Thursday, December 31, 2009

in the end

My anger from earlier in the day has given way to sadness. While his absence is always with me, right now, it is very acute. I miss the man I planned on spending my life with. I miss his smile and how he always made me laugh. How beautiful he was. How me made me feel safe. How he made me feel so loved. All those things are so far from me right now. Knowing he is somewhere else, that I am not on his mind, that his life is better without me confuses and hurts me so much. Either way, I love you.

fuck you 2009

I woke up furious today. Absolutely livid. Which is never fun. Especially when it takes a few moments to realize why you are so angry. Of course it didn’t take very long. The thought of him in California again for New Years. Him kissing someone else Happy New Year. Throwing me away. Throwing us away. The whole damned thing. Of course, obviously he did the right thing since he doesn’t love me. Whatever.

I got the yearly photo album in the mail last night. Holding it in my hands was fairly surreal. Turning the pages as the year went by, staring one way and ending so different. I was somehow able to view it fairly detached. Like an observer of a life other than my own. In deed, seeing photos from the beginning of the year is observing someone else’s life. I’m not that man anymore. I’m pretty sure if I ran into him, he wouldn’t even recognize me. He was a idiot. A blind, happy, content idiot. But an idiot, nonetheless. Huh. That’s odd. Writing that felt wrong. I wasn’t an idiot. I might be one now, but I wasn’t then. I don’t regret the trust and love I placed in him, and I don’t begrudge the happiness I had. I’m thankful for it. If I was an idiot, I pray I get to be an idiot again.

My New Year’s Eve plans are simple. Getting simpler all the time, actually, since people are sick and such. My brother and I, my best friend, KE, and his bf, CP, and CP’s dad are going to dinner at Osteria Marco, then KE, my brother and I are going to my house to play games, play Wii, and make fondue in the fondue set that CP got me for Christmas. (CP has to work—Boo!) True, I’m not with the person I would chose to be with for the New Year, however, I am with the runner up. It will be a nice, calm, simple New Year’s Eve, hopefully. Hopefully ushering in a new year full of nice, calm, simple days of 2010.

No matter what, I have never been so thrilled for a year to die, and I will celebrate its death with everything in me!

Wednesday, December 30, 2009

Bitter Roasted Grounds

In an effort to add to the list of things I wanna gripe at God about, let’s include dreaming. It’s not enough that he has to be on my mind most of my waking hours, let’s have me dream about him night after night, hours on end. It’s ridiculous. This is the third night in a row that he’s been with me in my dreams. So helpful… However, I also had a wonderful, albeit brief, dream of Eric Dane naked last night too, but that doesn’t make up for the rest. I’m not sure if there is a reason behind it, or just random torture. Either way, it is ridiculous and needs to stop. Maybe it’s because of New Years. Another day I am excited to have behind me. This time last year, we were tingling in anticipation and packing for San Francisco. I am sure he is tingling in anticipation as he packs to go to LA for his New Years to see his friend (who is gorgeous) this year. What a difference a year makes. I always fantasized about winning a Pulitzer or noble peace prize (which apparently anybody can win nowadays)—however, I think I should set my sights for winning Bitter Person of the Decade award. Pretty much got that one in the bag. Yep, that really is all I’m gonna blog today.

(Side note: I also help my parents out with an antique blog, and I just realized I posted the above to their blog--not mine. Thank goodness I caught that mistake--AWKWARD!!! But typical.)

Monday, December 28, 2009

Happy Endings for Dummies

(I miss him tonight. Somehow even more than normal. Not in a weepy way. Simply in a wish he we here, life were back to normal sorta way. Wish he missed me.)

For those of you who get massages frequently. Whether your massages end in a Happy Ending or not—please take note.

*If you are shoving your leg into your massage therapist’s chest so hard that it hurts his sternum so that you can ‘open yourself up more’ when he’s trying to work on your tensor facia lata, it ain’t gonna happen.

*If you are prone and your therapist is reaching under to scrape your quads and you raise your leg straight in the air for ‘better access’ to things he wasn’t try to get access to and inadvertently kick him in the face (with your thick, nasty toenail), it ain’t gonna happen.

*If you raise your ass in the air and make it follow your therapist around the table hoping something will get stuck in it, all you are doing is making yourself look like some kinda gross canon and the therapist is simply worried about getting gassed, it ain’t gonna happen.

*If by the end of the massage, your therapist is sore, not from working deep into your muscles but from having to put up so much resistance to your straining muscles that were constantly pushing the opposite direction in an attempt to redirect his hands, your therapist probably wants to simply hurt you, it ain’t gonna happen.

*If when the massage is over and your therapist thanks you and tells you to take your time getting ready, and you respond with an irritated and somehow shocked response that he didn’t help you blow your load, not only didn’t it happen, but your therapist won. And he wishes much impotence and limpness upon you.

***Oh, and one more thing, all those times you cringed because of how painfully deep he went. Yeah, well, that was on purpose.

Sunday, December 27, 2009


2009—the year of love showing Brandon how he is destined for eternal happiness with a wonderful man.

Oh, wait, that was 2007 and 2008. 2009 was the exact opposite. And, just in case I hadn’t gotten the message, it sent me another tonight.

So, at the very beginning of dating the man who I thought I’d marry, we were both dating other people. Not in a dating other people way, but simply going on dates. Well, one of these men that I went on a couple dates with and considered taking things to the next level until fell in love with Him, moved away, and was back in town this week. He got in contact with me. We went out for dinner a few nights ago and caught up. After, he asked to see me again. We made plans for this evening at five. He kept texting me like he was excited about it. I was looking forward to seeing him—not because I have any romantic feelings, but simply because he is sweet and it is nice to be with someone sweet right now.

Of course, today, he didn’t respond to my text confirming the time, and then promptly stood me up. A more fragile person would have gotten weepy and taken it personally. That obviously it was a sign that I’m not good enough for others to want to be with. To stay with. To marry.

Luckily, I am not one of those people.

Actually, I probably am. However, I am too numb to give a shit. It was more like, ‘well, that figures and that was rude.’ Followed by a fun little, ‘Fuck you.’

In all honesty, it truly made me laugh. The good thing about Him leaving me, is that it makes almost all the other bad or hurtful things that happen seem like nothing. What can compare? It was just one more little jab from my-so-called-life.

So, if life was really trying to send me one more jab this year to leave me in tears and not in laughter, it needs to try again. You’ve got four more days, fuck you, bitch.

this sabbath

Just returned from church. No, it didn’t burn down. I love hearing TB teach. Most often I am brought to tears. Other times, he makes me think. I like the tears better. He was talking about the struggle some people have with the depression after the holidays are over. I used to be one of them. Now that I’m depressed all the time, it’s just another day for me. Yay!!! A silver lining! While that particular subject didn’t apply to me this year, it was an obvious leap to apply everything he was talking about to life in general. I’d like to go through his sermon with his wit and charm and retell it, but I don’t have it in me. However, one of the points he made roughly translates: life is what it is, deal with it—don’t wallow in it’s misery, just deal with it and keep going. Hello church guilt, how are you? Haven’t seen you in a bit. He left. It’s how life is. He doesn’t love you, you thought he did. It’s how life is. His happier without. You’re less happy without him. It’s how life is. Deal with it. Don’t wallow in misery, just deal with it and keep going.

