit much. Not a problem, I am not spending the night. Which is why I made a quick stop at Kohl’s for a cheapo golf shirt – just in case.
I get to Phil’s and he is still suited up – literally – and needs to get casual. Of course between suit and casual one has to pass through naked, a rather distracting spot. And we always knew we would play, so why not. Three hours later I realize that the cheapo shirt was a good purchase. And I wonder if Carrie is expecting me – as I had left it. I can still go home, but it will be a late night and which is worse – the night out or that creaking door at some ungodly hour. I want to communicate and do the right thing so I call. She answers the phone and sounds quite chipper, that is until I ask the question. It seems, either possibility was fine with her, but the phone call was a bit much. The night out it will be.
Back to bed, its only 10:15, early by the gay clock. And we play some more. Now I have to express some admiration for you sex bloggers – either your memories are extraordinary or your narratives are composites because I could not write a blow by blow if I tried. And while I am not one to detail the sex – a thin veneer of modesty still remains – the fact is that we played – gently, roughly, wildly. We reaffirmed that versatile is more than CL code. Uncharacteristically, I let go, I went with the moment, with the flow. And we had fun. Sometime around 3:30 it became clear that sleep was preferable to dinner. The next morning I wake early, I have to move my car. Might as well just head to work.
What happened next is a mini-post of its own and we will get there. But the important stuff had already happened.
I have hung on – desperately at times – to some myths: The myth of being a little gay, the myth of getting harder for Carrie than for the guys, all of which is really the myth of going back. The myths have some truth – that is from where they derive their power. But on this night I had no “performance” issues, no trouble playing all night, a long all night. I had let go. A little gay? I think not.
The next evening at dinner, Carrie glances towards me – I am wearing on an old tee – and points out I should be wearing a higher collar, something that will hide the hickey better. She points out that she hasn’t seen a hickey on someone over sixteen in ages. I suppose I blush, a little giggle, and of course change shirts. But I keep thinking about being sixteen and realize that the night before I was sixteen, making up for what I missed along the way. Phil, also late to the dance, listens to me say “I’m making up for lost time.” His soft response: “Don’t I know it.”
It’s too late to make it right,
Probably wouldn’t if I could.
Dixie Chicks
The week does continue, times of thought, times of family and right choices, times of floods and explosions. But most of all times of reality. It is late now – tomorrow we can continue.
The week is already looking a bit complicated, and it has not even started. Thursday a child returns from camp and that evening is the gay men’s book club: I swear I will get there some day. I still read the books knowing that I may not make it. Friday – well, if you live on planet earth, you may have heard a book is being released. It is also the third Friday of the month – married gay group.
I check my cell last Sunday and a voice mail – Phil’s e-mail is down and he thinks maybe I fell off the edge. We go with a novel concept – we call each other. He is available and while I will not find myself in the City on business, it is a quick enough drive, particularly in the summer months. So Tuesday it is – 7:15 PM at his apartment: Maybe play a bit and then a drink and dinner and surely a quick ride home, no train schedules for me. I get a spot in front of his apartment, good till 7 AM, not to worry.
Now it is time for Nate to show his past patterns, the seemingly innate ability to get it wrong. Carrie knows where I am going and the assumption of my coming home. Why even discuss the alternative. I really do think I am coming home, but as Tuesday progresses I realize that when we made the plans, Phil had made a passing comment about spending the night. I realize that showing up at work the next day in the same shirt may be a bit much. Not a problem, I am not spending the night. Which is why I made a quick stop at Kohl’s for a cheapo golf shirt – just in case.
I get to Phil’s and he is still suited up – literally – and needs to get casual. Of course between suit and casual one has to pass through naked, a rather distracting spot. And we always knew we would play, so why not. Three hours later I realize that the cheapo shirt was a good purchase. And I wonder if Carrie is expecting me – as I had left it. I can still go home, but it will be a late night and which is worse – the night out or that creaking door at some ungodly hour. I want to communicate and do the right thing so I call. She answers the phone and sounds quite chipper, that is until I ask the question. It seems, either possibility was fine with her, but the phone call was a bit much. The night out it will be.
Back to bed, its only 10:15, early by the gay clock. And we play some more. Now I have to express some admiration for you sex bloggers – either your memories are extraordinary or your narratives are composites because I could not write a blow by blow if I tried. And while I am not one to detail the sex – a thin veneer of modesty still remains – the fact is that we played – gently, roughly, wildly. We reaffirmed that versatile is more than CL code. Uncharacteristically, I let go, I went with the moment, with the flow. And we had fun. Sometime around 3:30 it became clear that sleep was preferable to dinner. The next morning I wake early, I have to move my car. Might as well just head to work.
What happened next is a mini-post of its own and we will get there. But the important stuff had already happened.
I have hung on – desperately at times – to some myths: The myth of being a little gay, the myth of getting harder for Carrie than for the guys, all of which is really the myth of going back. The myths have some truth – that is from where they derive their power. But on this night I had no “performance” issues, no trouble playing all night, a long all night. I had let go. A little gay? I think not.
The next evening at dinner, Carrie glances towards me – I am wearing on an old tee – and points out I should be wearing a higher collar, something that will hide the hickey better. She points out that she hasn’t seen a hickey on someone over sixteen in ages. I suppose I blush, a little giggle, and of course change shirts. But I keep thinking about being sixteen and realize that the night before I was sixteen, making up for what I missed along the way. Phil, also late to the dance, listens to me say “I’m making up for lost time.” His soft response: “Don’t I know it.”
It’s too late to make it right,
Probably wouldn’t if I could.
Dixie Chicks
The week does continue, times of thought, times of family and right choices, times of floods and explosions. But most of all times of reality. It is late now – tomorrow we can continue.
Wednesday, July 11, 2007
Embrace
Send Carrie the letter or let things be: by now we all know the answer; I did share it with her. But the next day before sharing, I had a mini-epiphany: how much I was ignoring what she has been trying so hard to tell me. It stopped being about sex, men, celibacy, and who might know – the “shame” factor – a long time ago. It is about Carrie having grown to a level of self acceptance to which I still aspire. She does not want a gay husband. She wants a man who will want her – all of her, nothing but her – with all of his soul. Bob teases me that she is a bigot, but he is wrong. She does not mind gay men and looks forward to having one as her best friend.
But the thing that most amazes me is her acceptance that she may never find this mythical man and she may be left with her family and friends, with books and errands. And that is okay with her, she has chosen authenticity over safety. And by so doing in some strange way she is guaranteed some level of happiness no matter what.
Yet I still vacillate, wanting to hang on, out of love, out of friendship, but also surely as much as I do not want to admit it, out of fear. I try to define that fear, not an easy task, but I suspect it is the fear of being alone. Sis and I had an extended IM chat and she went for the fear like a hound on a hunt.
Sis: I don't buy that you're not scared. You can tell me that you're not scared all day long, and I still won't buy it. I think you're terrified. Not of being alone, necessarily, but of never finding someone who "gets" you on such a basic level.
Me: To have found one person who "gets” me on that level is awesome. To find another.....
Sis: The thing is, I think Carrie can continue to be that person for you, just not as your wife. But for you to be able to accept that and make it work will require you to really start to "get" yourself and embrace that person. It will make your relationship with her a lot easier.
As I re-read the snippet from our exchange, I realize that Carrie told me the other night that I need to embrace who I am. She was referring to the gay Nate, but it is more. It is learning to embrace – to “get” myself, all of me.
So a little over a week after having come home and sat on Carrie’s floor fighting back tears, I sit here a little older, a little more mature. Carrie has moved on and so shall I. This is not a question of moving out – after looking at the finances we realize every month of delay is much needed money for our family. But it is still moving on as we slowly evolve sharing a house while still moving on. A temporary state – nine or ten months at best – and one that may yet change, for if there is any lesson as I look back over this year it is not to make predictions. Life will chart its own course quite nicely.
But the thing that most amazes me is her acceptance that she may never find this mythical man and she may be left with her family and friends, with books and errands. And that is okay with her, she has chosen authenticity over safety. And by so doing in some strange way she is guaranteed some level of happiness no matter what.
Yet I still vacillate, wanting to hang on, out of love, out of friendship, but also surely as much as I do not want to admit it, out of fear. I try to define that fear, not an easy task, but I suspect it is the fear of being alone. Sis and I had an extended IM chat and she went for the fear like a hound on a hunt.
Sis: I don't buy that you're not scared. You can tell me that you're not scared all day long, and I still won't buy it. I think you're terrified. Not of being alone, necessarily, but of never finding someone who "gets" you on such a basic level.
Me: To have found one person who "gets” me on that level is awesome. To find another.....
Sis: The thing is, I think Carrie can continue to be that person for you, just not as your wife. But for you to be able to accept that and make it work will require you to really start to "get" yourself and embrace that person. It will make your relationship with her a lot easier.
As I re-read the snippet from our exchange, I realize that Carrie told me the other night that I need to embrace who I am. She was referring to the gay Nate, but it is more. It is learning to embrace – to “get” myself, all of me.
