tuesday, october 26th (2004)

9:43 p.m.

She drives me crazy the way she's always pulling at that tag of skin under her chin. She used to be beautiful. Hell, she still is. But she started developing this droop under her face. When she looked in the mirror, it was all she could see. The years catching up with her. She'd frown at her reflection, and the flesh seemed to extend the edges of her mouth downward, like the frown ran all the day down to her fucking cleagvage. She would hold the underside of her face up to her ears in front of the mirror. That's what I'd look like, she'd tell herself. But it just looked like she was being choked by an invisible hand. Plastic surgery was out of the question; she was determined to grow old gracefully, and more importantly, truthfully. To her closest girlfriends she would muse about her "chicken-neck." She was determined to make friends with this new limb. Sometimes when she lay in bed, she found herself feeling around for it in the dark. She pulled at it, fondled it, demanded it to be present at all times. Always or never, she asked of it. It promised to try, but Gravity was a powerful foe. Then again, Gravity was the owner of this loose skin, so she felt she would have to make friends with It as well. She was a good Christian girl; she believed that enemies should be made friends with. The boys she dated never noticed the purse on her head until she mentioned it. Then they would be like, "Oh, yeah, that is peculiar." And then they would find themselves losing interest in her, not really knowing why. She knew why and she made a promise to herself not to mention it anymore. Not that she was trying to hide anything (this wasn't something she could hide), but putting so much attention on it tended to put suitors ill at ease. They were not inclined to make friends with it, as they had made friends with, say, their penis or a birthmark (not that they would ever admit to that). So she stopped talking about the loose flesh under her chin; her girlfriends, too, had long since stopped wanting to talk about it. She felt a little crazy talking to it, particularly in private, so she took to stroking it. It was kind of like sign language, love from her hand to her chin skin, an unconscious thing. People might see her doing it and say, "What are you doing?" to which she would pull her hand away and say, "Nothing." Or, more likely, those people catching her doing it would examine the act in silence, and never say a word about it, lest they risk hurting her feelings. I guess I fall into that last category. But I feel better now that I've gotten it off my chest.

this is the day that the lord has made

Are you working? Or are you looking at blogs, watching the media, keeping an eye on what is happening on this historic day, like I am?

S told me he woke up at 3 a.m., anxious about today, about something going horribly wrong and Obama not getting elected.

I cut the end of my finger off last night, just a little slice with a pair of scissors while I was happily chopping up a credit card, thinking as I did it, "The future will be better with Obama!" and then chunk-- a sliver of finger came off and lay there in the pile of tiny credit card shards. The wound eventually started bleeding, so I picked up the flap of flesh and stuck it back onto where it came off from and bandaged it into place.

I tried to write for awhile -- earlier I had finished the longhand version of chapter three and wanted to type it up, and saw that it was only 10 o'clock when I started. But that was with Daylight Savings Time ending, so it was really 11, and by the time I got to the point of cutting off my fingertip it was more like 11/12, and typing was like trying to drive on a floppy flat tire, so I went to bed.

I was a little weary, a little anxious about what today would bring, about where I would be when the final announcement was made, who I would be with. A friend recently said that she didn't want to sit at home with a glass of wine nervously chewing her nails and watching the TV with her partner because that's what she did in the last several elections. She said this time she wants to be out in the world, with lots of people, watching the returns on a big TV, in a celebratory mode.That's how I feel about it, too.

Tuesday is normally S's long day at school, so I was afraid he would be absent, that I would be riding my bicycle around the streets of Austin, lonely and happy...but lonely, making out with curious lesbians in the middle of the street when the announcement was made. (That's not really a fear, there are several lesbians I might be drawn to make out with, even though I'm observing celibacy, particularly on an occasion such as this promises to be!)

But then S told me his class has been canceled for the night because it's Election Day, so I offered to buy him dinner at a Mexican restaurant called Jovita's down on South First Street where my tattoo artist told me a queer-friendly Obama Watch Party was happening. And then we'll meet up with others, perhaps, at the Driskill Hotel on Congress, if the election drags on.

I'm thinking it's likely our future will be sealed early and I can go to bed by 10 -- if not for the excitement of the world keeping me awake (which will probably also keep me from being able to write), so I might have to drink myself to sleep.

But then I think "Am I being too optimistic?" I've been cruising my regular web stations this morning -- The Dish, Huffington Post and The Daily Show -- looking for signs that the other shoe has fallen, or that the half-glass of water tipped over and spilled while nobody was watching and now it's not half-empty or half-full.

Then I read that John McCain and Sarah Palin have a 1.9% chance of winning the election and my optimism returned.

This is not just about politics. This is about changing the world. Or rather, this seems to be more about changing the world than about politics. I already feel woozy; how am I possibly going to get any work done today?

Tomorrow I expect to have the sweetest hangover that, like Diana Ross, I don't wanna get over...!

yes, i was stoned

It's just barely Friday. The moths at the porch light are turning the porch into a little disco stage, with a light breeze causing to sway the things that do. The interstate traffic two blocks west keeps a steady hum of life and industry. Two blocks east the town's oldest cemetery sees only the life of a family of red foxes inside locked wrought iron gates. I sit halfway between the two, half in the lively hum, half in the dark silence.

I'm so easily discouraged, but it's a lifelong game I've played with myself, and here in the middle it doesn't crush me so hard anymore.

I marvel at the people who want to call me friend, who will push through a crowd to embrace me as I ponder all those who don't even notice me.

The world is huge, vast, and I am just a tiny speck, but there are times, precious few, when I recognize the impact I can make, the impact I am making just by my mere presence.

There is no real need to doubt my talents, but simple recognition is meaningless without action. It's not too late, as I'm sometimes led to believe. I am doing it. I am conquering the limitations of my past lives. This is what it all comes down to, this is where it begins: Every moment lends itself to opportunity. I can go from this moment toward the rewards of my hard work. Not to prove my worth, but rather to be the worthy recipient.

It is better to give than to receive, so here you go, here is my promise to you: Expect great things of me and I will deliver. Take what I offer and cherish it for the gift it is; it will entertain you and enrich you and you will be as grateful for me as I am for you.

short - sexy - straight

Who are you?

I saw you across the way, at the table along the wall, your back against the wall, looking my way, glancing over at me, smiling at me. Nice smile, by the way. And those Nana Mouskouri glasses look good with your floppy blond hair, don't you know.

My friend across from me kept thinking I was looking at her; I had to tell her I was using her to get glances at you (fortunately, she's a lesbo so she wasn't offended). Our friend was on the stage with two other singer/songwriters -- I assumed one of them was your friend, too. I noticed the ring on your "wedding" finger, and the guy in the middle on the stage, with the sweet high tenor voice also had a ring on his finger, and it looked a lot like your ring (though of course there isn't a lot of variety in men's wedding rings). But I was convinced. When the singer sang a pronoun-free song of love, your dimples showed, you glowed. I was sure I was right.