I really am trying. I’m the first to admit that I haven’t done such a successful job in this area. While I know that I should be doing better, I’m not really sure how to do it. I used to be so good at suppressing my feelings and playing the game. I think I’ve gone the other extreme and have no idea how to find homeostasis any longer.

The other realization, which probably shouldn’t have been surprising, was experienced during the singing. Surrounded by those with hands raised, honest emotion covering their faces as they sang of their love and trust in him. I remember the boy/man who bore my name experiencing those same emotions. I really do remember. Part of me misses them. Part of me doesn’t. Sounds bad, huh? I want to love him again. I think. I want to really trust him again. I trust him, but it’s because I realize there’s not really another choice. I still go through the motions. I still pray every morning, mostly just sitting there in silence. Not meditating, just giving him the time.

Saturday, December 26, 2009

the day after

I just finished the last few pages of the annual photobook. It is now being processed by Apple and will be sent to me this week. Typically, this is a day of celebration in my house—I love getting the new photobook in the mail. Today, I was in tears in the coffee shop as I finished the final touches. Crazy how the first fourth of the book is so different from the rest. However, I am looking forward to getting the book in and then saving all my photos of the year onto discs and getting them off my computer—I’m so sick of them popping up in my face when I go to work on other photos. Also excited to start the 2010 photobook. And 2010 altogether.

It was interesting; I got a message from a dear friend on facebook today. He mentioned that he read my blogs from the past couple days and was pleasantly surprised about the mood I seem to be in—as if I am turning a corner or something. That was very nice to say, and I hope he’s right, but I couldn’t help wonder if he was reading someone else’s blog. As I wrote yesterday’s, I was feeling guilty for writing so depressingly on Christmas day, but whatever. What also surprised me was the fourteen people read my blog yesterday. For those fourteen of you, what the hell is wrong with you? It was Christmas!!! The last thing you need to read on Christmas is my blog! Goodness! As if Christmas music isn’t depressing enough the way it is!

Tonight, I am off to see Little House on the Prairie at the Performing Arts complex. My friend got free tickets again! It will be fun to see Melissa Gilbert in person. I always loved her!

Here’s a little tiddy for your enjoyment:

On Christmas Eve, while my brother and I were leaving Avatar, I noticed this tucker looking guy staring me up and down, but taking an unusually long look at my books. I caught him looking at me, but he didn’t look away, just continued to stare. Typically, when this happens, it means the guy is interested. I didn’t quite get that feeling however. I walked past him, wondering if I was abnormally good looking that evening or if I was abnormally flaming. A few feet from him, another man began to stare at me up and down. Trying to decide if I should feel flattered that I was about to get molested by a group of men or nervous about getting my ass kicked by a group of men, I met his eyes a little more forcibly than I did with the previous man. He mumbled something and gestured down towards my boots. I followed his motion and looked down. At first, I didn’t see anything other than the new stains from all the salt from the pavements, but then I began to stare too. Trailing along behind me, tagging a ride on my left boot was a train of toilet paper. Very festive, don’t you think? Luckily, I was in no danger of getting my ass kicked. Sadly, my massive sex appeal is not growing in power to the level where straight men are falling at my feet either.

Friday, December 25, 2009


At this moment, one year ago, I was snuggled on the couch falling asleep with the man I thought I’d spend the rest of my life with—the man who was probably already considering leaving me. The man who can see me, text me on important days and not miss me, not think that his life was better before, not miss my kiss when he kisses another. A year ago, his arms were wrapped around me, my back firmly pressed into his chest and stomach, content with having Christmas with him—seeing the mermaid salt dish he gave me, him being excited for the gift cards for San Francisco I had given him.

I am so glad I didn’t have to come home to a tree or any decorations at all. I made the right choice. Instead of getting up and spending weepy hours taking down the tree, I get to get up—go to the gym—go to the coffee shop—maybe splurge on a massage—and go to a new musical in town.

I only broke once today, and that was when I got a message from him thanking me for the Christmas gifts that I had given him that he finally opened and telling me that his family says hello. I broke because I knew at that exact time last year, that text had said he had gotten back from him family and he was on his way to pick me up so that we could have Christmas together. That his thank you was so friendly. I will always be his friend, but I’m not his friend. I can’t be. I can’t be his buddy or pal. I guess I’m spoiled, but if I can’t be his husband, I don’t know how to be anything else.

Having my brother and Gavin spend the night was a Godsend. I was up singing to Gavin until one, and then when I got up, opened the window and stared at the snow while praying for him, I heard Gavin cooing from his crib, went to him, and was greeted with the hugest of smiles. The rest of the day was Gavinland. We were all surprised. At five months, we didn’t think he’d give a hoot about presents. He did. He loved them! He loved the ribbons, pulling at the shinny paper, and even playing with the toys. It was obvious he understood what the presents meant. It was so much fun to see him experience his first Christmas. Typically, my brother and I leave on Christmas with loads of presents. This year, due to all the money issues, we each had a small bag of things. Which is completely fine—Gavin, on the other hand, made bank! Which is exactly how it should be, and really was the best medicine for all of us.

So, in review—Christmas went better than expected. One breakdown—not too shabby. Filled with glorious family, baby, and dogs. Christmas is over! No clean up to think of tomorrow! I get to continue living whatever life it is that I am living.

Thursday, December 24, 2009


Even the Scrooge in me and me detestation of shoveling snow could not deny how gorgeous it was this morning. The sun shining making the dry, fluffy snow sparkle and glitter. The old me would have been in Heaven. I think it’s a good thing that I was even able to acknowledge the beauty. Baby steps.

Speaking of beauty—I’ve always talked about the gross massage clients that I get from time to time. Well, today was one of the rare times where I swear I had a male model on my table. One of the few times that I couldn’t believe I was getting paid instead of paying. That’s always a mixed bag though. Such pretty people really make me hurt physically and make my insecurities flare up as if dosed in kerosene. Anyway, a small Merry Christmas to me, I suppose.

Tonight is another one of my favorite nights. My brother and I always spend Christmas Eve together and he typically stays the night. This time we are having Mediterranean food and watching Avatar. Then we are picking up Gavin and he is staying the night at my place! So, pretty great Christmas Eve.

I’m not dreading tomorrow as much as I thought I might. He always left Christmas Eve to go be with his folks while my brother and I did our thing, so it won’t be unusual to wake up on my own on Christmas morning—plus, I’ll have my gorgeous nephew there to bask in. However, I am nervous about tomorrow night. We would always open our presents sitting by the tree right before bed and let the dogs ‘open’ theirs, and then take a picture together to end the year’s photo book with. I will stay at my folks until late then go home and snuggle with the dogs before falling asleep. More glad than ever that I won’t have to go home to the tree or think about taking it down. I miss him so much.

In spite of everything, it looks like it will be a stunning Christmas day and I wish everyone to be surrounded by as much love as I will be with my family, knowing I am wrapped in love by my friends, and remembering love that I once held.

Wednesday, December 23, 2009


Saw Avatar last night. The world moved. The world shook. The world forever changed.

Okay, maybe not. But close. It was wonderful. Despite negative reviews on the storyline and characters, I greatly enjoyed that aspect. Found it shockingly believable and relatable. But, of course, the greatest parts were the visual effects. Hands down, the most beauty I have ever seen. Anywhere. Beauty that was only plausible in cartoons before has been made a reality, and now all the more beautiful for it. Truly, it was sublime. Similar to when I am in the presence of people who seem too beautiful to exist in real life, it was almost painful to watch. Like part of me ached to be there—hell, the way life has been, all of me ached to be there.