So a little over a week after having come home and sat on Carrie’s floor fighting back tears, I sit here a little older, a little more mature. Carrie has moved on and so shall I. This is not a question of moving out – after looking at the finances we realize every month of delay is much needed money for our family. But it is still moving on as we slowly evolve sharing a house while still moving on. A temporary state – nine or ten months at best – and one that may yet change, for if there is any lesson as I look back over this year it is not to make predictions. Life will chart its own course quite nicely.
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
Letter To A Friend
Today I considered that my relative lack of posting, while having many causes, is to a great degree predicated upon not wanting to share for fear of reactions, if anyone is still reading, But I have been re-reading my blog this week and realize that this is my story, written for me, and to pick and choose the content is wrong. When I re-read this someday, it is important that at least it is an honest record.
But as I went to write tonight and opened up a word file – my scrap pages – I found a letter I wrote to Carrie last week. The background is that I came home around 11 PM from a date and tearfully suggested to Carrie that we try again. And as I re-read this tonight, I realized that someday this is what I will need to re-read.
Dear Carrie,
It is an hour best suited for sleeping (3:24 AM) so of course I am writing. It was not my plan to bring up many topics tonight. They were of course in my mind, percolating over time, but the plan was to write and “speak” in that fashion which does not put you on a spot, allows thoughts to be formed, and allows you to simply say no.
For a simple no would be well within your rights, it would not be shifting of blame as you think. I am well aware that in many ways I have created a situation that has no going back in that “going back” at this point can never truly happen. We can perhaps be together but it would be in some new emotional place. And I am aware of the shame that I have brought upon you and that a good case could be made that being apart is the only way for you to maintain your new found self esteem.
But I want to simply say what can and cannot be. Can I forgo sex with others – I have before and suspect I can again. Can I forgo building male friendships predicated on the underlying promise of sex – again I believe so. Can I – or for that matter should I – go back to our co-dependency. That one would be a no for both of us – each of us having outlets for ourselves might have helped us both a long time ago.
Now for the cannots: When I opened Word and a file called Basement which is where I draft and then delete (it is password protected) I went to delete as one would erase a blackboard. As I was erasing I realized the last sentence, all alone at the bottom of the document, was probably never used, maybe the base for a future post, or just an unused part of one called Approval:
A lifetime of repression has had a series of consequences including a need to define myself through the prism of other’s eyes
And as I read that I chose not to erase because it seems relevant here. My nature is not going to change. I cannot go back to making believe that I am straight, Gay, bi, queer: take your pick, but as much as I want, the straight just isn’t happening. Actions I can control, but as you know better than anyone, one cannot choose their orgasms. Now it is inexplicable to me how I can be queer yet have the best sex – not just once, but multiple times – with you. Maybe it is the love, maybe just the knowledge of each others bodies, maybe the liberation of not having to hide any side of me anymore.
But what is clear is that sex with you is incredible and that the thought of sex with men just excites me further. So if we make love again and at some point you invoke my fantasies, I will respond, my body will betray me. Except I no longer think of it as a betrayal, it is part of me and I have come, grudgingly and slowly, to accept that part of me is here to stay.
If I was advising you as a friend, I am not sure what advice I would give. I suppose it would be to follow your heart – in a sense ignore my pleadings, ignore your therapist’s bias – and decide what is right for you. The girls will be fine. I will be here for them; I will do everything to make sure that the house remains intact, that they can continue to have their little world. The question is what is right for you. And choosing to maintain a gay best friend as opposed to a gay husband is more than reasonable – it is what would traditionally be considered the right thing – the only thing - by the vast majority.
You had suggested I speak with my advisors about this and I will speak with Bob who I respect and whose views I would not venture a guess on at this point. In terms of Sis – this may come as a shock to you – but I have not mentioned our being lovers since you asked me not to many, many months ago. I am not sure I can ask her advice while leaving out that piece of the puzzle. For if you and I were not able to still have that level of intimacy and have it work for us, then the rest would be doomed to failure.
I suppose the question you have asked yourself since I opened my mouth last night is: Why now, why after putting you through hell do I dare to even go here? I am afraid this is the part of the story that I would have thought through better if I had not just opened up so unexpectedly last night. I suspect it is many cumulative things. It is a level of self-acceptance that I know who and what I am and therefore do not need to prove it to myself anymore. It is a realization that as hard as we both try, our friendship will be severely tested by the road ahead – first by my having new friends and then by you eventually doing the same.
But I guess the real reason is how comfortable we are with each other, comfortable in the little ways that are the true base of life, little errands, having dinner, stripping wallpaper. The thought of not calling to check in with you every day – yes, I know how annoying I can be – is inconceivable. Hell, even our little blowup last week was okay: we said things, we cleared the air a little and we moved on.
Michelle Shocked said the night (my son) and I saw her: “it is not about happiness, it is about growth.” But of course it would be nice if growth leads to happiness.
Do not feel the need to answer this anytime quickly, unless it is to say a preemptive no. And have the courage and pride to tell me to find an apartment: that you have moved on. Whatever happens, it is the result of all that I have done, my misjudgments, my need to play out my issues on a semi-public stage. And if I am looking for an apartment (or small house sounds good), tonight will be a private thing between us, a little blip, because it is important that this not be cast as you having kicked me out. I have left, I have left in a hurtful way to you over a long period of time and that will always be one of my crosses to bear.
Love,
Nate
The Basement: 4:17 AM
There is an epilogue to this dialogue, but that is for another night. Re-reading and deciding to share this has been difficult enough.
But as I went to write tonight and opened up a word file – my scrap pages – I found a letter I wrote to Carrie last week. The background is that I came home around 11 PM from a date and tearfully suggested to Carrie that we try again. And as I re-read this tonight, I realized that someday this is what I will need to re-read.
Dear Carrie,
It is an hour best suited for sleeping (3:24 AM) so of course I am writing. It was not my plan to bring up many topics tonight. They were of course in my mind, percolating over time, but the plan was to write and “speak” in that fashion which does not put you on a spot, allows thoughts to be formed, and allows you to simply say no.
For a simple no would be well within your rights, it would not be shifting of blame as you think. I am well aware that in many ways I have created a situation that has no going back in that “going back” at this point can never truly happen. We can perhaps be together but it would be in some new emotional place. And I am aware of the shame that I have brought upon you and that a good case could be made that being apart is the only way for you to maintain your new found self esteem.
But I want to simply say what can and cannot be. Can I forgo sex with others – I have before and suspect I can again. Can I forgo building male friendships predicated on the underlying promise of sex – again I believe so. Can I – or for that matter should I – go back to our co-dependency. That one would be a no for both of us – each of us having outlets for ourselves might have helped us both a long time ago.
Now for the cannots: When I opened Word and a file called Basement which is where I draft and then delete (it is password protected) I went to delete as one would erase a blackboard. As I was erasing I realized the last sentence, all alone at the bottom of the document, was probably never used, maybe the base for a future post, or just an unused part of one called Approval:
A lifetime of repression has had a series of consequences including a need to define myself through the prism of other’s eyes
And as I read that I chose not to erase because it seems relevant here. My nature is not going to change. I cannot go back to making believe that I am straight, Gay, bi, queer: take your pick, but as much as I want, the straight just isn’t happening. Actions I can control, but as you know better than anyone, one cannot choose their orgasms. Now it is inexplicable to me how I can be queer yet have the best sex – not just once, but multiple times – with you. Maybe it is the love, maybe just the knowledge of each others bodies, maybe the liberation of not having to hide any side of me anymore.
But what is clear is that sex with you is incredible and that the thought of sex with men just excites me further. So if we make love again and at some point you invoke my fantasies, I will respond, my body will betray me. Except I no longer think of it as a betrayal, it is part of me and I have come, grudgingly and slowly, to accept that part of me is here to stay.
If I was advising you as a friend, I am not sure what advice I would give. I suppose it would be to follow your heart – in a sense ignore my pleadings, ignore your therapist’s bias – and decide what is right for you. The girls will be fine. I will be here for them; I will do everything to make sure that the house remains intact, that they can continue to have their little world. The question is what is right for you. And choosing to maintain a gay best friend as opposed to a gay husband is more than reasonable – it is what would traditionally be considered the right thing – the only thing - by the vast majority.
You had suggested I speak with my advisors about this and I will speak with Bob who I respect and whose views I would not venture a guess on at this point. In terms of Sis – this may come as a shock to you – but I have not mentioned our being lovers since you asked me not to many, many months ago. I am not sure I can ask her advice while leaving out that piece of the puzzle. For if you and I were not able to still have that level of intimacy and have it work for us, then the rest would be doomed to failure.
I suppose the question you have asked yourself since I opened my mouth last night is: Why now, why after putting you through hell do I dare to even go here? I am afraid this is the part of the story that I would have thought through better if I had not just opened up so unexpectedly last night. I suspect it is many cumulative things. It is a level of self-acceptance that I know who and what I am and therefore do not need to prove it to myself anymore. It is a realization that as hard as we both try, our friendship will be severely tested by the road ahead – first by my having new friends and then by you eventually doing the same.