To be honest, I didn't like his songs that much. They were okay. The other woman in the trio singing seemed to be trying to write a Nashville hit to save her soul, so I didn't like hers much at all. I was really only there for my friend, whose songs seem to come out of the depths of her heart and soul. She looked like a caged animal up on stage in that straight-backed chair. She could hardly contain her feet as she sang her songs of disappointment and despair, love and loss. There is power in her emotions.

You were the icing on the night for me.

Some other people came to sit at the table I shared with my friend, some said hello; one (straight) man whom I was a little too amorous towards once upon a time wouldn't even look my way, which isn't a new development.

I didn't care; I was enjoying my little game of catch-my-eye with you.

When I lived in New York, I used to play a game on the subway or wherever groups of strangers were caught suspended for a moment or several -- a museum exhibit or drum circle in Washington Square Park; I would commit myself to looking into a stranger's eyes, holding a gaze the longest, not looking away until after he did. It was harder than it sounds.

But there was that ring. And there was that man onstage, your man, I assumed, and it's really not my thing (anymore) to break up happy couples, or even unhappy couples. You break up, and then I'll come calling...perhaps. I pondered my "Shot in the Dark" ad for the Chronicle, but knew I wouldn't go through with it. Who reads those things anyway? What if somebody saw it was me? A friend. Would they pity me? That's the last thing I want: anybody's pity (yours among them).

So I put "our future" out of my head, just enjoyed the caught glances over the mouths of our drinking glasses.

Then there was a break in the music. You rose and came over to our table, said you liked my Obama ("Compassion for a Change") t-shirt. I told you where I got it after an initial huminah-huminah-huminah!
And that was it. Nice little exchange. Damn, you're short! Like a foot shorter than me. (I like that. I've always found short somewhat fey men quite sexy. Must be a dominance thing.)

A couple of minutes later, the singer/songwriters were off the stage, the man in the middle was at your table, and I heard your chit-chat, which didn't sound much like two men who were intimately involved (unless, I pondered, you had some sort of big closet-in-public thing going on between the two of you while your husband worked his way up to super-stardom at which point he could more easily make his Clay Aiken appeal). And then you introduced him to the woman sitting next to him as your wife. What the--

Last night I had a dream that I was at the Central Texas Democratic National Committee Campaign Headquarters (which is just a few blocks from our apartment, and which is where I got my t-shirt). I was wearing cut-offs and cowboy boots. I don't know why this detail seemed important, except that I saw a short blond man in the parking lot (you) walking with a large red-headed woman (like the "fag hag" I imagined the woman sitting next to you last night to be) and I was trying to walk more butch in my boots instead of like a drag queen in heels, in case you looked my way.

The two of you went into a store next to the campaign headquarters, a fabric store that was going out of business. The front window was smashed in and spray-painted letters all around the door announced the deep discounts going on inside. I followed after you, thinking to myself, "Well, I do need lots of fabric for curtains for my new house, and I can also look for some stretchy vinyl." That last part was a reference to a conversation I had with the neighbor on the front porch just before bed (she's been hired to make a vinyl jumpsuit for a friend and said stretchy vinyl fabric is hard to find in Austin).

When I got inside, you and The Woman were looking at furniture and talking about how well this chair would go with your couch and how this fabric matched your lamps. I was heartbroken. In my dream.

Oh, one other nugget -- so to speak -- to hold onto... I showered right before I went to the show last night. I neti potted my nasal passages as per usual and blew my nose in the shower stream. While I was at the show, I went to the bathroom and thought I felt a scab on my dick, but it was a dried up booger. I thought that would be a funny detail for my book, for when Randy the narrator is standing at a row of public urinals somewhere, masturbating next to another "pervert" who notices a big brown booger on his dick, which of course makes the fellow next to him lose his erection, and then sends Randy running embarrassed from his spot.

Of course, this isn't something I would tell you -- I don't even know you -- it just kinda fits neatly into this little entry about you. So there.

garbage talk

Today, I saw a clip of Sarah Palin defending John McCain's statement about the fundamentals of the economy being strong by saying, "Well, it was an unfair attack on the verbage that Senator McCain chose to use..." She didn't say "verbiage," which she obviously meant, but "verbage." She said the word twice ("...that was an unfair attack there, again, based on verbage that John McCain used.").

Oftentimes in my writing, I come across a word I want to use that I don't know the full meaning of, or am thinking of another word that sounds similar to the word I come up with in the moment. For example, when I was editor of my high school newspaper, I got into trouble for writing that a fairly popular girl was "homely," when I really meant "homey." I wasn't a popular person before that faux pas, but that certainly didn't help my standing at Robert E. Lee. I wasn't out to get this person; she was actually very friendly to me. I liked her a lot. She understood the mistake when I apologized to her, but others didn't, particularly the jocks, who were always looking for a way to put me in my place at the time, or so it seemed (and that was a very dark place indeed).

In my defense, I was called out by one of the other newspaper writers for using the word "suffice" -- in a different article -- which was a word he didn't know how to pronounce, much less how to use in a sentence.

I have gotten in the habit of looking up words (usually; occasionally S catches one) when writing, as well as when I'm reading, which is often with some writers. (Admittedly, I ain't the most intellectual person in the world.) I still struggle for words when I'm speaking sometimes. S has commented that my vocabulary is the weakest part of my abilities -- though he would never put it in such a harsh way.

So, when I heard Sarah Palin use the word "verbage," twice, I paused, thought to myself, "That doesn't sound right," and looked up the two words. Dictionary.com defines them thusly:

verbiage

1.	overabundance or superfluity of words, as in writing or speech; wordiness; verbosity.

2.	manner or style of expressing something in words; wording: a manual of official verbiage.

verbage
A deliberate misspelling and mispronunciation of verbiage that assimilates it to the word "garbage".

Regardless of all the other evidence piling up against the election of John McCain and Sarah Palin, this distresses me somewhat most of all. I would really prefer my potential president be smarter than I see myself, at least in matters of economics, foreign policy and vocabulary.

One thing is certain: I spend way too much time reading political blogs when I would/could/should otherwise be working, to pay bills or creatively.

belinda walked past

Belinda stood in the middle of the street, in the shadows of the pecan branches on her flower print skirt, her black top hiked over her left breast, baby Carson close to it, his lips swollen from sucking, but satisfied; her nipple stiff and rigid, a little goddess statue on a soft, freckled hill.

She doesn't wait tables anymore, doesn't write anymore, doesn't skate with the girls anymore; she met a handsome young man in the neighborhood -- forever childlike with his protruding ears, button nose and wide-set eye, forever cool with his tattooed sleeves -- and decided to stick with something for a change.

Their firstborn Piper, now four years old, in her dirty pink dress with the daisy applique, stood in the gutter rearranging the dried brown leaves, stepping up on the curb, stepping down, busy in her world, aware of the dead and shriveled cacti not too far away, an old woman with sharp, brittle nails.