I am glad I already ready purchased tickets to see it Christmas Eve with my brother (first time I bought tickets to see a movie twice before I had even seen it once). I was so overwhelmed and torn from one frame of thought to another, that I need see it again, just in an attempt to get more clarity on my emotions. Seeing so much beauty destroyed (no, I’m not giving away anything—from the previews it is easy to see there is a war scene, of course there are things going to get destroyed) of course made me correlate it to my existence in . . . wait for it. . . my experiences with him leaving me. I know, I know, it is utterly shocking how many things I can twist to find comparisons to him—you should just hear all the things I don’t write.

The other aspect was a very religious one, which I wasn’t expecting. In two forms. One, if man can fathom such beauty and create such a world (even one just on computers), how much more can God create. What must Heaven be like? Which brings me to two. Even as a kid, the idea of Heaven scared me nearly as much as Hell. However, with this movie, (I wasn’t kidding before) I ached to be there. To be home in it. It might have been the first time I’ve felt like I’m not meant to be in this world—in a good way. I am overly familiar with the feeling that I don’t belong here because of all the pain here; however it was like I was catching a glimpse of Heaven—or a heaven, and my soul called out to be here, recognizing the shadow of the world I live in now. Actually, if I recall correctly, that is somewhat Biblical. Life here being but a shadow or a reflection of real life where we are meant to be. I’ve never really been able to grasp that before. But, there it was in front of me. A world so like ours, in which I could recognize everything for being like something in our world, but magnified in greatness by a thousand—at least.

Of course, maybe I am seeking for an escape from this life so desperately that I’m willing to give myself over to the glitter in an attempt to breath fully. Maybe that is the proof that I need. The proof that there still is hope in me somewhere. This can’t be all there is. It just can’t be.

And now, I am off to begin the process of editing and rewriting the fantasy novel, try to forget lunch yesterday, try to forget the years of happiness, try to forget the crumbling world around me and around my family and loose myself to vampires, demons, and another world of my own. Wish me luck.


Saw Avatar last night. The world moved. The world shook. The world forever changed.

Okay, maybe not. But close. It was wonderful. Despite negative reviews on the storyline and characters, I greatly enjoyed that aspect. Found it shockingly believable and relatable. But, of course, the greatest parts were the visual effects. Hands down, the most beauty I have ever seen. Anywhere. Beauty that was only plausible in cartoons before has been made a reality, and now all the more beautiful for it. Truly, it was sublime. Similar to when I am in the presence of people who seem too beautiful to exist in real life, it was almost painful to watch. Like part of me ached to be there—hell, the way life has been, all of me ached to be there.

I am glad I already ready purchased tickets to see it Christmas Eve with my brother (first time I bought tickets to see a movie twice before I had even seen it once). I was so overwhelmed and torn from one frame of thought to another, that I need see it again, just in an attempt to get more clarity on my emotions. Seeing so much beauty destroyed (no, I’m not giving away anything—from the previews it is easy to see there is a war scene, of course there are things going to get destroyed) of course made me correlate it to my existence in . . . wait for it. . . my experiences with him leaving me. I know, I know, it is utterly shocking how many things I can twist to find comparisons to him—you should just hear all the things I don’t write.

The other aspect was a very religious one, which I wasn’t expecting. In two forms. One, if man can fathom such beauty and create such a world (even one just on computers), how much more can God create. What must Heaven be like? Which brings me to two. Even as a kid, the idea of Heaven scared me nearly as much as Hell. However, with this movie, (I wasn’t kidding before) I ached to be there. To be home in it. It might have been the first time I’ve felt like I’m not meant to be in this world—in a good way. I am overly familiar with the feeling that I don’t belong here because of all the pain here; however it was like I was catching a glimpse of Heaven—or a heaven, and my soul called out to be here, recognizing the shadow of the world I live in now. Actually, if I recall correctly, that is somewhat Biblical. Life here being but a shadow or a reflection of real life where we are meant to be. I’ve never really been able to grasp that before. But, there it was in front of me. A world so like ours, in which I could recognize everything for being like something in our world, but magnified in greatness by a thousand—at least.

Of course, maybe I am seeking for an escape from this life so desperately that I’m willing to give myself over to the glitter in an attempt to breath fully. Maybe that is the proof that I need. The proof that there still is hope in me somewhere. This can’t be all there is. It just can’t be.

And now, I am off to begin the process of editing and rewriting the fantasy novel, try to forget lunch yesterday, try to forget the years of happiness, try to forget the crumbling world around me and around my family and loose myself to vampires, demons, and another world of my own. Wish me luck.

Tuesday, December 22, 2009

tuesday at noon

No tears!!! None! Maybe that is actually a bad sign, but I’m gonna say its good. And, hopefully, something that will last. (Although I got teary when he told me about his New Year’s Eve travel plans—this time last year we were getting ready for our New Years in San Francisco.) After a few minutes into lunch, I was talking my head off, once again with my best friend. So natural. So needed. There’s never been anyone that I have felt as home with as him, from day one. Part of me wished that weren’t still true, but it is. I don’t know why he wants to see me. He doesn’t miss me. He doesn’t wish we were together. He doesn’t love me. No matter. Doesn’t change how I feel, unfortunately. I’m glad I saw him. Even if it does hurt. I don’t get it. I don’t get it. On, a good note, he proved that he doesn’t read this blog (which I am thrilled about). He bought me two Christmas tree decorations (both totally me) and he wanted me to open them now so that I could put them on my tree before Christmas. I didn’t tell him there is no tree this year.

I am going to stop this conversation here, both for your benefit and for my own. Plus, no need to bring myself to tears in DazBog, yet again.

Now to keep walking and talking and breathing.

Monday, December 21, 2009

bubbles and bangles

Christmas is over. Yay! Actually, it isn’t, but it always feels like Christmas is over after the gay boys’ Christmas dinner is past. I spend so much time in preparation for that day every year that it has turned into the pinnacle of my holiday season—apparently even during years when I don’t really have much investment in the holiday season. However, there is still Christmas Eve with my brother, as we do every year—only this year we actually have reservations somewhere so we don’t have to drive all around for hours finding all the places to eat that are closed. . . we finally learned. And, then, of course, there is Christmas with Gavin this year. Which is just bliss.

Christmas dinner with my boys went beautifully, and I really was able to simply enjoy their presence. There were only a couple moments where I hurt, and I think I was able to play it off, which is an improvement. I just loving having my home filled with such wonderful people. People that I trust with everything I am. Some of us see each other all the time, others of us only see each other a few times a year now, but these are my chosen family, and words can not express how much I rely on them and how much they mean to me. Merry Christmas!!!

Yesterday was his birthday. His birthday. I had a lot I wanted to say about that, but now I don’t. It’s enough to just say it was his birthday. Enough. I don’t think I’ll ever understand. However, I have switched back from that he simply needed time to grow up and learn who he really is to mostly accepting he must have just not been happy. Not happy with us. Not happy with me. Not happy. We are having lunch tomorrow. I know I said I wouldn’t, but it’s been months. Months (how horribly weird is that!). Plus, I have this intense fear of running into him at parties and out and about, so the whole not seeing him isn’t really realistic, and I need to face it soon. And, he asked. How can I tell him no? It might hurt his feelings. And, I hurt either way, so this way it’s only one of us hurting. Maybe it’s just another lie I tell myself to think he’d actually experience any hurt or disappointment if I said no anyhow. However, I’m smart and I am going to see Avatar IMAX 3-D tomorrow afternoon with some wonderful friends who will slap me back into shape if needed.