But I guess the real reason is how comfortable we are with each other, comfortable in the little ways that are the true base of life, little errands, having dinner, stripping wallpaper. The thought of not calling to check in with you every day – yes, I know how annoying I can be – is inconceivable. Hell, even our little blowup last week was okay: we said things, we cleared the air a little and we moved on.
Michelle Shocked said the night (my son) and I saw her: “it is not about happiness, it is about growth.” But of course it would be nice if growth leads to happiness.
Do not feel the need to answer this anytime quickly, unless it is to say a preemptive no. And have the courage and pride to tell me to find an apartment: that you have moved on. Whatever happens, it is the result of all that I have done, my misjudgments, my need to play out my issues on a semi-public stage. And if I am looking for an apartment (or small house sounds good), tonight will be a private thing between us, a little blip, because it is important that this not be cast as you having kicked me out. I have left, I have left in a hurtful way to you over a long period of time and that will always be one of my crosses to bear.
Love,
Nate
The Basement: 4:17 AM
There is an epilogue to this dialogue, but that is for another night. Re-reading and deciding to share this has been difficult enough.
Friday, June 29, 2007
Take Action against Hate Crimes
Watching and reading this tonight, it struck me that maybe for an evening, I could use my little corner of the net for something positive.
Thousands of people are attacked every year because of their sexual orientation, and there's still no federal hate crimes law to protect them. This video is the most powerful statement I've seen on hate crimes, and I couldn't help but pass it on. I think you'll see why.
http://www.hrc.org/FightHate
There's a bill in the Senate right now that would address this heartbreaking problem, and we only have a few weeks until the vote. It would mean a lot to me if you could take a minute to watch the video and write your Senators, and then pass this along to five friends. I really believe none of us can sit this one out. Just go to:
http://www.hrc.org/FightHate
(Apologies for the hyperlink not working - Lord knows I tried)
Wednesday, June 27, 2007
Approval
I have found myself sitting with Phil having some late night dinners and after a few drinks have not had much interest in reading menus. Taking his lead, it’s hard to go wrong with a simple burger. But as we settled into a booth in a diner for some desert last week Phil looked up from the menu and with a twinkle in his eye said I had to order first. It was good natured but with a deserved edge. And I realized that this fits into the writing I have been considering concerning my therapy.
My therapy, my relationship with Bob, is on the backstretch. If the purpose of therapy is to understand things better, it has been a success and I suspect the next step – integrating and growing with this new found knowledge – is one I will need to tackle primarily on my own. Much like ordering desert it is time to make my own, hopefully wiser, choices.
There was a breakthrough in my therapy a few months back, a breakthrough both from my time with Bob and from the consequent conversations with my sisters. It seems there was a moment in my life when things went wrong or maybe it would be better phrased to say a moment in my family’s life because I was merely, as the new term goes, collateral damage of that evening. I was four at the time and my eldest sibling was eleven, time for what was then called junior high school. Except she did not want to go to junior high school, she did not want to go to any school. Now I knew this story already and have the slightest of memories of sitting in therapist’s kitchen while my Mom took her for a session.
As I revisit this with another sister, the classic middle child, she asks if I remember the night of the war, the night my father was in “you will go because I say so mode”, a night of raised voices and of, I fear, raised hands. I do not. But then my sister explains how my mother tried to in some way intercede, to protect her eldest, but my Dad was a force of nature not to be trifled with in his own home.
I finally had the answer to the question of my life – when did Mom go missing, when did the depression which morphed into Alzheimer’s begin. It seems it began one night when I was just four. She never truly re-appeared. Sure she cooked dinner, kept me clothed, bagged those school lunches. But emotionally speaking she was gone. This was 1958 – long before the era of Prozac and Lexapro. I can almost hear the gossip – she’s a quiet lady, her husband talks enough for them both (as I had grown to do around this house). Depression – what’s that?
It was not as if my Dad making up for her deficits did much, other than answer questions directed to her, just continuing the crushing of her spirit. He was, as Bob would point out, emotionally absent. An absent Dad, a Mom in the throes of silent depression and sisters who on some level were at best resentful of me, the male heir to the throne, the Prince of Beach Street. Who could blame them?
No wonder when I turned fourteen I adopted my friends as family and found solace in music and pot. As we listened to the music – a rich time indeed with Paul Simon, Bob Dylan, and The Grateful Dead understanding our angst – as we smoked the joints and snuck the sweet wines, there was approval, there was that sense of family. In retrospect it does seem quite a reasonable reaction. But in hindsight, it was not enough: the search for approval became a backdrop to my existence.
And as I look back at my choices over the years I see how many of them have been colored by my desire for approval and acceptance, by my desire for the comfort of a male figure. I do not write this as a “that’s why I’m gay” moment – that is really of little concern in all this. But it has undeniably impacted on my life choices in ways big and small. It drove my educational choices, it impacted my career choices and it downright seized control of my relationship choices. Each of these could be, and someday probably should be their own posts.
But those choices have been made and their consequences are a part of who I am. As I continue to work through these past choices, the central issue remains: learning self acceptance, learning to make my own choices, the “ownership” I wrote of not so long ago. And of course learning to be the first to order desert.
My therapy, my relationship with Bob, is on the backstretch. If the purpose of therapy is to understand things better, it has been a success and I suspect the next step – integrating and growing with this new found knowledge – is one I will need to tackle primarily on my own. Much like ordering desert it is time to make my own, hopefully wiser, choices.
There was a breakthrough in my therapy a few months back, a breakthrough both from my time with Bob and from the consequent conversations with my sisters. It seems there was a moment in my life when things went wrong or maybe it would be better phrased to say a moment in my family’s life because I was merely, as the new term goes, collateral damage of that evening. I was four at the time and my eldest sibling was eleven, time for what was then called junior high school. Except she did not want to go to junior high school, she did not want to go to any school. Now I knew this story already and have the slightest of memories of sitting in therapist’s kitchen while my Mom took her for a session.
As I revisit this with another sister, the classic middle child, she asks if I remember the night of the war, the night my father was in “you will go because I say so mode”, a night of raised voices and of, I fear, raised hands. I do not. But then my sister explains how my mother tried to in some way intercede, to protect her eldest, but my Dad was a force of nature not to be trifled with in his own home.
I finally had the answer to the question of my life – when did Mom go missing, when did the depression which morphed into Alzheimer’s begin. It seems it began one night when I was just four. She never truly re-appeared. Sure she cooked dinner, kept me clothed, bagged those school lunches. But emotionally speaking she was gone. This was 1958 – long before the era of Prozac and Lexapro. I can almost hear the gossip – she’s a quiet lady, her husband talks enough for them both (as I had grown to do around this house). Depression – what’s that?
It was not as if my Dad making up for her deficits did much, other than answer questions directed to her, just continuing the crushing of her spirit. He was, as Bob would point out, emotionally absent. An absent Dad, a Mom in the throes of silent depression and sisters who on some level were at best resentful of me, the male heir to the throne, the Prince of Beach Street. Who could blame them?
No wonder when I turned fourteen I adopted my friends as family and found solace in music and pot. As we listened to the music – a rich time indeed with Paul Simon, Bob Dylan, and The Grateful Dead understanding our angst – as we smoked the joints and snuck the sweet wines, there was approval, there was that sense of family. In retrospect it does seem quite a reasonable reaction. But in hindsight, it was not enough: the search for approval became a backdrop to my existence.
And as I look back at my choices over the years I see how many of them have been colored by my desire for approval and acceptance, by my desire for the comfort of a male figure. I do not write this as a “that’s why I’m gay” moment – that is really of little concern in all this. But it has undeniably impacted on my life choices in ways big and small. It drove my educational choices, it impacted my career choices and it downright seized control of my relationship choices. Each of these could be, and someday probably should be their own posts.
But those choices have been made and their consequences are a part of who I am. As I continue to work through these past choices, the central issue remains: learning self acceptance, learning to make my own choices, the “ownership” I wrote of not so long ago. And of course learning to be the first to order desert.
Monday, June 25, 2007
The Pipettes - 'Pull Shapes (Live @ Paradiso)'
As I was playing with music tonight I re-discovered this and was reminded of a few things: my roots, my love of music and most of all life is meant to be enjoyed.
Have fun.
Sunday, June 24, 2007
Just Being
Saturday morning is an early affair, a drive to the City - early camp bus. We gather on a Manhattan side street – five buses worth of parents and children, four weeks worth of hugs and kisses, many waves goodbye. And then her twin announces she is happily an only child; now the day is hers. Breakfast in a coffee shop made special by being in the City, by being three instead of four. And then a day of Museums: Up to the Cloisters, barely past opening time, serenity and beauty, side by side. The Cloisters are a division of the Metropolitan Museum of Art and our little badges are good for both places. So back into the car, a quick drive over to Fifth Avenue and as I turn to look for parking, a space opens up, an omen of the continued good day.