This wasn't Piper's yard. It wasn't much of a yard at all, five feet from curb to door, a sidewalk up the middle with gravel mostly, but also the cacti and a discarded chest-of-drawers with one drawer missing. But if it were a yard it wouldn't be hers as this house wasn't hers. This was the house across the side street from Belinda and Paul's house.

Belinda bought her house and renovated it after her mother died. It was one of the first houses in the neighborhood to get that treatment. This was around the time of all the other young men in the neighborhood, the gatherings, the parties, the regular sex. Belinda used to be a wild one, used to party with her girlfriends around the clock, used to hook up with the guys in the cheap-rent rundown duplex apartments and tiny shacks.

She would tell you that her house used to be known as the Home for Wayward Boys because of all the activity she saw. She would tell you that in a neighborly way, as if to say her life was an open book, in hopes that yours would be, too.

But then she settled down. This Paul guy. He had it more together than those other guys; he had a job with the State, health insurance, paid vacations, a future. He also had two pre-teen daughters and an unhappy marriage. But Belinda saw something in him. She took him in. Took it all in, the girls, his divorce, their marriage (she kept her name), plans for a bigger family.

The two young men who lived in the shack across the street fancied themselves as punks, with their radical hairdos and no a/c. They lay around the front room on the bed in their underwear or cutoff black jeans; they walked around the neighborhood like that, their smooth bodies bared, on hot and humid August days when a walk to create a slight breeze more refreshing than lying still.

Belinda could see them from the bathroom window. They could see her, too. Nobody made mention of it, least of all Belinda. The guys made no crude remarks, just kept their eyes trained on the light that sometimes lit up that window, and they watched in gentle wonderment the occasional glimpse of a naked breast, full of milk, glowing in the steam covered pane.

One time Billy got to watch her rub lotion under her breasts in front of the mirror. He got an erection, turned off the bedside lamp and masturbated as she seemed to look out at him approvingly and fondle herself.

Billy and John looked a lot alike in their house. They were more easily distinguished in their late night rock club circle, but in their shack they melted into one another. Belinda introduced herself and Paul and the kids to them as they passed by on one of their walks and the two guys were sitting on the front door step. She knew there was a Billy and a John, but she could never remember which was which. She even commented to Paul that they should get some tattoos so she could tell them apart!

They were nice to everybody. If you walked or rode your bike or even drove by and looked in at them on the bed, they always smiled unabashedly and waved or at least tipped their chins your way.

Belinda took to walking more after Carson was born. She and Paul and the now teen girls (when they were staying with them), Piper, Carson, the dog and cat walked every evening, mostly with the intent to get the "baby fat" off of Belinda's body. And since it wasn't enough, Belinda started taking a second walk some days when she had the time.

On one of those walks, Piper paused at the curb on the side street to pick up a leaf. Instead of continuing on and calling after her daughter as usual, Belinda stopped in the middle of the deserted street from Piper. Carson was coming off of her breast, his head limp, his eyes floating back in their sockets.

Belinda didn't notice Billy right away on the bed in his white-white briefs, in the shadow of the house insides. She couldn't see the erection growing as she rocked back and forth to soothe the baby on to sleep, but she saw his hand darken the front of his crotch as he adjusted himself.

Piper was enthralled with her new playground, the crunching leaves under her tennis shoes, the perfect curb with its line of yellow weeds growing in a straight line up the seam.

Belinda took a step closer to the house, her face now shaded by an overhead branch. She could see the young man, his nipples, his eyes, his legs, feet dangling off the bed soles toward her. She could see his hand on his underwear.

A car turned the corner and slowed as it approached the scene. It was the gay couple from around the corner. Belinda spun around and offered her usual randy greeting to her neighbors as she tugged her black top down over her exposed breast. Carson was jarred half-awake in the process; he sat propped in her arms as the adults talked; her hands were busy all over him.

When the gay guys were gone, Belinda couldn't look back into the house. The inviting shadows played in her peripheral vision but she couldn't look. The sun shadows danced on her face but she couldn't move back to her previous position, to her better vantage point.

Piper's shadow was bent across the curb; Belinda looked at that for a moment then called out sweetly, "Come on, baby." She walked on and Piper reluctantly followed.

missed opportunity

The Sun is my favorite magazine. It goes on the back of the toilet and I get through one before the next month's issue arrives. There's a section called "Readers Write," which is exactly what it sounds like. The editors give Upcoming Topics, (Deadline / Publication Date), i.e.,
Blood / June 1 / December 2008
Saying Yes / July 1 / January 2009
Instructions / (etc.)
The Dinner Table
Faith
Moving
and writers write something autobiographical.

While S was away this summer, I got inspired toward the end of June to write an entry for the "Saying Yes" topic. I didn't send it off, though, because I didn't want to do so without getting S's opinion on it first. And also because I was a little bit insecure about it. I changed the names, but that doesn't really change the recognizability of the characters, at least not to me.

But this is my blog. I can do what I want.

---

S & I didn't call each other "lovers anymore, though we played the happy gay couple onstage, singing silly and sweet love songs about and to each other for Unitarian churches, retirement homes and folk audiences all over the country. Our bond was strong onstage, but offstage we had a hard time communicating and hadn't had a physical relationship for about half of the eight years we'd been together.

Then we met R, a charming, good-looking transient who happened upon one of our performances in a California desert town. S and I both fell in love with R almost immediately. Within a month, the ten-year younger man and his dog had moved into our twenty-foot trailer and was traveling the country with us, appearing as the odd tag-along to our fans, causing more than a couple twisted necks and awkward questions. Some family members and friends didn't take to him right away; the ones who said something assumed he was taking advantage of us.

What outsiders didn't see was the transformation that was happening in our personal lives. S and I still had our communication problems, but we were working toward mending them. We also started having a physical relationship again, which always included our new young lover. Not to sound too shallow, R also introduced us to meditation, introduced us to Buddhist writers like Pema Chödrön, introductions that transformed our head-butting into more compassionate attempts at communication.

R told us early on around the fold-out dining table that he says "Yes" whenever possible. "Yes" got us all in bed together, "yes" gave us other options for living and laughing and loving together. S and I were finally able to say to each other that we were tired of performing the act that we'd kept going for nearly ten years, admitted that we were doing it more for our audiences than for ourselves.

Our ménage à trois was not without its difficulties, particularly the ones caused by the decision early on to always be as honest as possible. The relationship lasted a year-and-a-half. Six months before the end I said that I wanted a break from performing and a break from the relationship. We had to remain together most of the final six months because of previous engagements, and also to try to figure out what we would each do when we went our separate ways.

R and I tried to get back together several times but it never worked, mostly because I was afraid to say yes. Five years later, I learned that R had broken up with his current boyfriend and believed that all of the depression I had suffered would be healed if only R would give me one more chance.

I traveled to see him in the flesh and over the course of our day-and-a-half together I realized that R's only real interest in me was to say goodbye for good, and perhaps to help me start healing once and for all.