Moving on, moving on, moving on.

So, today I started working out again (let’s just say that saying that I gained somewhere between five and ten pounds over the weekend is not an exaggeration—even the pups gained weight—Dolan couldn’t fit in his harness yesterday! Not kidding… I’m not supposed to give dogs cookies? Why the hell not?). The gym is always full of hot men. Most gay men seem to like this. I don’t. I don’t enjoy being around beautiful people that I don’t know. If I know them, it’s okay, because it’s them, and I can forgive them. If I don’t know them, it just makes me feel really ugly. I much prefer to be around fat ugly or mildly attractive strangers. That way I’m the hot one! That’s much more fun. Despite all the irritatingly hot men around, there are still people that make me feel good about myself. Today such relief took the form of a fiftish woman. She obviously had money, or wanted to look like she had money (but no taste). People should take a sanity test before they are allowed to have children and people should have to take a class test before they are allowed to have money. Over her waifishly-thin body, she had on black tights and a contoured spandex white top. Over said top, she wore a massive, massive leopard print faux-fur coat, complete with an extravagant fur collar. In addition, she carried around her leopard print purse. As she traveled from machine to machine, she would set her purse down and remove her jungle cat inspired Cruella Deville coat, revealing chain upon chain of heavy gold necklaces—some thick interlocking ropes, others intertwined with pearls.

Really. It’s moment like those that remind me that no matter how much life may hurt, there are still reasons to keep on going. They are also the moments that provide me with characters that I would love to write about. Can you imagine the life you could create for this woman? So many angles and contradictions you could conjure. It’s not the present I asked for, God, but I for sure thank you for the thought! It really was fairly priceless!

Friday, December 18, 2009

the tinman stireth

I am excited. Really. Not really, really excited, but I am excited—for real! I think it might be the first time I have had a completely pure emotion since I can remember. As with all, there is still that tinge that keeps it from being complete, but still. As I made my list of grocery shopping for Christmas dinner with the boys, the excitement started to build. I am looking forward to going to the grocery store tonight with their gift card and filling the cart as my book on iPod speaks to me, then going home and cooking till midnight or one and then starting again tomorrow morning, pausing only to clean and do a massage and walk the dogs. I won’t be singing Christmas music the whole time like normal, but vampire romances are close, right?
I am excited to have the boys I love most gather in my home, filling it with love and laughter. Dolan slipping into his frantic state as he whores himself out to waiting hands. Dunkyn cautiously sniffing and testing the safety of men he knows so well. The others drinking wine as I finish the food and get it on the table. Opening gifts gathered around the poinsettia. Games until late in the evening. I won’t think about his birthday on Sunday. I won’t think about our lunch next Tuesday. I will shove the memory of him by my side at Christmas dinners in the past out of my mind when they arise—reminding myself that there is no Arizona and that I am surrounded by those who continue to actually choose to walk this life with me.
I won’t have to force a smile. I won’t have to fake being interested. I won’t have to pretend to be human for a few hours. I will be able to simply Be. To rest in the love filling my home. Take shelter in the arms that will surround me. Bask in the beauty of the men around my table. From start to finish, I will be able to say and believe that life is good.

Thursday, December 17, 2009


Today is the day. It’s been marked my calendar for months. I don’t remember if it’s been six months or five, but either way, the day has come. Today is the cut off day that represents the time the editor-in-chief, Mr. Scognamiglio, for Kensington Publishing told me that he would need to read my manuscript. Of course, I know that he didn’t have his calendar marked with the date that he gets to contact Mr. Witt of Denver, that his mind is probably thinking more of Christmas, presents, a vacation, or something. However, it does mean I should have an answer relatively soon. Again, I’m not expecting a yes or even a maybe (I can’t help but hope) but at least I should hear something soon and then choose whatever step may be next. I think I will wait to contact him until the first week in January. Let the holidays die down, give him a chance to get back into the swing of things at his work. The last thing he needs (and the last way I need to be seen) is an over-exuberant, head-in-the-clouds pretend-author bombarding him when he is trying to get other stuff done.
I allow myself a taste of the fantasy of a positive reply. I start to imagine what sensations would go through my body and what might become of the book—what that might mean for future books. I quickly shut it off though. Don’t count your chickens. Don’t rely on that someone to continue to hold your hand and walk by your side. Still, the dream is there. The fantasy is there. The hand returns. The book slides onto shelves. I can sit at my laptop and feel like I’m not pretending and then get up and make dinner for the two of us.
Fantasy world.
Fantasy pieces, all.
For as dead as I feel inside most of the time. For as much as I have tried to squash (and for as much as the world has tried to squash), there seems to be one particle of me that can’t seem to fully wither into oblivion. Some delusional part of me that refuses to accept how the world really is. How pain is the only thing we are guaranteed. Maybe it’s only design is to remain to crush me further. But maybe, just maybe, its there so that there will be a part of me remaining when one of my hands is grasping a hard-cover novel and the other holding a hand. Maybe that fucking ridiculous, painful, irrational grain of hope is there because it is waiting to, it knows that it will, flourish. Maybe. I hope.