We have figured out on past visits what we like so even though the Met can be daunting we are a team with a mission – a surgical strike and back onto the streets. Barely past mid-day and what a day it is. Sunny and warm, low humidity, a pleasant breeze: too beautiful to not savor the City some more. So back into the car and downtown: Did I recently mention “an outdoor space on a perfect temperate night”? Why not on a perfect temperate day? I find the place and at that moment a parking space opens right out front. For those who are reading and wondering why such excitement over parking spaces, I remind you we are talking of Manhattan: The gods of parking are never to be trifled with.
The cafe is hopping but we are immediately seated: an outdoor table shaded by trees. Now I need to mention that this is not a gay restaurant but there are gays about. As we sit there Carrie looks over my shoulder – a table with two men and a woman, one of the men clearly gay – and says: “Too young.” Then glancing at a different angle points out a table with three men, three gay men even with the gaydar turned off. She notes they are a better fit – right age, right look. This is all done discretely as our daughter works on her burger. A little later another gay couple: hardly a mention by now. But then they are joined by some more friends and as they kiss European style, I see Carrie smile. Quite the little show.
We return home, seventy-two hours that felt so right comes to a close and as I swing in my hammock I try to put it in perspective. I suppose it is having had so many different pieces of the puzzle that is me come together at different times and different ways. I suppose it is the fact that I can admit to such pleasure of my evening with Phil and with my time with Carrie and family. I suppose it is the fact that I can accept my desires and appreciate how much a bond of friendship adds to the mix – gay or straight.
But ultimately what I am left with was today – the fact that Carrie and I could have such a nice day while continuing to come to grips with the reality of our lives and the fact that we can still talk and joke (though I did not find the first guy to be too young). I asked her tonight – now that she is such an aficionado of gay men – if she saw me as one of them and she thought and laughed. She pointed out how gay I seem to her in many ways – the way I run or move at times – and my knee jerk reaction was to feel hurt. But that gave way in a moment to the sheer humor of it and the fact that she was right.
On Friday my friend asked if magically I was no longer gay could the marriage be repaired. Of course such talk is silly but I told him how if there was a pill I would take it tomorrow, but let’s be real. While there may be truth to swallowing that pill, there is also untruth. The truth, the real truth, is I like myself – always have. Maybe that sounds egotistical but ego in moderation is healthy. And if I like myself then I do not think I get to pick and choose which pieces of Nate’s basic nature I keep and which I toss. I suspect that if the pill was put before me today, I would read the booklet, check out those risk factors, think of being a different person. I would pick it up and hold it between my fingers. And with all my strength I would likely put it back down.
Because last June I was writing posts discussing the difference between wants and needs. This year I chose not to write it, but my thoughts were on the silliness of wants and needs when the real issue is one of being, just being.
We have figured out on past visits what we like so even though the Met can be daunting we are a team with a mission – a surgical strike and back onto the streets. Barely past mid-day and what a day it is. Sunny and warm, low humidity, a pleasant breeze: too beautiful to not savor the City some more. So back into the car and downtown: Did I recently mention “an outdoor space on a perfect temperate night”? Why not on a perfect temperate day? I find the place and at that moment a parking space opens right out front. For those who are reading and wondering why such excitement over parking spaces, I remind you we are talking of Manhattan: The gods of parking are never to be trifled with.
The cafe is hopping but we are immediately seated: an outdoor table shaded by trees. Now I need to mention that this is not a gay restaurant but there are gays about. As we sit there Carrie looks over my shoulder – a table with two men and a woman, one of the men clearly gay – and says: “Too young.” Then glancing at a different angle points out a table with three men, three gay men even with the gaydar turned off. She notes they are a better fit – right age, right look. This is all done discretely as our daughter works on her burger. A little later another gay couple: hardly a mention by now. But then they are joined by some more friends and as they kiss European style, I see Carrie smile. Quite the little show.
We return home, seventy-two hours that felt so right comes to a close and as I swing in my hammock I try to put it in perspective. I suppose it is having had so many different pieces of the puzzle that is me come together at different times and different ways. I suppose it is the fact that I can admit to such pleasure of my evening with Phil and with my time with Carrie and family. I suppose it is the fact that I can accept my desires and appreciate how much a bond of friendship adds to the mix – gay or straight.
But ultimately what I am left with was today – the fact that Carrie and I could have such a nice day while continuing to come to grips with the reality of our lives and the fact that we can still talk and joke (though I did not find the first guy to be too young). I asked her tonight – now that she is such an aficionado of gay men – if she saw me as one of them and she thought and laughed. She pointed out how gay I seem to her in many ways – the way I run or move at times – and my knee jerk reaction was to feel hurt. But that gave way in a moment to the sheer humor of it and the fact that she was right.
On Friday my friend asked if magically I was no longer gay could the marriage be repaired. Of course such talk is silly but I told him how if there was a pill I would take it tomorrow, but let’s be real. While there may be truth to swallowing that pill, there is also untruth. The truth, the real truth, is I like myself – always have. Maybe that sounds egotistical but ego in moderation is healthy. And if I like myself then I do not think I get to pick and choose which pieces of Nate’s basic nature I keep and which I toss. I suspect that if the pill was put before me today, I would read the booklet, check out those risk factors, think of being a different person. I would pick it up and hold it between my fingers. And with all my strength I would likely put it back down.
Because last June I was writing posts discussing the difference between wants and needs. This year I chose not to write it, but my thoughts were on the silliness of wants and needs when the real issue is one of being, just being.
Saturday, June 23, 2007
Seventy-Two Hours
It seems strange to be writing a post on the laptop sitting in the screened in porch, gazing at the backyard. Carrie is off to the left in a recliner and the dogs are circling as they are wont to do. The strangeness is the shear normalcy in the middle of the maelstrom of our lives. As I swung in the hammock earlier, enjoying what is still for the moment home, I considered the past seventy-two hours.
It was Wednesday afternoon that I checked in with Phil – I was in the City and figured we could catch dinner before the suburbs beckoned. It worked for him so we met on a Manhattan street corner and started to wander towards his apartment. On the way we passed a public art exhibit and spent some time looking and talking. And then a quick stop at his apartment which ended up being not so quick. As always, I leave some things to the imagination. Then off to a roof top bar – so what if the average age was twenty years our junior. The drinks were okay: the skyline views intoxicating.
Phil asked of my Father’s Day. I tell him of a cool shirt from my daughter – one that came with the note: “For when you go out!” In case I had missed the intent, she later explained that it was perfect for a New York summer bar. I tell Phil of Carrie’s gifts: a recliner for the backyard – her backyard, my backyard, it is so complicated. And then in the true spirit of mixed messages some boxers and tees – my favored summer sleeping. When I comment she must be bored of my old ones as I float around the house, she tells me these are for my nights out with the boys. In a rare moment of judgment, I do not share that on those nights, I do not use pajamas.
We finish our drinks and downtown for dinner, an outdoor space on a perfect temperate night. And then a walk across the village and some coffee and desert. Phil knows the City better than I and shows me things – different styles of brickwork, unusual buildings. We end the night on a subway back uptown leaning into each other as the evening drew to close. For once I get the coming home part right – it is after midnight and all is quiet.
The next day was a graduation – grade school albeit, but still big for two little ones. An afternoon off, a small family dinner: the real celebration will be the next night, but let’s not get ahead of things. That evening I had planned to attend a gay men’s reading group. It had popped up recently while trolling the net and I had even read the book. But Wednesday had been late and it was a graduation day, so home I remain. I go down to my basement office to write but my daughter is on my computer. She offers to finish up but I tell her keep playing, I lay on the couch, we exchange occasional thoughts and comments. And at some point I nap. When I awake she is still there and we continue to quietly commune. For at least one night I have chosen wisely.
Friday we celebrate – the graduation and a going off to sleep away camp for one of the kids – her first time. We have our insular family, we have a gathering of the older kids, and we have the couple who have been there with us every step of the last twenty years. And yes, we have the steaks and lobsters. In the strangeness that passes for our lives, the total success of the evening is also its dark cloud. This is our life as we once envisioned it, the backyard looks great, the evening air cool and fresh with the backdrop of music punctuated by conversation and laughter: Family and friends that any would take. It was perfect. That is except for the fact that we are separated, that I am gay, that the late night conversation – us and our friends – is on where I should move.
Everyone leaves and Carrie and I hold each other, tears are lurking. We talk but what can one say. Ultimately she is right: I never stopped when the opportunity was offered, I never accepted the unsaid offer of discrete sexual liaisons. Even if I could offer that I would not “live” my gayness, it would not change who I am. And of course that is ultimately the deal breaker. So she sheds her tears, freely now, and I try to comfort, but really, what comfort is there?
For those who are counting we are not yet near seventy-two hours but it is time to step back and let the evening settle. Tomorrow is another day, and early one at that.