I returned home and the reality slowly sank in. I had a lot of help with healing from my "best friend" S, with whom I share my home and my life. We aren't lovers -- haven't been since we went our separate ways -- but we are closer now than we have ever been in the sixteen years we've known each other. It's hard to describe our relationship to people, even to the ones who've known us a long time. S found a clever word to describe it one time, but I can't remember what it was. Whatever it is -- partners, roommates, best friends -- it's pretty serious.

Yes, I imagine we'll grow old together.

the gods don't give a damn

(This entry could also be called "About A Boy, Part Three")

A while back, some women friends suggested I put a notice in the "Shot in the Dark" section of the Chronicle, the listings just after the personals where people say "I saw you at such-and-such a place; did you see me?" I was talking about D, the boy I met nearly two years ago at El Chile, where he worked waiting tables. I had a big crush on him, and he seemed to be at least somewhat interested, but I didn't handle myself in the best way. I wrote a note to him and walked it to the restaurant, but was too shy to walk in and give it to him, so I gave it to a waitress outside the restaurant who was opening up the patio windows. I had practiced writing the note a couple of times before I put it down on the card I'd made for him. But I didn't practice my phone number, and when I got back home, I couldn't for the life of me recall if I'd actually put my number in the note. What an idiot!

So I couldn't go back to that restaurant. (That's the way it works for me...)

So about a year later, I saw him at CampCamp, the monthly lesbian-run talent show that takes place at Bouldin Creek Coffeehouse. He seemed very interested in me, but I was too flabbergasted by having run into him, him seeming so interested, to do anything about it. Somewhere in the conversation I found out that he was no longer working at El Chile ("That was the worst job ever," he told me), but that he was at The Clay Pit.

I went there with a friend shortly after that but he wasn't working. And then the following week, another friend invited me to her birthday dinner which was going to be held at the Clay Pit. I responded to her email, "Ooh! Ask for D to be our waiter!" Which she did, and perhaps we got a D, but not the right D. I don't know the name of our waiter that night, but I found out later that there were two D's who worked at the Clay Pit.

My D was working at the Clay Pit, but he was downstairs. I had had a beer and had the encouragement of two (different from the above mentioned) female friends to get the balls to walk over to him and ask him if he wanted to go out, and he said, "Well, yeah," in a way that sounded to me like he'd been waiting for me to ask about as long as I'd been trying to work up the nerve. But I'm not good at these social situations; I know now that I should have gotten his number, but he asked for mine first, and that seemed sufficient. In fact, I was kind of happy that he had my number instead of the other way around, because then I would have to ponder the proper amount of time to wait before calling him.

He grabbed a pen, said, "Give it to me," and wrote my number on the back of his hand. I had caught him doing his cleaning-up duties, sweeping the restaurant floor; it's likely he did some other, dirtier chores, and he probably washed his hands, and with the dirt away went my phone number. That's the best-case scenario I can think of. A month went by; he didn't call. It didn't bode well. But what could I do?

Friends were full of advice about how to follow up, and eventually I went back to the Clay Pit -- three times: the first because I just happened to be in the neighborhood and had time before a movie I was going to see started (but he wasn't working); the second time, after I called to ask if he was working, was interrogated a bit by the phone-answerer, and then got there to not see him there (though the waiter who had worked my friend's birthday dinner was working, and that's what made me think that perhaps his name was D as well); and the third time, when I got the bad news (I asked the bartender if D was there, the bartender said, "No, I'm sorry, D lost his job two nights ago."

So, maybe the gods are telling me he's a bit flaky. Whatever. I don't care about his employment history. I have dreams about him now and again; in some ways I want to see how this story plays out, in other ways I just want to get the inevitable heartbreak over with!

I forgot that I'd put an ad in the "Shot in the Dark" section of the Chronicle. In fact, I just picked up the current paper today, which will be replaced by next week's in three days (so it's more than half a week old); if somebody were going to respond to my ad they would have by now, right? The thought of my well-intentioned girlfriends a week or so ago at La Dolce Vita over cognacs and cappuccinos was that at least one of his friends would see it and alert him to it. But like I said, I forgot I'd put it in there. I had just noticed that the cover story was about the Museum of Ephemerata, which I took my friend R from Wisconsin to when he was here a while back. So I was pulling the paper apart to send the article to him, when I noticed the "Shot in the Dark" section. And I remembered writing the ad, though I didn't remember writing it quite like this (read carefully and to the bitter end):

DANIEL, WHERE Y'AT?
First it was El Chile, then Clay Pit. You
wrote my number on your hand. Did
you wash it off? I still have a crush
on you. When: Thursday, April 10.
Where: Clay Pit. You: Man. Me:
Woman. #903108

sxsw film pass day seven

I opted to see only one film so that I could go see my friend M play at Cafe Caffeine at 9. My eyeballs thanked me.

Film #13 was Body of War.

'Support our troops' has long been a rallying cry for war proponents. But that glib phrase will never sound the same after you meet Tomas Young, the eloquent former soldier whose story is told in Body of War. Raised in Kansas City, Young enlisted in the Army full of patriotism two days after September 11, 2001. He hoped for a deployment to Afghanistan to fight those who attacked his country. Instead, he was sent to Iraq where he was shot and paralyzed. In Body of War, we follow twenty-six-year-old Young for a year as he undergoes an activist's education. He speaks with candor, humor and raw emotion, meeting war protester Cindy Sheehan near George W. Bush's Texas ranch, lobbying politicians in Washington and being interviewed by Mike Wallace on 60 Minutes.This project results from the collaboration of several extraordinary talents. Venerable talk-show host Phil Donahue met Young and felt compelled to tell his story. He joined forces with director and cinematographer Ellen Spiro, whose camera work delivers an incredible intimacy. The emotional heft of the documentary is underscored by two powerful songs, written specifically for the film and performed by Eddie Vedder of Pearl Jam. Beyond politics, Body of War reveals plenty about overcoming adversity. Young possesses more courage and resilience than most, yet his challenges are enormous. After his injury, he became engaged to his girlfriend, Brie. We see the strains his condition puts on their first year of marriage. Young's mother, Cathy, joins him in anti-war activism even while her husband remains a committed supporter of Bush and her other son heads to Iraq for his own tour of duty. Woven throughout the narrative are excerpts from the United States Senate debate of October 2002, in which the majority voted to hand over Congress's war-making powers to the White House. The juxtaposition between their rhetoric and Young's reality is profound.

The synopsis says it all. It was profound; an incredible anti-war movie. Tomas came out afterward to a standing ovation and answered questions (his mother, then Phil Donahue and Ellen Spiro joined him eventually). He's quite a ham. Someone asked about his health issues today (they were many and severe during the film, the first two years after his injury, which doctors say is the hardest time for the body, getting used to the accident); he said that he doesn't have to wear the ice pack vest to keep his body temperature regulated anymore and that he doesn't have problems getting and maintaining erections anymore. Some in the audience applauded. He said, "I'm glad y'all are happy about my ability to get it up!"

The audience was heavily peppered with classic Austin political activist types, hissing every time George W. or John McCain, etc. were on screen, cheering for some of the senators who voted against the Iraq war initiative, and cheering/hissing when Ron Paul was on screen.