Tuesday, December 15, 2009


I read an article about Jeremy Piven last week. I used to have a huge crush on him when he was the romantic comedy sidekick in movies such as Serendipity. However, when he became part of Entourage (not that I’ve ever seen that show), he wasn’t so cute and adorable anymore—more just kinda blurry and cocky. All this to say, in the article I read, it quoted him as stating that Soy Milk was responsible for him developing man breasts. (Go ahead. Shudder. Be glad you’re not a massage therapist.) Apparently, it has been the belief of several people (and the results of some studies—if I understood the article correctly) that soy products have indeed been seen to cause an increase of some female hormone (I don’t think it was estrogen, but maybe—don’t you love how fact driven I always am?) in men—and at times, causing the problem with man boobs. (Again, let the involuntary shuddering of your body cease before you continue reading—no need to hurt yourself.)
How does this relate to me you ask? Well, here you go:
One of my on and off diet tricks over the years has been eating cereal for dessert at night. In fact, I love, love cereal. And the healthy kind too—I don’t like all the sugar cereals (I know, I can’t believe it either). I actually love Special K and such. Anyway, I gradually weaned myself off of whole milk (I refuse to do any other kind of milk—sick) and switched to Rice Milk (Vanilla). I love rice milk. It makes everything sweeter. Mmmmm. So, my happy little life with Rice Milk continued until that fucking day in April. On that day, along with so many other things in my life—Rice Milk abandoned me too. I guess I abandoned it—turn about is fair play, right? You see, we always went to King Soopers. We had our little ritual, who pushed the cart, who got what items (it wasn’t planned, it just happened), always listening to Sandcastle Disco either to or from the store. Well, when I finally started to the grocery store again, which wasn’t that long ago, I switched to Safeway. Which, for the most part, I have found preferable. However, I have not found a Safeway with Rice Milk. They only have Soy Milk. So, I have been using Soy for my cereal. It’s not as good. It’s a little thick and coaty. However, I have been growing accustom.
Until Jeremy Piven. Dammit. I read the article and decided I would finish my last carton of Soy Milk and then switch back to whole milk (which now I no longer like—not enough vanilla flavor—dumb cows). This sounded like an acceptable plan. It seems that my psyche had different intentions. Unbeknownst to me, my body refused to take a chance of returning to the man boobs. I used to be a supporter of little boy boobs, and that was enough—thanks. After my third massage last night at 10:30, I sat down to my dinner and followed it with a bowl of cereal. I took four or five bites. Enjoying the house hunter show to which I’ve become addicted. Petting Dolan. Suddenly, I nearly threw-up on Dolan. Really. I managed to stop myself and swallow the cereal. I sat back for a few moments trying to gather my composure. I looked at the cereal. It looked back at me. I looked at Dolan. He waved his front paws, asking me to pet him. I looked back at the cereal. This time, the cereal had the faintest gleam in its eye. Surely not. It had to be a fluke. Tentatively, I took another bite. Voraciously, bile rose within and my stomach churned. I forced it down. Giving a hurt and longing gaze at my rejecting cereal, I watched it flow down the sink. I went to bed cerealess.
The story should stop there. You would hope. But no. I went to Starbucks—if I work so hard at massages, I deserve Starbucks and I don’t feel a bit bad about it. I ordered my Pumpkin Spice Chai. Heaven. There was a new girl as the barista, who thought that PS stood for Pumpkin Soy—Not simply pumpkin spice. When she called me up to receive my Pumpkin Chai with Soy, I looked befuddledly at the drink. She asked if I had wanted Soy, if the PS stood for Pumpkin Soy. She looked so cute (she really was gorgeous), so afraid that she’d messed up, that I simply said, ‘yes, absolutely.’ (I’m going to regret that the next time I order this drink. Shit.) At this point, I didn’t think much about last night. I thought maybe my soy milk had gone bad or that I was just so tired from school and all the massages. Plus soy makes things sweeter, so I might like this new concoction. I’m not gonna get breasts from Starbucks. Starbucks is too good, to pure, to do such evilness. I was nearly half done with my venti when the same gurgling began to occur as last night. There was no cereal around. No Dolan. I had not just finished three hours of massages. In horror I looked at my Chai. It looked back, all innocence. In disbelief, I forced three more sips. Each bringing my revulsion closer to the surface, and closer to the interior of my car. With abject sorrow and treachery, I sat the Chai down, and with a stab of guilt, I later threw it away. It seems the subconscious battle over breasts has been averted. My chest is happy about it, as is my limited allowance for bras. Although a nice cinnamon colored lace number could have been the answer to all my struggles.

Monday, December 14, 2009


Last night was one of the most relaxing moments (outside of holding Gavin) that I have experienced in months. I almost (almost) felt like me. We had our Cajun Christmas dinner (Chicken and Sausage Jumbo, Honey and Whiskey Bread Pudding [I know!], and the best Crab Cakes I have ever had] at SLuna’s house. There were only four of us. Three of my oldest, closest, and most trusted friends. Also three of my most beautiful friends, which can still make me nervous in comparison—however, last night, it didn’t even register on the importance scale. And his name didn’t even come up, not once. There were moments where I could feel his presence (or his absence). Moments from when we had this dinner together Christmases past. But, his absence is always with me—a ghost that constantly cloaks my entire being. It’s just a way of life, and I think I might be gradually learning how to function from under the shroud. Just surrounded by friends that accept me, my flaws, my weakness, my hurts, and simply take me as I am. Simply love me. As they always have.
It made me immensely excited for my own Christmas dinner this week. There will be no tree. No lights. I think I can force myself to have Christmas music in the background, but we will see. There will be friends and food. Food and friends. Friends that have stood by my side through so much—even when standing by my side has meant letting me hide and wait for my return. Friends that I trust with everything. Friends that I would give my life for. Friends that make it possible for me to actually find some laughter again in spite of the shell I’ve become. Friends who are always there with open arms and love. Who needs lights? Who needs a tree?

Sunday, December 13, 2009


I attended a party on Friday. That’s right. Me. Party. Attended.

(Please wait for applause to die down.)

Of course, I checked with the host to see whom the party did and did not include—don’t need any surprises or dramatic weeping scenes at Christmas parties. Well, maybe…but I’d rather them not include me. Even knowing who would be there, it took an intensive effort to attend. If it hadn’t been for who was hosting the wine and cheese party (fell in love with Chocolate wine, btw) and a few of the princes in attendance, I wouldn’t have been able to face it. It was a blessing that my bff happened to show up at the same time and walk in with me. I quickly started to feel at home. I only got teary once when a dear, dear girlfriend asked me about he and I. She hadn’t heard. (I know. I thought I’d been screaming it loud enough too.) Other than that, it was a successful evening. Only spent a little time standing in the corner of the kitchen and only did dishes for a bit. Pretty good. It was a pretty fun night. Actually, it was a fun night. I have to learn to see the fun and joy where it is, even if the rest of me isn’t filled with it, it doesn’t mean that it doesn’t exist.

And, I have a party tonight. I know! Look at me go. This one is a smaller venue and I think a more limited guest list, but still. (Thank you, SLuna.) And, both of these parties place me with my best friends, most of whom I’ve done a pretty good job of avoiding (both for their sanity and my own as I try to figure out to be this new Brandon—not happy and light like I thought I was before, but not going on and on about what I constantly go on and on about). It is such a wonderful thing to be with them again. And, then we have the party I am hosting next Saturday. There are also two parties after that the following week or so. I may not be the social butterfly anymore, but maybe I can at least upgrade to a social cricket.

This morning was the last of the Bible Study that TB was leading. I missed the two previous, one for being so sick and one for not being able to get my car to accommodate my travel plans in the snow and ice. We have been working our way through James. Only five chapters. A heavy theme of this book is works are evidence of your faith. A lot of the people in the group seem to struggle slightly with this concept. Not me. This was how I was raised. I’ve always wished the adage that ‘good people go to Heaven’ was true. Doing works has never been a problem. I’m a good little boy, remember (most of the time)? It’s the whole ‘keeping the faith’ thing I struggle with now. In typical Brandon behavior, I spent half of the final group wondering what was wrong with me. Typically, I feel pretty strong in my Bible knowledge and ability to flush out the meaning of verses and such. At the beginning, we took a few minutes to go through the final chapter and jot down what we thought were some key words, key themes, and key verses. After, the longer we talked, the more I began to feel like I had lost my mind. I wasn’t seeing the grittiness of the verses they were talking about, nor cultural implications. My typical, yeah, yeah, been there, heard that frame of mind (not true with TB’s studies, but still) was gone. Finally, something someone said triggered my mind. There was no way they could have gotten that out of the verse six that I read. In confusion I glanced around trying to figure out what dimension I had stumbled into. I had worked my way through the fifth chapter 1Peter. Not James. Feeling both stupid and relieved, I turned to the correct passage and quickly wished I had stayed where I had been. James 5:11—The Lord is full of compassion and mercy. Really? I’d like to argue that. Or defend it with my theory of an imperfect God with perfect motivation. Neither of which would be overly appropriate. Then, to top it off, James 5:15--And the prayer offered in faith will make the sick person well; the Lord will raise him up. If he has sinned, he will be forgiven. Again, Really? Just before this, we talked about at niece of someone in the group. A twenty-eight year old woman with two small children and a young husband who we’d been praying for due to her cancer. They just announced that she has one to three months to live. Perfect. More than any other thing in the Bible, the issue of prayer (healing or not, but especially healing) causes me to question everything (even more than the whole gay issues) in/with the Bible. I have not heard one theory, one anything that can explain verses like this to me. And I’ve heard tons and tons—sought them out for a long time. Every single one seems like a cop-out, an attempted excuse for God. It would be one thing if there was only one such verse as this, or even if they were wishy-washy. Or maybe more like a suggestion. No, nope. They are black and white, every one of them. A do this, then that guideline that I have seen proven true on occasion, but for the vast majority of the time, disproved time and time and time again, by those clinging desperately on this so-called promise. Needless to say, next time, I’ll stay on the wrong chapter, thank you very much.