It was Wednesday afternoon that I checked in with Phil – I was in the City and figured we could catch dinner before the suburbs beckoned. It worked for him so we met on a Manhattan street corner and started to wander towards his apartment. On the way we passed a public art exhibit and spent some time looking and talking. And then a quick stop at his apartment which ended up being not so quick. As always, I leave some things to the imagination. Then off to a roof top bar – so what if the average age was twenty years our junior. The drinks were okay: the skyline views intoxicating.
Phil asked of my Father’s Day. I tell him of a cool shirt from my daughter – one that came with the note: “For when you go out!” In case I had missed the intent, she later explained that it was perfect for a New York summer bar. I tell Phil of Carrie’s gifts: a recliner for the backyard – her backyard, my backyard, it is so complicated. And then in the true spirit of mixed messages some boxers and tees – my favored summer sleeping. When I comment she must be bored of my old ones as I float around the house, she tells me these are for my nights out with the boys. In a rare moment of judgment, I do not share that on those nights, I do not use pajamas.
We finish our drinks and downtown for dinner, an outdoor space on a perfect temperate night. And then a walk across the village and some coffee and desert. Phil knows the City better than I and shows me things – different styles of brickwork, unusual buildings. We end the night on a subway back uptown leaning into each other as the evening drew to close. For once I get the coming home part right – it is after midnight and all is quiet.
The next day was a graduation – grade school albeit, but still big for two little ones. An afternoon off, a small family dinner: the real celebration will be the next night, but let’s not get ahead of things. That evening I had planned to attend a gay men’s reading group. It had popped up recently while trolling the net and I had even read the book. But Wednesday had been late and it was a graduation day, so home I remain. I go down to my basement office to write but my daughter is on my computer. She offers to finish up but I tell her keep playing, I lay on the couch, we exchange occasional thoughts and comments. And at some point I nap. When I awake she is still there and we continue to quietly commune. For at least one night I have chosen wisely.
Friday we celebrate – the graduation and a going off to sleep away camp for one of the kids – her first time. We have our insular family, we have a gathering of the older kids, and we have the couple who have been there with us every step of the last twenty years. And yes, we have the steaks and lobsters. In the strangeness that passes for our lives, the total success of the evening is also its dark cloud. This is our life as we once envisioned it, the backyard looks great, the evening air cool and fresh with the backdrop of music punctuated by conversation and laughter: Family and friends that any would take. It was perfect. That is except for the fact that we are separated, that I am gay, that the late night conversation – us and our friends – is on where I should move.
Everyone leaves and Carrie and I hold each other, tears are lurking. We talk but what can one say. Ultimately she is right: I never stopped when the opportunity was offered, I never accepted the unsaid offer of discrete sexual liaisons. Even if I could offer that I would not “live” my gayness, it would not change who I am. And of course that is ultimately the deal breaker. So she sheds her tears, freely now, and I try to comfort, but really, what comfort is there?
For those who are counting we are not yet near seventy-two hours but it is time to step back and let the evening settle. Tomorrow is another day, and early one at that.
Monday, June 18, 2007
Shopping Anyone?
After a night of serious reading, my eyes drooping (it is late) and my spirits sagging (an unhappy ending to my novel on top of a sad sort of evening), it is time for one last check of the e-mails.
And it turns out a little smile to end my day.
Monday, June 11, 2007
Ownership
A few weeks ago I attended my gay dad’s meeting – an 8 PM tee-off on a Friday evening. While I could have worked late, my concentration was off (no surprise there) and I was in the big City. So with some time to kill I consider my options: why, a gay bar of course. Now bars and me do not really mix – not unless I am already with a friend when I walk in. But it seemed like a thing to do, a way of mainlining gay culture. I expressed this ambivalence to Sis and she took me to task: “Don’t go if you don’t want to: write, walk – Do whatever you want.”
Feeling a mite misunderstood in this cyber exchange, I whip out the cell and call across the country. “I do want to go, but bars and me…” And then she pulled out of that bottomless hat of hers a telling point: “Go” she tells me: “Or don’t go. I don’t care, but take ownership of what you do.”
The word – ownership – instantly caught my attention but it is in the days and weeks since that it has continued to percolate and grow richer with time. I have spent much time rejecting ownership of my gayness in ways big and small. I am reduced to Sis reminding me to do what I choose and to Carrie reminding me to read my own blog. I remind myself that I must first own my own life: then the rest will follow. And the twin of ownership – the good twin – is to embrace.
Last weekend I had the opportunity to test these concepts, to take ownership out for test drive. In an e-mail to Phil a passing reference that I will be in the City Friday: an early business dinner. Phil goes away most weekends so I did not expect the invitation to spend the night. Now the last time – the only time - I stayed in his apartment was almost a month ago and my neurosis ran rampant. I fixated on staying and going, on moments with my new friends and anticipated consequences with my home life. I drove myself near mad.
Carrie had already presumed I would spend that night in the City – well before I had even e-mailed Phil. We discussed the problems of last time and she asked that I come home at an off hour – very late or very early – Sunday AM in her mind. A place to spend Friday night was a stretch, but I did pull it off. Saturday night: well, we will get back to that.
My Friday business dinner finally ends and off to Phil’s. This time I knew to bring a bag not my baggage. For the first time I spend the night without a worry of the consequences. I live in the moment without the clouds of guilt and fear obscuring the sun. The “sun” made it better warming all we did: it made the sex better, it made the hanging in the bars better, and it even made the sleep better. It was liberating.
The next day Phil and I woke together – yes we played as two gay men might and yes enjoyed a shower together. Then time for the day – breakfast at a diner, coffee and newspapers and the lightest of chatter. Then some time around town until I dropped Phil off at his friend in the suburbs: a quick hello to Stan, a quicker goodbye to Phil and back in the car. Now I had no place to go, but I am clever enough to know when to move on. It was with a light heart that I popped in the car and disappeared around the corner. It was 3 PM on Saturday.
I was well aware that Carrie wanted me to arrive home at an off hour. I was well aware that 3 PM on a Saturday afternoon is anything but an off hour. And I was well aware that I really had no place to go. Sure I could have killed a few hours, but arriving home at 6 PM struck me as even worse. I round the corner and whip out the cell. I ask permission to return and it is coolly granted. Return I do, quietly but our home is no mansion and my presence is noted. The temperature has shifted, the cool now bordering on frigid.
She is right – how can I walk in like nothing has occurred, like I am coming from the library. I am right – it is my home, my only home: should I just wander for eight hours awaiting the cloak of the night. We are both right and it is a situation that will recur. We have anticipated this, tried to finesse it, but it continues to lurk.
That night I think more about ownership, about my plans for an apartment. I think of the waiting until the fall – no need to rush into things. I particularly think of the winter rental – Labor Day to Memorial Day, a nice beach community: why does it smell so sweet? I know the answer – it’s the dream that in nine months things will be healed, that it will be time to return home or to make new decisions as if the decision has not been already made. It is again a failure to take ownership, a failure at embracing the reality of my life.
Sunday dawns and Carrie and I calmly talk. We talk over the Sunday paper – the real estate section to be exact. It is time to find a place – not a temporary place, not a seasonal rental. It is time to find a new home - close by where I can see my children many times each and every week. But a home – not just a crash pad – where when I return at night I can feel comfortable. We have seven years before packing the kids off to college. It is time to make myself a home for those seven years.
And it is time to do it while Carrie and I are still best friends. I knew on Saturday with Phil when I was about to overstay my welcome. It is now time to practice that with Carrie.
"And then I go outside and join the others, I am the others,"
Dar Williams
Feeling a mite misunderstood in this cyber exchange, I whip out the cell and call across the country. “I do want to go, but bars and me…” And then she pulled out of that bottomless hat of hers a telling point: “Go” she tells me: “Or don’t go. I don’t care, but take ownership of what you do.”
The word – ownership – instantly caught my attention but it is in the days and weeks since that it has continued to percolate and grow richer with time. I have spent much time rejecting ownership of my gayness in ways big and small. I am reduced to Sis reminding me to do what I choose and to Carrie reminding me to read my own blog. I remind myself that I must first own my own life: then the rest will follow. And the twin of ownership – the good twin – is to embrace.
Last weekend I had the opportunity to test these concepts, to take ownership out for test drive. In an e-mail to Phil a passing reference that I will be in the City Friday: an early business dinner. Phil goes away most weekends so I did not expect the invitation to spend the night. Now the last time – the only time - I stayed in his apartment was almost a month ago and my neurosis ran rampant. I fixated on staying and going, on moments with my new friends and anticipated consequences with my home life. I drove myself near mad.
Carrie had already presumed I would spend that night in the City – well before I had even e-mailed Phil. We discussed the problems of last time and she asked that I come home at an off hour – very late or very early – Sunday AM in her mind. A place to spend Friday night was a stretch, but I did pull it off. Saturday night: well, we will get back to that.
My Friday business dinner finally ends and off to Phil’s. This time I knew to bring a bag not my baggage. For the first time I spend the night without a worry of the consequences. I live in the moment without the clouds of guilt and fear obscuring the sun. The “sun” made it better warming all we did: it made the sex better, it made the hanging in the bars better, and it even made the sleep better. It was liberating.