***

Before the movie started I found myself sitting two seats over from a man I've seen around town a lot, at different theater events and running around near the UT campus. I think he's very handsome -- he has incredible eyes -- and I've always wanted to approach him, always wanted to talk to him, to introduce myself, get to know him ... but I've always been too shy or the situation hasn't been right.

I wanted to say something to him at the Paramount yesterday, something -- anything -- but I was unable to speak and he seemed preoccupied. I considered putting a note in his SXSW bag, while he wasn't looking, nothing revealing, just a little wink of sorts:

Hi,
I've seen you all around
town and I always want
to come up and say hi
but feel shy, so I thought
I'd stick this note in
your bag because it
is in the chair next
to me and you're in
the next chair over.
Is that weird? I hope
not too weird.

That's all, nothing major, nothing identifying; my plan was that the next time I saw him (and I figured Fate would once again play a part in this), I would say "I left a note in your bag at SXSW," and he would say, "Oh, wow! Yeah. I remember. I saved it. I made a short film about it. Would you like to come over and watch it?"

Yeah, right. (The fact that I was able to transcribed exactly what my little hopeful note to him said means that I didn't pull it out of my little notebook and put it in his bag! Probably for the best...)

He was on the phone telling someone where he was sitting, looking around, not engaging me at all. I figured his boyfriend would be arriving soon and my fantasy would be over. But he didn't. A woman appeared (a fellow UT film student). She sat next to me, told him there were two more people with her; she asked if the seats on the other side of me were taken, I said no. I started to move and she protested. I relented because one of the second floor theater boxes would've been in the way of the screen, and I didn't really want to sit any farther away from my future boyfriend than I had to. The other two friends came, a man and a woman. The man said, "I haven't met you before." I said, "No, that's true." He said, "Are you a friend of C's?" I said, "No, I'm just sitting here in the middle of your group!" My future boyfriend said, "We're all friends now." We all introduced ourselves. His name is K (ah! dreamy!)

Then he said, "You look familiar to me."

Come to find out, his feature documentary was in the Tampa GLBT Film Festival the same year S's (ours) was. I remember now sitting in that big old theater and meeting him -- at something else, not at either of our films -- and I remember now thinking he was dreamy with his dreamy eyes.

This probably would not have been the introduction I would have chosen for us, but now I know his name and I've found his website and perhaps I'll contact him through it once I get up the nerve.

***

At 9 I went to the South Side to Cafe Caffeine where M was playing. I saw so many people there from the Dance Group I used to go to all the time, people who still go, people who say they haven't gone in a long time. M's songs were amazing -- one song brought tears to my eyes because it made me think about R (goddammit!). But I also felt emotionally fragile among these people. In the drive home I felt an urge to cry. I examined it. I don't know what it is. All I could come up with was that I have such strong feelings for a lot of these people, positive and/or negative feelings. I like some of these people very much and I don't like some of them much at all, and I think part of that comes from the feeling that they don't like me, or maybe just as simple as feeling like they don't see me. Some of these people I've connected with in a very deep way, and others I've had the same opportunities to connect and it hasn't happened, and there's a sense of loss. Sometimes I think maybe it's because I'm gay. (I'm reminded of one woman who wasn't there but I saw her on the street on the way to the Paramount yesterday who was at mine & S's soup party a year ago or so, who said to me at the soup party, "I tell my friends he's too fine to be gay!" which she meant as a compliment, but which confused the hell out of me -- still does -- and I didn't know how to respond.) For the most part, I don't think those people know I'm gay, maybe because I don't express it openly enough. But others of them seem so naive as to glaze over when it has come up. It's a complicated thing. Some of the people I have love/hate relationships with (and hate is a bit strong a descriptor) saw me last night and said very loving things to me, things that made me feel good. One woman, who, when I first met her, wanted me to be the father of her second child, said last night, "You look good, very balanced." Hm... wow, I don't know if I felt balanced or if I was just a bit removed because of all the movies I've been watching.

crazy on you

Here's what my week's been like:

Job work has been slow, so I've done a lot of work on the novel, rewriting each chapter longhand to get a feel for it. I keep the PC purring so I can check occasionally for work that might have come through that I can latch onto (for the dough), but I've had stretches of three and four hours of uninterrupted time at the kitchen table. I'm somewhere in the middle of chapter four right now.

I've alternated between that and uploading what I've done so far on my new myspace page, chapter by chapter in the blogs section (I'm enjoying myspace, have reconnected with some old friends).

I've also taken to this "Mysore Ashtanga" yoga practice. It's available Mondays through Thursdays 4:30 to 6:00, but so far -- because it's a work-up-to-it kind of practice -- I haven't stayed longer than thirty-five minutes. The instructor is dreamy, big wide-open eyes to his soul, always coming to look right into mine and say "How do you feel?"

I feel like I love you, I say inside. Can you hear me?

Oh, I'm such a crush-junkie! He's a great teacher, and though I felt like he was smirking at my dismal attempt to get through the first series of Surya Namaskars (sun salutations) on that first day (I thought maybe I was in the wrong place, that he wished I hadn't come, all those insecurities of being at the gym or in P.E. class or something), he seemed equally pleased that I was back the next day. (I have a lot of conversations in my mind, thoughts about what other people are thinking about me, and though they're probably not always correct, there's probably some truth in what I'm feeling). So I went back three days in a row, and he gave me a second set of Surya Namaskars to go through the next day, as well as two more poses each new day (so I'm up to six, right?)

Day One: My muscles, particularly in my arms, were like jelly. At one point, M (the instructor) was talking to me and I reached up to scratch my nose and missed it!).

Day Two: I felt good.

Day Three: My lower thighs (backs of my knees) were so sore I couldn't pull my shoes off with the opposite foot!

So this is Day Four, but there is no Mysore on Fridays, and some of the practitioners don't do it on "Moon Days," regardless of the day of the week, but I'm not there yet (they also stop everything at the beginning of class and do a chant, which M told me on the first day to just listen to silently; maybe someday he'll give me the key to that as well...). Also, I won't be able to go to yoga class at all next week because of SXSW -- I got my Film Pass, and the film festival starts tonight (more on that later) -- I'm going to have to do the six series/poses I was taught on my own so I don't have to go through the jellied muscles and start-up pain again week after next. And I think ultimately, it would be nice to not have to go to the studio everyday, once I know the entire hour-and-a-half cycle, though at some point, M gets more involved in your practice, helping you with stretches (i.e., touching you!)

My yoga practice has blossomed because I have also spent an inordinate amount of time this past week thinking up things to say to R, and then spending the rest of the time talking myself out of calling or texting or emailing him to share those things with him. I feel he has pulled way back, and I feel myself full of a desire to pour myself into him, to swallow him up, to fill up my time thinking about him, thinking about him, thinking about him. It's gotten to the point where I've felt like I need to just cut off any connection or any hope of a connection with him, to tell him as much (though when I told S he said that would be kind of cruel to just cut him off after he opened himself up to me. I'm thinking, In what way has he opened himself??? I don't know, I don't know, I don't know...)