Friday, December 11, 2009


There are moments, as you may have noticed, where the weight of all your heartache, all that slipped through your fingers, all that you dreamed and lost crushes down on you, pummeling until you can’t stand. Those moments have been vast and frequent.
There are also those rare moments when you are shoved to the ground by the power of love from those around you.
Yesterday was such a moment.
Despite not being able, or deciding to not (however you wanna spin it), to put up the tree, I have been looking forward to my annual Christmas dinner with my boys—my best friends will all be there—save a couple who has family commitments. It is always one of, if not the most, my favorite nights of the year. I’ve felt a little awkward about this one: no tree, not much money for gifts, such a downer/wet-blanket mood—that I’ve not been such a good friend this year (more often hiding and retreating from them than reaching out and being with them). In addition, the cost of the dinner has been a challenge. By the time I get all (or whichever ones I determine are the most vital) my bills paid, my month’s paycheck is gone by the 4th of each month. So, I live off whatever massages I do or don’t get for the rest of the month. In preparation for the dinner, I’ve been doing massages this week, even though I haven’t had time—they’ve been late (ending at 11—I go to bed at ten on school nights typically anymore, or at least am cuddled on the couch with dogs zoning out to the food network or the househunter shows), and I’ve been exhausted each day.
My bff texted me yesterday and told me to make sure to check my mailbox when I get home (he knows I sometimes won’t look in it for weeks—it’s not fun to see the bills [you know, if you don’t look at them, they’re not there]). So, I got home from work and had a few moments before the next massage. I opened the card I found, which has been placed in the mailbox, not mailed. Inside was a beautiful card telling me how much I mean to people, how I make people’s worlds better, etc. There was also a gift card to the grocery store for $160, that simply said ‘for your dinner with the boys, from Saint Nick.’
For some moments, it truly didn’t sink in. I just looked at it. Then it hit, what had happened. I’ve not been crying lately. Been to numb, only small tears here and there, which is has been a nice change of pace. The card and the grocery money brought me to my knees, sobbing. At first, just for a moment, a shot of pain due to the reminder that others are ‘taking care of me’ instead of who used to. Then the tears turned to the humbling weight of being so lavished with loved, bestowed with such an extravagant offering and gift. It turns out, the boys got together and all pitched in so that I wouldn’t have to pay for our Christmas dinner. (Talk about pressure to cook a pretty great meal this year-- :) )
I went to bed last night, their undeserved words, gift, love, and kindness literally wrapping around me. For the first time in a long, long time, I felt safe. I felt loved. I felt protected. I felt cared for. I felt safe. Safe.
I was expecting the numbness I haven been thankful for to be cut through with new waves of grief. Instead, it was injected with joyous love and gave my heart and mind a respite for a time.
These are the moments. These are the people. These are the times. I don’t know who God is. I choose to believe this is God. This is who he is. Imperfect. Beautiful. Providing safety and love in the wasteland of a heart.
There are no words that can adequately express how much these actions and my friends’ love means to me and helps me.

Thursday, December 10, 2009

poignant from spring awakening

O, I'm gonna be wounded
O, I'm gonna be your wound
O, I'm gonna bruise you
O, your gonna be my bruise

The Word of Your Body
Duncan Sheik


Since I am such a news-junkie, constantly needing to be informed of the truth and reality around me, I always look at the headlines of the paper for the minute or so it takes the Starbuck barista to create morning heaven in my paper cup. As this is the only time I seek out news, whatever bits and pieces I get during those few seconds shape my world view. Typically, I don’t read them to truly get informed (the older I get the more I live up to my ‘Show-Me-State’ heritage), I just like to look at pictures. However, yesterday there was a story that caught my attention long enough to actually read for a few moments after I got liquid therapy. The picture was of this older Hispanic man standing under a large tree in his field, trying desperately to look the part of honest-to-goodness cowboy. However, the story was one of my novel come to life (both the kind I read and the kind I am trying to write). He has had four calves, thus far, that have been slaughtered on his ranch. Their tongues removed, eyes missing, and all their entrails captured. The catch? No footprints at all. No blood—on the ground or on the body. No meat taken. No signs of anything amiss—except for the gruesome veal in the grass. Of course, somewhere, there is a legitimate explanation. However, in my werewolf books, the humans always come up with a legitimate explanation—even when there isn’t one.
No, this story has nothing to do with anything. True, I could twist it to be a symbol of things that aren’t understood, no matter how you try to figure them out. A testament of how someone could believe something so fully yet be utterly delusional. How it feels to be tormented by unanswerable questions and patronized by empty comments, ‘don’t let someone dictate your happiness,’ ‘you’re better off,’ ‘he obviously had been planning on leaving for some time.’ I could, but I won’t.
In a reminder that cruelty and causing others pain is a skill that we practice and perfect since childhood, my little elementary school has been having to have ‘come-to-jesus’ sessions with our fourth, fifth, and sixth grade classrooms. It seems that there is a rash abundance of people calling others: gay, gayway, fag, gaysissy, feel free to come up with your own combo. It is always such a strange experience for me to take part in and to simply overhear and observe. How the redirections and consequences attempt to teach that such words hurt and damage people who might be gay, all the while unintentionally slicing people who are gay with the other side of the sword. We don’t call people gay because it hurts people around us who are or might be gay. It makes them feel like they are bad, and they aren’t. It’s also not okay because, we don’t want to be mean to be people and call them bad things and bad words. You don’t want to embarrass and hurt them by calling them mean things. (That’s right, young fag and lesbo, we don’t want you to feel like an outcast or dirty, even though having little jock and cheerleader equated to you is an insult, gross, and unacceptable—and worthy of punishment.) I honestly don’t have any hard feelings about the way it’s handled, although I truly do get offended and bashed each time I hear someone else lead these conversation, both because I know they come from a place that is trying to be helpful, and because I don’t have a perfect answer to it either. However, it is one of those times I really wish I could tell my kids who their teacher is and how it affects real people around them.
And, finally, yesterday was a day I had been dreading. One that I thought would cause me to break. Hagrid died. The Siamese Fighting Fish that he and I got as a pet well over a year ago and had since come to live in my classroom. I thought I’d text him and let him know, that he should know. I didn’t. If he doesn’t really care about me, hopefully the fish wouldn’t register. I had been dreading it. I knew it was coming—as it seemed that he had been alive a lot longer than most Bettas. In both a surprising and happy realization, I discovered I was too numb to feel much of anything. Just one more dull stab and twist. Just another breath. The only thing I did hate was that the ground was so frozen and that I was at school. I would have liked to have given him a proper burial. However, many things don’t get buried cleanly, do they?

Tuesday, December 08, 2009

Before the sunrise

This morning dawned in a blazing glory of numbness. Truly a blessing. I never thought I’d see the day when I longed for absence of emotion, but that day is here—has been here for awhile. Such relief to not feel anything at the moment. Simply to breath, attempt to pray, drink coffee, feed the pups, shower, shave, throw on clothes that are mostly clean, and lose myself to vampire wars on my iPod. Pretty great. And with that soothing note, I take my next breath.