The next day Phil and I woke together – yes we played as two gay men might and yes enjoyed a shower together. Then time for the day – breakfast at a diner, coffee and newspapers and the lightest of chatter. Then some time around town until I dropped Phil off at his friend in the suburbs: a quick hello to Stan, a quicker goodbye to Phil and back in the car. Now I had no place to go, but I am clever enough to know when to move on. It was with a light heart that I popped in the car and disappeared around the corner. It was 3 PM on Saturday.
I was well aware that Carrie wanted me to arrive home at an off hour. I was well aware that 3 PM on a Saturday afternoon is anything but an off hour. And I was well aware that I really had no place to go. Sure I could have killed a few hours, but arriving home at 6 PM struck me as even worse. I round the corner and whip out the cell. I ask permission to return and it is coolly granted. Return I do, quietly but our home is no mansion and my presence is noted. The temperature has shifted, the cool now bordering on frigid.
She is right – how can I walk in like nothing has occurred, like I am coming from the library. I am right – it is my home, my only home: should I just wander for eight hours awaiting the cloak of the night. We are both right and it is a situation that will recur. We have anticipated this, tried to finesse it, but it continues to lurk.
That night I think more about ownership, about my plans for an apartment. I think of the waiting until the fall – no need to rush into things. I particularly think of the winter rental – Labor Day to Memorial Day, a nice beach community: why does it smell so sweet? I know the answer – it’s the dream that in nine months things will be healed, that it will be time to return home or to make new decisions as if the decision has not been already made. It is again a failure to take ownership, a failure at embracing the reality of my life.
Sunday dawns and Carrie and I calmly talk. We talk over the Sunday paper – the real estate section to be exact. It is time to find a place – not a temporary place, not a seasonal rental. It is time to find a new home - close by where I can see my children many times each and every week. But a home – not just a crash pad – where when I return at night I can feel comfortable. We have seven years before packing the kids off to college. It is time to make myself a home for those seven years.
And it is time to do it while Carrie and I are still best friends. I knew on Saturday with Phil when I was about to overstay my welcome. It is now time to practice that with Carrie.
"And then I go outside and join the others, I am the others,"
Dar Williams
Sunday, June 10, 2007
More Masonry
So today I met Frank, the outgoing leader of the local Masonic lodge. He was grateful as I returned the items and asked where I found them. When I mentioned the handicapped parking space he laughed as he explained the owner of these items was handicapped and like many of his lodge mates must have put the items on the roof of the car to open the door. And of course he just drove off – a moment some of us have had and most of us have feared.
Frank again asked if I was interested in the Masons – I struck him as a fine man – and took the opportunity to share a moment about them. Now I was expecting to maybe hear of the sense of fraternity and the fun at the meetings. But Frank – a nice man without agenda – needed to share their current project. They are doing a child safety project – pictures and fingerprints on a CD in case a child goes missing. I was struck by this. I suspect the community service aspects of the fraternal organizations are more noticeable in smaller towns, places where they are the lead in the local papers. But in a close in suburb of New York City it is not exactly front page news.
So I am still going to take a pass on becoming a Mason, but I am glad that I had my five minutes with Frank. It’s funny – I teased about putting a face on the gay community for him and instead he put the face on his community for me.
Frank again asked if I was interested in the Masons – I struck him as a fine man – and took the opportunity to share a moment about them. Now I was expecting to maybe hear of the sense of fraternity and the fun at the meetings. But Frank – a nice man without agenda – needed to share their current project. They are doing a child safety project – pictures and fingerprints on a CD in case a child goes missing. I was struck by this. I suspect the community service aspects of the fraternal organizations are more noticeable in smaller towns, places where they are the lead in the local papers. But in a close in suburb of New York City it is not exactly front page news.
So I am still going to take a pass on becoming a Mason, but I am glad that I had my five minutes with Frank. It’s funny – I teased about putting a face on the gay community for him and instead he put the face on his community for me.
Friday, June 08, 2007
Masonry
No, not the bricks by my pool which can use some work: Freemasons as in the secret handshake and the like. But I am getting ahead of myself.
Yesterday while walking in the railroad parking lot, one underneath a rather dingy trestle, I spotted a glimpse of a hat. There on the ground it was: perfectly folded complete with gold letters along with a starched white apron with a Mason’s symbol, and a folder with a few papers. No one had run it over yet – an inevitability for that spot – and it was clearly possessions cherished by someone.
My schedule was tight so I took the items, tossed them in the car, and hit the trains. I forgot about the whole thing, that is until I got back in my car that evening and saw them waiting for me.
That night I prepared for a project – enlisted the children – to use the clues to track down the owner. When I opened the folder and found a program from the previous night’s dinner, I realized my task was easy: there was the lodge leader’s home phone number. Seven digits and I had his wife – he was (surprise) at a lodge meeting but would call me in the morning.
And so he did. I will return the items to him on Sunday – a ten minute ride. He offered me lunch (I declined) and then said something which caught my attention: Was I interested in becoming a Mason? Now I am not the fraternal organization type on a good day and I am not sure the past year and a half qualifies as a good day in any event. But here was this sweet offer. I politely demurred.
The thing is that part of me on Sunday looks forward to handing him the items and heading my merry way. But there is another part of me which would like to say:
“I don’t think I’m really your target market. I am a liberal Democrat gay Jew.”
I won’t say that of course, but there is that little piece of me which just wants to share that simple acts of courtesy really are universal and maybe leave one little mark that gays are really okay.
Time for the weekend: I am still uncomfortable with the terms, but I suppose I do have a date – a night in the City with Phil (pre-discussed at home: no more surprises) and a day at the beach with him and Stan tomorrow. The new life begins.
Have a good weekend all.
Yesterday while walking in the railroad parking lot, one underneath a rather dingy trestle, I spotted a glimpse of a hat. There on the ground it was: perfectly folded complete with gold letters along with a starched white apron with a Mason’s symbol, and a folder with a few papers. No one had run it over yet – an inevitability for that spot – and it was clearly possessions cherished by someone.
My schedule was tight so I took the items, tossed them in the car, and hit the trains. I forgot about the whole thing, that is until I got back in my car that evening and saw them waiting for me.
That night I prepared for a project – enlisted the children – to use the clues to track down the owner. When I opened the folder and found a program from the previous night’s dinner, I realized my task was easy: there was the lodge leader’s home phone number. Seven digits and I had his wife – he was (surprise) at a lodge meeting but would call me in the morning.
And so he did. I will return the items to him on Sunday – a ten minute ride. He offered me lunch (I declined) and then said something which caught my attention: Was I interested in becoming a Mason? Now I am not the fraternal organization type on a good day and I am not sure the past year and a half qualifies as a good day in any event. But here was this sweet offer. I politely demurred.
The thing is that part of me on Sunday looks forward to handing him the items and heading my merry way. But there is another part of me which would like to say:
“I don’t think I’m really your target market. I am a liberal Democrat gay Jew.”
I won’t say that of course, but there is that little piece of me which just wants to share that simple acts of courtesy really are universal and maybe leave one little mark that gays are really okay.
Time for the weekend: I am still uncomfortable with the terms, but I suppose I do have a date – a night in the City with Phil (pre-discussed at home: no more surprises) and a day at the beach with him and Stan tomorrow. The new life begins.
Have a good weekend all.
Monday, June 04, 2007
Moments
A few weeks ago I went out with some new friends, the famed night or as I have already written the infamous morning, the legendary late arrival home. And as I have thought of the evening I have realized a few things. I spent sixteen hours on this expedition, two of which were emotionally trying for me. I have written of those two hours, waved them as proof of my underlying devotion to Carrie. But the other fourteen, I have treated with a wave – yes it was good, but oh the angst.
I have written of a choice – drive my car into the City and be prepared for an early morning escape or travel with my friends. It was raining after all: such a good reason not to take two cars with its implications of safety and maturity. I mean I have only been driving into the City for thirty-six years and yes, sometimes in the rain. I did make a choice that evening. I chose to stay with my friends, to go with the flow, to ride in the backseat knowing I would not have it to myself. I wanted to be with them and to experience all of it. The rain does sound better, but really.
I have been considering this but today was called on it. An out of town friend – one who I am fully out to - phoned and I was telling him of this week's decision to find a place of my own. He is about to end a ten plus year run of sharing the house but not the bedroom with his wife: they did it for the children. He truly can say “been there, done that” and today he honestly noted that it is a severely flawed model. He supports the moving out to enable the moving on. I told him of the weekend, of Carrie’s upset over the late arrival. And he politely but directly made the point that I had made choices and those choices illuminate my desires.
I have wrestled with what to say about that weekend in these pages. Part of me says the unsaid says enough and part of me wants to be a sex blogger with a blow by blow (what apt imagery I suppose) of the whole night. I will err somewhat on the side of modesty, but there are some moments that just stand out. One was going to be the basis for its own post – even had the title picked out: Juxtaposition. Our first stop in the City was a party – one where a catering room is rented out by a specific group – this was an Indian / Caribbean party, quiet at 11 when we arrived, but soon pulsating.