R called me on his birthday and I got all junior-high-girlish. It felt ridiculous. I also sent him a birthday present that I shouldn't have spent so much money on, and then I feared he hadn't received it (because I didn't insure the package, sent it USPO instead of UPS or FedEx, didn't ask for receipt confirmation or anything like that... this actually kept me awake practically an entire night thinking about it, wondering, worrying, obsessing). And then, three days after his birthday, at least two days after I thought he should have received the package, I texted him to see if he got it. This was his message back to me (misspellings his and left in to add to to the sense of confusion and insecurity I felt):

I got it today. Huf
been thinking
about how i say
thank you. Its
awesome, and very,

That was the whole message. And that was the last I heard from him. That was six days ago. I obsessed about that for a long time. And so I dove into yoga, dove into my writing. That's what I've been doing this past week, avoiding that, and it has been good for my creative and physical selves. But dang, there's a part of my brain that's short-circuiting, and there's a part of my heart that's hurting.

Speaking of Heart:

If we still have time, we might still get by
Every time I think about it, I wanna cry
With bombs and the devil, and the kids keep comin'
No way to breathe easy, no time to be young

But I tell myself that I was doin' all right
There's nothin' left to do at night
But to go crazy on you
Crazy on you
Let me go crazy, crazy on you, oh

My love is the evenin' breeze touchin' your skin
The gentle, sweet singin' of leaves in the wind
The whisper that calls after you in the night
And kisses your ear in the early moonlight
And you don't need to wonder, you're doing fine
My love, the pleasure's mine

Let me go crazy on ya
Crazy on you
Let me go crazy, crazy on you, ohhh

Wild man's world is cryin' in pain
What you gonna do when everybody's insane
So afraid of one who's so afraid of you
What you gonna do...ohhh...

(Ah-ah-ah-ah)

Ooooo...Crazy on ya
Crazy on you
Let me go crazy, crazy on you

I was a willow last night in my dream
I bent down over a clear running stream
Sang you the song that I heard up above
And you kept me alive with your sweet flowing love

Crazy
Yeah, crazy on ya
Let me go crazy, crazy on you, oh
Crazy on ya
Crazy on you
Let me go crazy, crazy on you, yeah

(Ah-ah-ah-ah)

Crazy on ya
Crazy on you
Let me go crazy, crazy on you, ohhh...

"risk it all for love"

You say "risk it all for love,"

But what do you really mean?
Risk your sanity?
Risk your livelihood?
And to whom are you speaking?
Are you making a personal statement?
Is this your mantra, something to say
To get you through the rough patches of your life?
Or do you wish this for everyone?
Do you put this out there for anyone to read
And be inspired by
And pick up like a white flag
(Or a red flag,
Or a beating heart that has lost its chest
But just won't stop its wistful beating)?
To whom are you offering this?
And what is it you are offering?
Has this message helped you?
Are you making a testimony of these five words
-- "Risk it all for love. (I did, and look at me)." --
Is that it?
And what if it comes from without,
Moving toward you?
What if it is someone else
Who takes this message
And has at the heart of the matter
You and all that you mean to them?
What then?
Can you handle it?
Will you accept it?
Will you succumb to the power of love
That has been risked in your name?
Do you believe in this?
Do you believe in it?
Do you really believe?
And if you do, what will you do about it?
What will happen?
I don't know the answer,
That's why I'm asking.

feast

We plucked our great passion from the bones--

Like roasted chicken or Sunday roast--
With wild abandon, like we were gods,
Young and foolish in flowing togas,
Slurping at the fingers of maidens,
Until every last morsel was gone,
Till we were stripped bare like dirty beds,
Tossed into a pile and forgotten.

We both thought there would always be more;
We sucked the bones and tossed scraps aside,
Moved to the next platter of delights,
The sugary sweet unhealthy treats,
Disregarding passions we once knew,
Forgetting the sustenance of love.
And then we began paying the price
In toothaches and heartaches and lost sight.

When I looked up from my empty place
I saw that you feasted heartily,
Your cup of passion still overflowed,
Though not with the passion we once knew.
I was malnourished; begged for a taste,
Toothless and thin and silvered with age;
You recognized me from deep within
And held my head while I drank your cup.

If you thirst, I will go to the well;
If you hunger, I'll give all I can;
If you desire that which we once had,
I'll open my chest, offer my heart,
And once again you'll feast like a god;
Once again you'll truly be sated;
Once again you'll be blessed with the food
That nourishes two souls with each bite.

#11: yo' mama

I think the world of you; you're talented, a great listener, you have a great sense of humor. But sometimes you get under my skin.

Once upon a time you were saying something to somebody about something you'd just created and I made a comment about how you were managing to work it into every conversation you had. You turned to me and said, "Stop harshing my high... Seriously." Even though you were serious, I had to laugh. For one thing, using "street lang"; for another, being upset by that. But I understood that it might've come off as rude. So I backed off. Let it go. No biggie.

More recently, I asked you if you'd heard of a band I've just discovered and love and you said, "I can't stand them," and you went on for ten minutes about exactly what's wrong with them -- even though you know a couple of the people in the band -- which mushroomed into other bands you can't stand for the same or similar reasons, which in turn became about specific classic songs that you can't stand. I didn't know what to say. In my bed at the end of the night I figured out that the proper response whould've been: Don't harsh my high.

I wish I'd had the insight in the moment to be able to say "WTF, dude?" to which you would likely have apologized profusely and blamed your actions on the way your mother acts, that you got it from her, that it's something you're working on. But, come on, you've been working on it for in therapy for longer than I've known you and it has always been the overriding Issue in your life.

So I don't mean to get down your throat (or whatever the kids are saying on the streets) but I just needed to vent a little bit so that the next time a sitch like this comes up I'll be able to say, "Don't harsh my high! I love that band! I don't have a myriad of reasons to compete with why I think they're great to combat why you think they're not, but who gives a rat's ass? How about a little compash here!"

Or, I could take the stance that I learned from my mama, which would be to not say anything about it at all, to slowly, over time, start hating you, seethe about the way you are, not be able to have anything to do with you. And I don't want that, because I really do like you.

#10: you're in nature

I went on a retreat in Wimberley this weekend for some kind of a self-help style group that I knew on Friday evening was not for me, but I stuck it out till Sunday afternoon because I didn't want to react too quickly.

The nicest thing that happened was falling asleep on the bank of the Blanco River during the Saturday afternoon break. Before I did, I stood there awhile, then sat and wrote this in my little pocket-sized notebook:

I'm sitting on the bank of the Blanco River,
the grass tall and brown-green around me,
making line-shadows across the page.
The water is a pale green,
and through it I can see some of the darker rocks on the bottom.

Three plops to my left;
a family of turtles, mama, papa, and junior, perhaps.
One swims to the middle and down out of focus, out of sight.
Another swims shortly toward me then pokes her head out of the water.
The red marks on the sides of her thumb-sized head look like earrings,
rubies or garnets perhaps.