Monday, December 07, 2009

It's the Hap-Happiest Season of All

Here we go, the week that begins a month of parties. Actually this past week was, although I skipped it. Imagine that! Me! Skipping a party. Never. The three parties that I am going to (one of which is mine) aren’t too high stress. I know who I will see and who I won’t. That takes the anxiety level down. Somewhat. I still have to try to be normal and reminiscent of who I used to be. Which, probably, is good for me. The more I do it, the easier it will be to continue. It’s interesting. The times I do ‘fake it,’ I feel pretty good for a bit after, kinda like, ‘wow, I’m almost me again.’ However, the aftermath is always rather tough. When the fake smile fades, when the forced small talk disappears and reality is left.
I was talking to my best friend yesterday. We went Christmas shopping. Girls’ day out, you know. It was very nice and very relaxing. Somewhat bittersweet, but still good. We started talking about why we don’t get together more now that he is only working one job again, and I had to admit how hard it is to be around people that I know so well and that I love. That it takes a lot of effort to keep up the normal conversation flow and not turn to the theme that is so prevalent—believe it or not, I really give considerable exertion to steer clear of that topic. I don’t want to drive people crazy and I am sick to death of talking about it—since nothing changes. He mentioned that he really thought that I will be back to normal soon. I told him I really didn’t think so. It’s not that I am just sad or miss him. Even though that is true. At this point though, it’s not all about him. Part of me broke, cracked, shattered, fell off of me. I don’t think it’s something that can ‘heal.’ Maybe scab over. Even if he returned (yeah, right), I still wouldn’t be who I was. My friend mentioned that he thought I just needed someone to come along and show me that it really is possible, that there really is someone I could give my trust to for good. (There wasn’t one bit of trust that I didn’t give, there wasn’t anything I held back—I gave every ounce of trust, faith, everything that I had.) To me, and I said this, that idea is repugnant. For one, I don’t believe that can happen or will happen. For another, let’s say for argument’s sake that it’s true. That’s disgusting. What does that say about me? That I couldn’t get back to ‘normal’ on my own? That I simply had to just have some man to make me whole and enable me to function yet again? Yuck, Donna Reed, yuck.
Happy Monday morning!

Saturday, December 05, 2009


I remember the days when I would sit down at the computer and write something witty or culturally relevant or some diatribe about the world in which we live. (Just because you don’t remember, doesn’t mean it didn’t happen!) Sometimes it would be a thought that would be clanging around in my head for days before finding its Mecca on the page. Other times, I would sit and the words would simply flow from my fingers and I would be nearly as surprised at what resulted as would a total stranger looking over my shoulder. (I really shouldn’t have said that while I am sitting alone in my house in a dimly lit room—kinda creeped out all the sudden.) I feel the need to write right now. To let my fingers have more contact with my subconscious than my mind. Already there is a bit of relief in just this simple fix of my addiction. However, there isn’t anything of worth or anything novel that is going to flow. I simply want to write about all I’ve been writing about for nearly forever, it seems. To write about what each Saturday, marking one more week, is like. To blabber on about how afraid I am for that moment--the first time that I see him out without warning, at a mutual friend’s birthday party, at a movie, at dinner. . . how I hate going anywhere for fear of what might transpire. To sigh as I brag about how good I have been doing about shoving him out of my mind whenever he floats in trying to slice me deeper, yet how simultaneously, unable to stop the confusion and constant ache that is the ever-increasing core of me. I’d like to say all those things. All those things and more. I’d like to. But, I won’t. I won’t even mention them. You’ll never know they were on my mind. You’ll never know that if only I would have said them, answers would have come. Comfort would have arrived. Hell, maybe a nock on my door that announced a return to the life I loved. Fuck, if nothing, maybe just sanity. But, I’ll never say or type those words. Thank goodness I didn’t. You’ll never know. If only I could be so lucky.

Friday, December 04, 2009

delivering stone-cold, frozen chicken pies

Stepping outside this morning made me feel like I was back in Missouri. There was a thick bite to the cold, very Midwest like. I think it might be affecting my brain. As I was waiting for my white chocolate mocha at Starbucks, I read the headlines in the paper. Four or five times I read: Plumbers overwhelmed by calls for frozen pies. (Or something to that effect.) I kept re-reading it, because I couldn’t figure out what plumbers would have to do with frozen pies. Further more, what’s the big deal with frozen pies? Stick them in the oven. Or was it so cold that they were freezing right when these people took them out of the oven? And if so, shouldn’t they call a heater repair man, or even a baker—why a plumber? Needless to say, once again I was terrified at the thought that I am teacher and that I spend the majority of my day teaching kids to read when I realized that what I kept reading actually said: Plumbers overwhelmed by calls for frozen pipes. Pipes. Makes much more sense. Not as fun perhaps, but understandable. I took my white chocolate mocha, my illiteracy and moved on.
The package for his birthday came in. I contacted Amazon before they shipped it and told them to cancel it. They told me to call UPS and tell them I was going to refuse it. I did. I called UPS and they told me to call the morning it was to be delivered. I did. They told me to write a note refusing the package and put it on the door. I did. Note was still there, package left underneath it. I called again. They said they will pick it up Monday. Package is sitting by the front door. A gift not needed by him. Much like the house it sits in and the man who bought it.
I went to see Precious last night. Yesterday at work was insane. Already dealing with the police before school started and a kid cursing me out on the phone before the first bus arrived. You can imagine how the rest of the day went. By the time the day was over, I didn’t have it in me to work out, walk the dogs in the freezing ice air, or do anything productive, so I went to a movie. It was a good movie, pretty well done. However, I might as well have stayed at work. My friend that went with me was in tears beside me. I didn’t so much as get misty-eyed. And we all know how much I cry. There honestly was not one thing in that movie that I haven’t see or dealt with. Most of it many, many times. Well, I don’t think I’ve had a case where a TV was used as weapon, but still. On one hand, it’s a good thing that I’ve hardened enough to not get emotional over such things, otherwise I couldn’t do the job I do. However, I do find it somewhat disturbing that movies such as The Road and March of the Penguins can bring me to tears and Precious simply made me nod and go, ‘yup, that’s pretty much how it happens.’ Although, now that I think of it, since I’ve gotten that hardened with my job and the kids and families I work with, maybe I have hope that I will get that hard in my own life and simply be able to shrug off how life is turning out. Either way, and this will only make sense if you’ve seen the movie, fried chicken is one of my favorite meals and I think it will be awhile before I am able to indulge myself in that pleasure again.

Thursday, December 03, 2009


As I held Gavin last night, and lifted him through the air as Dad made noises at him, he got so excited that he began to squeal hysterically and laugh harder than we’ve ever heard. He just kept going and going. As stupid and cliché as it sounds (and I would dismiss it if I heard someone else say it as cheese), I could feel open wounds meld over and soften. A temporary balm, but one that is more effective than I could have ever dreamed. To be able to have a moment where my pain doesn’t matter at all. Where my happiness doesn’t matter at all. Where no part of me matters or has any importance in the slightest is beautiful. All that matters is that little boy. The joy of hearing his laugh one more time, seeing him give his foolish grin, feeling him safe and warm as he sleeps in your arms, keeping him safe, doing everything possible to make his world better than my own. What does any part of me measure up to the magnitude of his existence?
I’ve never thought of the uncle/nephew relationship as anything overtly special. And a lot of the time, I don’t really think it is from what I have seen. And, I know I am living vicariously through my brother and this little man, and I am carefully watching that emotion so that it doesn’t move to places that could damage. I’m still riding that peaceful high this morning, and it is beautiful to be able to rest a little for the moment.
There are other things that have been weighing on me, that I wanted to dispel from me this morning, things I’ve noticed about other people who have been in my situation and what has transpired in their lives that I worry about. However, they can wait. For now, I want to just take solace in the moments I can grasp. I will relish what is here and claming now.