Well into the evening Phil asks me if I want another drink – I have already had a few and suggest that I would be willing to share. He smiles and takes my order. A few minutes later we are perched against the wall on a small speaker, a quiet spot under the circumstances. He goes to kiss me and my mouth is infused with alcohol: we truly are sharing the drink. And as we are “sharing”, a woman comes up in front of us and looking beyond us adjusts her – I was going to say blouse, but it was her cleavage. I suspect we were sitting in front of a mirrored wall, we were just background – she was the picture.
Phil is aware of my gaze and I admit that under other circumstances she could also make me happy. He laughs and says that if he was not there I would be happy to do her then, as would he. My turn to laugh as he lifts the glass, takes another drink and we again kiss, the liquor flowing between our mouths. I tell this for a reason, for it was then for the first time that I truly felt that it was okay to be a gay man and still admire and even desire women. I was not being kicked out of the gay club and more importantly I could not use it as the old excuse to myself. To look at women and pretend that I am not so gay may have worked in the past, but to look and then be right back to “sharing” the drink, Absolut Mandarin coursing back and forth, our tongues dancing, tasting. No, that was a gay moment, pure and simple.
It was a night – and morning - of moments, kissing and touching, blowjobs and hugging. A night of sitting at a table with three other men sharing dinner and a morning of sitting at a table with the same men having breakfast. Moments of humor, moments of sex, some raw and some tender. Moments discussing basements (the live-in variety) and moments discussing New York urban architecture.
I wanted to go with the flow, to have the experience and I did. I write of this on some level to share my story –this is a public blog, not a private diary. But I also write because it is true. And maybe one day sitting alone in my apartment (it is out there somewhere), I will go back and re-read this. And on that day as much as I will want to remember the two hours of angst, a misjudgment, I will instead remember all those other moments. And maybe it will bring a little smile to me and surely it will be a reminder of who I am and why I am where I am.
I have written of a choice – drive my car into the City and be prepared for an early morning escape or travel with my friends. It was raining after all: such a good reason not to take two cars with its implications of safety and maturity. I mean I have only been driving into the City for thirty-six years and yes, sometimes in the rain. I did make a choice that evening. I chose to stay with my friends, to go with the flow, to ride in the backseat knowing I would not have it to myself. I wanted to be with them and to experience all of it. The rain does sound better, but really.
I have been considering this but today was called on it. An out of town friend – one who I am fully out to - phoned and I was telling him of this week's decision to find a place of my own. He is about to end a ten plus year run of sharing the house but not the bedroom with his wife: they did it for the children. He truly can say “been there, done that” and today he honestly noted that it is a severely flawed model. He supports the moving out to enable the moving on. I told him of the weekend, of Carrie’s upset over the late arrival. And he politely but directly made the point that I had made choices and those choices illuminate my desires.
I have wrestled with what to say about that weekend in these pages. Part of me says the unsaid says enough and part of me wants to be a sex blogger with a blow by blow (what apt imagery I suppose) of the whole night. I will err somewhat on the side of modesty, but there are some moments that just stand out. One was going to be the basis for its own post – even had the title picked out: Juxtaposition. Our first stop in the City was a party – one where a catering room is rented out by a specific group – this was an Indian / Caribbean party, quiet at 11 when we arrived, but soon pulsating.
Well into the evening Phil asks me if I want another drink – I have already had a few and suggest that I would be willing to share. He smiles and takes my order. A few minutes later we are perched against the wall on a small speaker, a quiet spot under the circumstances. He goes to kiss me and my mouth is infused with alcohol: we truly are sharing the drink. And as we are “sharing”, a woman comes up in front of us and looking beyond us adjusts her – I was going to say blouse, but it was her cleavage. I suspect we were sitting in front of a mirrored wall, we were just background – she was the picture.
Phil is aware of my gaze and I admit that under other circumstances she could also make me happy. He laughs and says that if he was not there I would be happy to do her then, as would he. My turn to laugh as he lifts the glass, takes another drink and we again kiss, the liquor flowing between our mouths. I tell this for a reason, for it was then for the first time that I truly felt that it was okay to be a gay man and still admire and even desire women. I was not being kicked out of the gay club and more importantly I could not use it as the old excuse to myself. To look at women and pretend that I am not so gay may have worked in the past, but to look and then be right back to “sharing” the drink, Absolut Mandarin coursing back and forth, our tongues dancing, tasting. No, that was a gay moment, pure and simple.
It was a night – and morning - of moments, kissing and touching, blowjobs and hugging. A night of sitting at a table with three other men sharing dinner and a morning of sitting at a table with the same men having breakfast. Moments of humor, moments of sex, some raw and some tender. Moments discussing basements (the live-in variety) and moments discussing New York urban architecture.
I wanted to go with the flow, to have the experience and I did. I write of this on some level to share my story –this is a public blog, not a private diary. But I also write because it is true. And maybe one day sitting alone in my apartment (it is out there somewhere), I will go back and re-read this. And on that day as much as I will want to remember the two hours of angst, a misjudgment, I will instead remember all those other moments. And maybe it will bring a little smile to me and surely it will be a reminder of who I am and why I am where I am.
Saturday, June 02, 2007
The Promised Land
I am driven: at work it has served me well – quite socially acceptable and rewarding in many ways. I am also sequential (or as a client preferred to phrase it once, a tad OCD) - a straight line approach to solving problems.
These skills serve me quite well professionally but have some real limitations in life, particularly as I try to navigate some hairpin turns. If my life was a car you would hear two wheels screeching and the ultimate crash. Navigating the Titanic – that would be me – full speed ahead.
This line of thought struck me on my way home from the gay dads support group. There are men who have been coming for years – five, ten, maybe more; there are men who have been divorced for years, men with partners. Yet here they are at the meetings, struggling with issues of children, struggling with coming out. As one man said tonight, coming out is an ongoing process, just part of our lives. And I look at my life and realize both how far I have come and how far I have to go. A culture of immediate gratification has taken its toll.
I stepped back from my blog last week when I realized that I was just repeating myself, hopefully well written, but repetition of a theme all the same. A whininess had seeped in, that uncomfortable feeling of watching someone embarrass themselves. Time for a break until there is something new to say: I do have some things to add, but as always first I must digress.
Recently there was a day when my therapist asked what it is that I want: my flippant answer – everything. That same evening I went to my Married Gay group – round five of a scheduled six rounder. Maybe it was random or maybe in the facilitator’s playbook that they can get feisty for the last sessions, but the question from the morning reappeared: “What do you want?” I hem and haw, I try to claim everything – the dollar and a dream theory. I answer without answering. Again Jim asks: “But what do YOU want?” Finally in frustration I blurt out an answer: to be with a man, to truly explore my gay side.
The next night an impromptu dinner out with just Carrie – kids off with their friends. We talk as only old friends can. I tell her of being pressed by the facilitator. I do not share my answer. No need: the truth has been clear to her for a long time and probably clear to me in the quiet moments I am willing to admit it. I am not only a gay man, but I want to live as one. We discuss the problems inherent with the current living situation. One of the older kids described it as toxic the other day. It is a comfortable toxicity - carbon monoxide, not sulfuric acid: but toxic all the same in a somnolent sort of way.
We do not expect to be back together, not in the sharing the bedroom sense. But even being back together for sitting on the porch as old friends could only occur upon my returning from these new lands. And one has to leave in order to return. We realize that this is not an overnight proposition and I am beyond "come to Jesus" moments. But the start of that road needs to be through my own front door.
Our timetable will be figured out - presumably the fall when I can get a winter rental in a nearby beach community. We then have the summer to prepare the twins and ourselves, time for us all to adjust to the changes ahead and be made comfortable that even with a new geography, we are still a family.
It would be a move with a beginning and an end - nine months to try it on, to grow into things, nine months gestation for a new life for all of us. And after nine months I suspect the decisions will be easier, the lay of the land clearer. But before the nine months, there are some days coming up: the day we tell the twins, the day I sign a lease and of course the day I pass through our front door, suitcases in hand. There will be many tears that day and hopefully a rainbow when the sun does come out. It always does.
So our journey continues. I harbor no illusions of the road ahead - highs and surely lows. I accept that there will be days this summer - frequent I suspect - when I will tell myself I can change my mind, it’s a nice basement. But my support team of Sis and Carrie will be there to remind me of all I have said, of all I have written, of who I am.
I do not want to grow old wondering who I am and it is no longer necessary for me to know where my road ultimately leads. It is no longer a matter of comfort and I am learning that happiness is a by product, not a goal. If I can live with honesty to myself and respect for those around me then the road will be fine.
It is time to take the ride where ever it leads. It is time to live book three. I'm in.
Posted with the humility the journey here has taught me.