The wind blows through the sawgrass,
a symphony of dry sounds;
the surface of the Blanco River ripples and the newly-arrived sun glistens
like so many diamonds scattered here and there.

I say hi to the turtle and she pulls her head sharply under the water
and paddles frantically downward, out of focus, out of sight.
I laugh out loud and the sawgrass laughs with me.


Before I fell asleep, you were on my mind. I felt a sadness, a longing. I don't know where this has been coming from lately, but it has been coming constant and strong, like a flowing river, going in a particular direction, the same direction it has always gone.

I was glad to get back home yesterday, back to my space back to my cat, my best friend, a home cooked meal, a beer, a movie, my own bed...

This morning I found this by Khalil Gibran:

When you are sorrowful, look again in your heart, and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight.


That's it. That's what this is.

#9: auld acquaintance

It was so good to chat with you last night! I'm glad we're keeping in touch. It's not easy, I know, especially not with somebody who lives in the Big City. I know how easy it was to let friendships just slip away when I lived there, and I've seen many fall by the wayside since I left. Of course, it makes a it a little easier being that I visit the City once a year or so. But there are definitely people I have let slip away.

We share our struggles, you and I; we share the fact that we have struggles in our lives. I have a vivid memory of you sitting across from me at my little kitchen table in my studio apartment (the apartment you told me about) across the hall from your little apartment, when we were sharing deeply -- or so I thought -- and then you got suddenly silent, teary-eyed, and finally said I wasn't there for you. Or maybe you said I wasn't listening to you. I don't remember exactly what it was, but it's funny to me that I hold onto that moment so strongly. I wonder if you remember it?

The restaurant where we met is long gone and your career as an actress is less than certain, and my career as a playwright is on hold for the time being, maybe permanently. Sometimes I think that when I finish this novel I'll go back to playwriting. It seems an easier art in the middle of this mess. But I feel good about my progress, about my ability to stick with it. I wish you would work on your novel some more. I loved the chapter or two we read that night. You have a knack for storytelling. I think you have something there. But of course, I won't say you should do it because it's easy. Because it's not.

I'll see you next year, hopefully; I'm thinking about spring or summertime, perhaps. A week-long visit? I don't know. I miss being there, but when I'm there I'm ready to get back home. Home. I feel like I have a home now. All that time when I was going back and forth between New York and Tennessee, I didn't really feel like I had a home, I was such a lost soul. My struggles were so acute then.

You tell me I sound like I have a positive, healthy attitude about relationships and my issues. I think that's true, but it sure doesn't keep the depression at bay. At least I'm not drowning in it anymore -- chatting with you last night helped me see that; it's more like I'm on the beach and depression comes in with the tide, comes lapping at me in waves, gets strong sometimes but never unbearably so because I know the tide will go out again. (I guess I have a healthy attitude about my depression as well!)

We're getting old, my dear sweet friend. You're the one who brought it up! I have a gray beard, a belly I notice in the shower, the aches and pains of an aging body. I'm trying to have a healthy relationship with my aging, too. Happy new year.

#8: the center of your universe

I miss you. But you must understand why I haven't talked to you in over two months. Since our birthday, your party, which at the last moment you tried to play off as our party. I don't feel like we have to celebrate all our birthdays together; you're half my age. But I also don't feel like I have to be present at your party if I don't feel like it.

You haven't called me in two months either.

It seems to me you surround yourself with people who adore you. That's not a hard task, you are adorable. You make me feel young. And you make me feel really old. You titillated me with stories of your attempts at being gay, with your best friend, when you were sixteen or something. As if that would make me feel closer to you. What it did was make so much more obvious the pain in the struggle of my own attempts, at being straight, at being gay. At not being able to simply be who I am.

Who am I anyway?

Your life has been charmed. I know, I know, your father's dead, things are not exactly perfect for you, but there are plenty of people -- women mostly -- surrounding you, saying, "It's okay, let me hold you." You take advantage of all those offers. You're a little more reticent to receive my offer. Not that I ever made one outright. But I thought about it, thought about holding you, for comfort's sake (not that my thoughts have been completely 100% chaste).

But you know. You know how I feel. You're surrounded by people who feel this way about you. And you're a Scorpio, with all the inherent intuitiveness of a Scorpio.

The one opportunity we had to sleep in the same bed, you did a weird thing that I can't get out of my head: you said you had to sleep with a pillow between your knees to help you "sleep with better posture." Maybe it's true. But it's a curious detail.

It's not like I was going to molest you. I might have liked to have held you, to have you hold me, to hold each other, as friends, but I wouldn't even have done that because although there was no molesting intention, I'm sure I would have been visibly excited by the thought of holding you, by the act of holding you, of you holding me.

I think now and again that I should call you. But your world is so set, and I'm not sure I want to get caught up in it. I say things I don't want to say, I have feelings I would rather avoid, I can't really be myself, completely myself, while you breeze through everything at the center of your universe.

#7: twenty-eight years ago

You cried all that Christmas the year before Daddy died. At the time I thought it was because you couldn't afford to buy any presents, and that was the beginning of the souring of my Christmas experience. I'm not blaming you; really, I'm thankful. I like to give gifts, but not at Christmastime; no matter how aware I am of the intention, at this time of year gift giving manages to get caught up in the swirl of pine-scented poo.

I realize all these years later -- can you believe it was 28? -- that it was just the beginning of your unraveling. I didn't have much of a relationship with him, so it took me a long time to understand that he could mean that much to you, that his death could have affected you so deeply.

I didn't talk to you this year. I don't feel estranged from you, just not too connected. It's a little sad sometimes, but you've got your life, your problems, your stuff going on; I've got mine. I hope you had a good Christmas. I know your children are scattered all over the country and you don't have the closest relationships with them. I'm sorry about that. But still, I hope you didn't cry this year.

#6: you are not my father

I never really had a father figure. I had a daddy, but he died when I was sixteen, and we weren't the best of friends, so I didn't really have anyone to want to be like when I was growing up. That was okay, I never really wanted to be like anybody.

Then I met you with your elbow patches and your long drawling words, calling me Mr. B in a way that, in itself was almost enough to lift my depression, as you smoked your pipes in that old house on the hill with the ominous swinging sign out by the main road: PSYCHIATRY.

I would normally have picked a woman; I don't know why, I just always felt like I had a better chance of getting my head straightened out with a female therapist. That's why I chose your office, because of the Indian woman who was the head shrink there. (Ha! That's funny.) But she wasn't available for an appointment and I got you. Tennessee had a really good public health policy at the time (its own Medicare, which unraveled to nothing by the time I left the state, thanks to our current Administration), but the list of names to choose from wasn't long. and most of them were men. I wasn't sure it would work out between you and me, but you were provided free by the state, so the least I could do was make the first appointment.

You put your feet up on your desk and leaned back in your wooden chair. The place reeked of cherries and vanilla mixed with Cavendish tobacco. It wasn't so bad, really, and it went well with the decor, that crazy old house with the peeling paint and old furniture and knick knacks in the foyer; they looked like they might've been left there by the original owner. There were a few mental health posters sprinkled around for good measure, too.

I liked you right away, you eccentric man with your wool jacket in the Tennessee heat with the leather patches on the elbows. You were like a man right out of the Seventies, right out of my childhood. Like a father figure. I didn't think of that then; I thought of you as a friend. I knew you were my shrink, but you were the best kind of a shrink, one whom I could mistake for a friend.

In the odd times that you talked about yourself, you told me about your former life, how you hauled cattle around from auctions to ranches. Everything you told me became romantic in that damn pipe smoke. "Do you mind if I smoke?" Of course not.

Today, I bought myself a gift, a pipe and some tobacco to sit on the front porch and smoke. I don't really like smoking cigarettes except for the reflection time they offer me. I thought a pipe would be a little more classy, it would taste a little better, too. Some of the tobaccos have clever names: Texas Honey; Very Cherry; Georgian Cream; Strawberry Delight; Commander's Choice; 24 Karat.

I didn't think of the irony until this moment, didn't think of the inspiration you gave me, to make this purchase. You, my favorite psychiatrist. And the name of the tobacco I chose?

Nut 'n' Special.

#5: p.k.j.o.

God, I don't even remember your name. You weren't a friend, not really; just a kid in my daddy's small hometown, the son of the local preacher -- a Preacher's Kid like me -- and I spent the night with you because the house we were in was full and it was convenient. I'm not sure I wanted to spend the night with you, but it wasn't like I didn't; I just don't remember.

I must've been in the fourth grade, so nine or ten years old, and you were about the same age. You had a brother a few years older than us. He slept in the same room, across the room. Small country parsonage, a little white house next door to the church.

After the lights were out, we chatted quietly, tried to keep our giggles down, then you wriggled under the covers and offered me something.

"What's this?" I asked.
"Shh," you said.
It was your underwear.
Weird, I thought.

You took my hand under the covers and silently directed me to squeeze the head of your rock hard little boy penis; you wanted a pulsing squeeze. You wouldn't let me stop or slow down. I had no idea what was going on. When I got the rhythm right, you reached under and started doing the same thing to my penis. It didn't get hard until you started bothering with it. It felt good but weird, it was wicked, and that was probably the most fun about it.

Then I had my first orgasm. No ejaculation, just a full body shudder that was like the Devil and God arm wrestling between my legs. I gasped. The throbbing traveled over all the flesh of my body. I jumped out of bed and pulled on my jeans and walked to the bathroom to see what had happened to me. But by then, it was soft again.

I slept the night in my jeans, afraid that it would happen again. You ignored me.

The next morning over the breakfast table, your older brother took a moment to tease us, while your parents weren't paying attention: "I heard you two last night!" Nobody said anything more. Perhaps you made a face at your brother, stuck out your tongue or even shot him the bird (P.K.s are so wild, I'd heard, but not me, I wasn't a preacher's kid anymore, momma made daddy stop preaching, maybe this was why, maybe she knew what P.K.s did). I wasn't looking. I had my eyes closed. I was praying for Jesus to deliver me from hell.

#4: for you who needs compassion

I don't know if I'm more worried about you or annoyed by you. I thought about this last night: If she kills herself and I find her, what a hassle that would be. Have I lost my ability to be compassionate? That saddens me. But last night, I didn't feel so good, I went to bed early, not all that early -- 10:30 isn't all that early -- and at 11:45 that disconcerting ticking in my dreams managed to wake me up. What is that ticking? I felt frightened. But it was a misplaced emotion. There wasn't anything to be afraid of. But all the effects of feeling frightened were there, the racing heart, the clammy coldness, the distorted view. Or maybe that was from being awakened by a noise in my house, in my room, halfway between the bed and the desk. Fortunately. Two feet this direction or that would have been a fucking nightmare. Water dripping from the ceiling. A string of drips along a line. I know from the time before that that line matches up almost perfectly with the outside edge of your bathtub. That time when you decided to mop your bathroom floor with your bath water. All of it. I'm pretty sure I said then, "I don't think you should be doing that." I thought you got it. But you've got a lot on your plate. You left for a weekend trip (a family thing, you called it), left your dog behind and didn't come back for six weeks. Your dog is an escape artist; everybody knows this. Maybe you thought this was gonna save her. Maybe you knew. If she hadn't broken that window out, if a neighbor hadn't seen her hanging out the second floor window, had she not leaped out the window into his arms, I don't think she would've lasted that six weeks without food or water.

Another neighbor took your dog, gave her to somebody else after she -- an escape artist and a generally ill-behaved dog -- kept trying to eat the cat. I don't blame the neighbor for finding another home for the dog. And then you come back to town, lightheaded or something, distant, squirrelly. Avoiding everybody, feeling bad about your actions, hiding from us. "One day at a time," I think was what you said the first time I saw you, but not because you're in AA, just because that's the way you make it through life. And so, maybe you forgot that you aren't supposed to douse your bathroom floor in late night bath water. That's what I thought when I sat there watching the water pour on my floor, ticking and not showing any signs of stopping or slowing. I gathered my wits and my ill feelings, grabbed a couple of thick rugs from the bathroom, then an ice chest, to catch the water. I put one of the wet rugs in the chest to dampen the sound, tried to go back to sleep.

But then I remembered that you're a woman on the verge. One night when you came back and were scratching furniture across your floor, I imagined that you had fashioned a noose and were pulling a chair or something over so that you could get your neck in it and hang yourself. There was a thump -- the chair that you'd kicked out from under yourself tipping to the floor. I was glad when you emerged the next day.

I thought maybe you had decided to drown yourself last night. That's why the water was pouring into my bedroom, because you'd turned the water on and it was just rippling over the edge of the tub, your floating blue body under the surface, eyes open, lips slightly parted, a shy bubble hanging out just inside one nostril.

I put on my clothes. Lots of clothes. More clothes that I'd had on earlier. I went to bed early, feeling chilled, but now I was cold, and I was gonna have to go outside and maybe deal with some sort of a dead body in water, or a water leak, or something. I put on long johns and jeans and cotton socks with wool socks over them, two shirts, two jackets -- one with a hood -- and a hat. I found your key in my bedside table, the flashlight from the kitchen drawer. Your apartment lights were out, your car was gone. I made my way in. Your place is a wreck. The window your dog broke out is still gone; the vents around a window unit a/c are missing, so the cold wind is blowing in. The wall gas heater in the bathroom is missing all of its innards.

The tub was empty, but the lid to the toilet tank was on the floor. There was water droplets all over the sink, and standing water on the floor. I searched out some towels from your dirty clothes and soaked up the water. The dripping downstairs stopped.

This morning you called me back but I didn't answer. You left an apologetic message, but no explanation, only that you were going to be going to the doctor tomorrow for some new medicine that will "make things better."

I guess I have to keep listening.