HakaN
There's a dark cloud rising from the desert floor
I packed my bags and I'm heading straight into the storm
Gonna be a twister to blow everything down
That ain't got the faith to stand its ground
Blow away the dreams that tear you apart
Blow away the dreams that break your heart
Blow away the lies that leave you nothing but lost andbrokenhearted
...
Mister I ain't a boy no I'm a man
And I believe in a promised land
Bruce Springsteen
These skills serve me quite well professionally but have some real limitations in life, particularly as I try to navigate some hairpin turns. If my life was a car you would hear two wheels screeching and the ultimate crash. Navigating the Titanic – that would be me – full speed ahead.
This line of thought struck me on my way home from the gay dads support group. There are men who have been coming for years – five, ten, maybe more; there are men who have been divorced for years, men with partners. Yet here they are at the meetings, struggling with issues of children, struggling with coming out. As one man said tonight, coming out is an ongoing process, just part of our lives. And I look at my life and realize both how far I have come and how far I have to go. A culture of immediate gratification has taken its toll.
I stepped back from my blog last week when I realized that I was just repeating myself, hopefully well written, but repetition of a theme all the same. A whininess had seeped in, that uncomfortable feeling of watching someone embarrass themselves. Time for a break until there is something new to say: I do have some things to add, but as always first I must digress.
Recently there was a day when my therapist asked what it is that I want: my flippant answer – everything. That same evening I went to my Married Gay group – round five of a scheduled six rounder. Maybe it was random or maybe in the facilitator’s playbook that they can get feisty for the last sessions, but the question from the morning reappeared: “What do you want?” I hem and haw, I try to claim everything – the dollar and a dream theory. I answer without answering. Again Jim asks: “But what do YOU want?” Finally in frustration I blurt out an answer: to be with a man, to truly explore my gay side.
The next night an impromptu dinner out with just Carrie – kids off with their friends. We talk as only old friends can. I tell her of being pressed by the facilitator. I do not share my answer. No need: the truth has been clear to her for a long time and probably clear to me in the quiet moments I am willing to admit it. I am not only a gay man, but I want to live as one. We discuss the problems inherent with the current living situation. One of the older kids described it as toxic the other day. It is a comfortable toxicity - carbon monoxide, not sulfuric acid: but toxic all the same in a somnolent sort of way.
We do not expect to be back together, not in the sharing the bedroom sense. But even being back together for sitting on the porch as old friends could only occur upon my returning from these new lands. And one has to leave in order to return. We realize that this is not an overnight proposition and I am beyond "come to Jesus" moments. But the start of that road needs to be through my own front door.
Our timetable will be figured out - presumably the fall when I can get a winter rental in a nearby beach community. We then have the summer to prepare the twins and ourselves, time for us all to adjust to the changes ahead and be made comfortable that even with a new geography, we are still a family.
It would be a move with a beginning and an end - nine months to try it on, to grow into things, nine months gestation for a new life for all of us. And after nine months I suspect the decisions will be easier, the lay of the land clearer. But before the nine months, there are some days coming up: the day we tell the twins, the day I sign a lease and of course the day I pass through our front door, suitcases in hand. There will be many tears that day and hopefully a rainbow when the sun does come out. It always does.
So our journey continues. I harbor no illusions of the road ahead - highs and surely lows. I accept that there will be days this summer - frequent I suspect - when I will tell myself I can change my mind, it’s a nice basement. But my support team of Sis and Carrie will be there to remind me of all I have said, of all I have written, of who I am.
I do not want to grow old wondering who I am and it is no longer necessary for me to know where my road ultimately leads. It is no longer a matter of comfort and I am learning that happiness is a by product, not a goal. If I can live with honesty to myself and respect for those around me then the road will be fine.
It is time to take the ride where ever it leads. It is time to live book three. I'm in.
Posted with the humility the journey here has taught me.
HakaN
There's a dark cloud rising from the desert floor
I packed my bags and I'm heading straight into the storm
Gonna be a twister to blow everything down
That ain't got the faith to stand its ground
Blow away the dreams that tear you apart
Blow away the dreams that break your heart
Blow away the lies that leave you nothing but lost andbrokenhearted
...
Mister I ain't a boy no I'm a man
And I believe in a promised land
Bruce Springsteen
Thursday, May 24, 2007
Learning How To Live
I am glad to have taken a few days since my last post. For those I left hanging, the rest of the story was pretty simple. I arrived home at 12:30 PM. Carrie had assumed that I would have shown the good taste of an earlier arrival. She was pissed. I was chastened. We have moved on.
Today my therapist made an interesting comment. Now this is my therapist since the fall, no Johnny come lately to the scene. Bob pointed out that he understands Carrie – a person he has never met but has heard much about. But he still does not understand me. The explanation is really quite simple. Carrie understands Carrie and that comes through in my stories. I do not understand Nate. Yes, there are all the pieces, a giant jigsaw puzzle, but I remain unable to create the cohesive picture I desire.
Bob asks what I want and the answer is easy: everything. We do live in the land of “a dollar and a dream”, my state’s lottery tag line. I can dream. Bob comments on wanting the trappings of a family and I disagree: it is not the trappings that torture me. The trappings are nice and I am not complaining, but it is the specifics that torture me. Simply put it is not the thought of not living with a woman and family. It is the thought of not living with Carrie and my children that leave my head spinning.
Carrie and I talk. We do not have any answers; lord knows if we did we would implement them. My therapist suggests that he speak to her therapist. I am happy with the suggestion but point out that Carrie will ask what the purpose is. With a smile he points out that maybe the fact that we both feel to be in purgatory? Works for me. Carrie later agrees, let the therapists talk, let them see if there is a purpose for our meeting together with one of our therapists.
We will never be in the place where we once were and maybe the next step will be from the basement to an apartment. But in spite of the massive damage that I have inflicted, I am just not ready to throw in the towel. Some will tell me to get with the program and move on, others will say keep battling. Personally, the competing voices in my own head have me reeling without the judgments of the rest of the world.
There is one thing I believe tonight: that I need to step back and get some perspective. The answer to the question of what I really want is not going to be found in actions. Actions will tell me I love my wife and that she remains my best friend. Actions will tell me that I am gay and enjoy sex with men. There are many truths in all of this, none of which alone will bring me to my own truth.
Part of stepping back is taking a little rest from these pages which have served me so well. I am sure this is not my last post and we all know the book is far from over. But like any good author, it is time to do my “research”. To continue to restate the same chapter over and over in different ways is getting old for all of us.
To my friends out there, feel free to e-mail: I am not entering a convent. To all, Thank you for being there for the last seventeen months.
They say the best is still yet to come
But the taste of you is still on my tongue.
I can't forget and I won't even try
To erase your image
And the way you made me cry.
I'm learning how to live.
Lucinda Williams
Today my therapist made an interesting comment. Now this is my therapist since the fall, no Johnny come lately to the scene. Bob pointed out that he understands Carrie – a person he has never met but has heard much about. But he still does not understand me. The explanation is really quite simple. Carrie understands Carrie and that comes through in my stories. I do not understand Nate. Yes, there are all the pieces, a giant jigsaw puzzle, but I remain unable to create the cohesive picture I desire.
Bob asks what I want and the answer is easy: everything. We do live in the land of “a dollar and a dream”, my state’s lottery tag line. I can dream. Bob comments on wanting the trappings of a family and I disagree: it is not the trappings that torture me. The trappings are nice and I am not complaining, but it is the specifics that torture me. Simply put it is not the thought of not living with a woman and family. It is the thought of not living with Carrie and my children that leave my head spinning.
Carrie and I talk. We do not have any answers; lord knows if we did we would implement them. My therapist suggests that he speak to her therapist. I am happy with the suggestion but point out that Carrie will ask what the purpose is. With a smile he points out that maybe the fact that we both feel to be in purgatory? Works for me. Carrie later agrees, let the therapists talk, let them see if there is a purpose for our meeting together with one of our therapists.
We will never be in the place where we once were and maybe the next step will be from the basement to an apartment. But in spite of the massive damage that I have inflicted, I am just not ready to throw in the towel. Some will tell me to get with the program and move on, others will say keep battling. Personally, the competing voices in my own head have me reeling without the judgments of the rest of the world.
There is one thing I believe tonight: that I need to step back and get some perspective. The answer to the question of what I really want is not going to be found in actions. Actions will tell me I love my wife and that she remains my best friend. Actions will tell me that I am gay and enjoy sex with men. There are many truths in all of this, none of which alone will bring me to my own truth.
Part of stepping back is taking a little rest from these pages which have served me so well. I am sure this is not my last post and we all know the book is far from over. But like any good author, it is time to do my “research”. To continue to restate the same chapter over and over in different ways is getting old for all of us.
To my friends out there, feel free to e-mail: I am not entering a convent. To all, Thank you for being there for the last seventeen months.
They say the best is still yet to come
But the taste of you is still on my tongue.
I can't forget and I won't even try
To erase your image
And the way you made me cry.
I'm learning how to live.
Lucinda Williams
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