Tuesday, December 01, 2009

gift of nothing

Damned if I do. Damned if I don’t. Damned if he does. Damned if he doesn’t. It hurts so much when it’s weeks between emails and it hurts so much every time I hear from him. After three weeks, he wrote me, and without meaning too, ruined my day. Before he left me, I’d been planning on getting a trip to see the live finale of America’s Next Dance Crew of this coming season and make it into a trip for his birthday. Obviously, can’t do that since he left me. However, after much thought, I decided that I was going to buy him the whole set of DVD’s of his favorite show, Friends. In his email this morning, simply making conversation, he told me that his friends were getting him Friends DVD’s. I had planned this gift for a couple months now. It was the perfect gift to both communicate how much he means to me, how well I know what he loves, and make an effort to provide happiness for him abstractly. Even that was taken from me. When I told him, he replied how I didn’t need to get him anything (he always said that) and how he is always amazed by how I try to take care of those around me. He meant it as a genuine compliment. Of course, I took it as him being just one other person to buy a gift for. One more reminder that the man who loved, missed, and wanted me is so far away that there is no remnant of him inside the man that remains. That I am in love with, grieve for, and was left by someone who doesn’t exist any longer.

just another feather in the flock

God is such a struggle for me. Looking back, he always has been. However, growing up, the struggle with was me. How I wasn’t good enough for him. How I was an abomination. How I was damned. You know, fun stuff like that. Now, the issue is with him. There is no doubt in my mind that he exists; that there is a god. Went through that phase where I wasn’t really sure. I am now. However, I can’t seem to get a grasp on who he is at all. And I can’t decide if I like him or not. If I use the Bible, I get so many conflicting messages of who he is, many that don’t mesh. However, if someone wrote a book about every facet of me, my details wouldn’t mesh either. If I’m ‘complicated’ enough to merit contradiction and equal parts that don’t seem to flow naturally in one body, how much more so show God be? However, many/most of the things I know of God in the Bible make me sincerely not like him, so I have done what I have described before and twisted the view of him in my mind so that I can either displace or forgive his ‘shortcomings.’
I watched March of the Penguins last night, and the whole experience (besides moments of intense cuteness and bleak desperation) was a God moment for me. I thought I knew most everything about penguins—I’ve always loved them and been rather fascinated by them. However, there were many minute details of which I’d never been aware. Many that blew my mind. How far they truly walk, and how many times a year they make the trek. The way their bodies are formed. How they naturally work together. The strange little pouch in the male’s throat that saves a milky substance for months only to give to the newly hatched chick so that it can last for a single day to give its mother time to return. Detail after insane detail. Each a vital aspect of their survival. Each so little. Each imperative. How can someone look at these creatures and think it all happened by chance? That it simply happened by evolution alone. By survival of the fittest alone. It seems brainless and gullible to look at the intrinsic and interwoven fibers that create these little creatures’ universe and not see someone at the loom. You’d have to be blind and a fool to see anything else. And that is just with Penguins. Don’t even think about all the other creatures and patterns that have to exist for each one. It doesn’t just happen.
In that declaration of God’s existence and master plan, comes awe of him. Astounded by his creativity and intricate details. Insanity of his ludicrous ideas and creations. The brilliance of it all. All of which brings me back to what the fuck is wrong with him. The hostility these little creatures face is baffling. As is their capacity and unfathomable aptitude to survive and thrive despite the odds. They spend over three-fourths of each year with the single goal of raising one baby. At every turn, there is tragedy. Every turn some catastrophe that is so beyond their control that shatters everything they are sacrificing for. They wait for months, literally starving, waiting for a mate to return with food that never comes. They endure the unendurable only to have their chick killed by something. The baby somehow survives and waits just enough time to see its fellows greeted by a returning parent bringing substance, only to die in the cold surrounded by its ilk, as its parent did weeks ago in the jaws of a seal.
I am blown away the design of it all and beauty and joy God must have in his creation. I am blown away by the cruelty that he watches and allows on these little living things as they endure the impossible only to be shattered individually, yet thrive as a community. The penguins didn’t eat from a tree or listen to snake or discover they were naked. They didn’t ‘earn’ their hardships in childbirth. If it were a novel, it would be perfect. It’s the stuff you want to read—terror, hardships, trials, death, calamity, perseverance, excitement, triumph. However, not what you would create for reality. Unless you are intrinsically fucked up and sadistic. Or maybe fallible. (Are my words the unpardonable sin? I doubt it, but maybe. Even as I write them, the fibers of me screams to not say such things. However, if he is who they say he is, he knows they’re there anyway.)
As in all things, it comes back down to me. I was humbled as I watched these little ones work so hard to simply survive. A task that comes fairly naturally to me. I was humbled (and angered) that God watches not only the journey of penguins, but the countless journey of every creation—including me. The words of the Bible comfort and torment me at the same time. As I watched, I felt like nothing more than just another animal going through the design, trying desperately live, really live—all the time knowing that no matter how much effort or sacrifice is made, I could freeze on the ice, wait for nourishment that is not to come, make it to the end only to be slaughtered. Why should I expect more? Why would I be so much more important that a fat, waddling black and white bird?
The entire time, verses from the book coursed through me. The sparrow. The falling from the nest. Seen and loved by God, even as it falls and dies. How much more important am I? That we have been placed above in the importance and cared-for-spectrum and are even more intrinsically and complicatedly designed. Comfort. Promises. Other verses. No guarantee or promise of fulfillment here on Earth. No security in things working-out. Only the pledge of struggle and hardships and pain. There are many of us penguins that will face the winter and starvation and have a healthy chick to show for it. However, there are many of us penguins that will make it just as far as the others, only for the ice to crack around us and devour all we have given to survive. What has made me think I was so special that I would be one of the ones to endure, so unique that I would thrive despite the odds? That I wouldn’t realize that as the other penguins around me were greeted with the rewards of their sacrifice that I am to freeze waiting for what is never to return or arrive? What thoughts go through the little one’s mind as he succumbs to gravity and splays slowly on ice, his vision of the others’ celebration around him blurry, the realization of his fate washing over him like a cold sheath? I think I have an idea.

Sunday, November 29, 2009


I just returned home from watching The Road. I wasn’t sure what I was getting into, I just knew it was another end of the world flick. I was expecting something along the lines of 2012 or whatnot. Wrong. It was hand’s down the most realistic portrayal of what I truly think survivors of the end of the world would be like. There was nothing fancy or beautiful or Hollywood in the film. Just raw humanity in every form. It was powerful and devastating.

Here’s where I get dramatic. At least I know looking on, it would be dramatic and if I heard someone else say what I am getting ready to, I would roll my eyes and discount everything else they ever said. Comparing heartbreak to the end of world. How cliché and lame. I hope, truly, that I can look back on this blog one day and think, wow-I was really dramatic, I’m so glad I don’t feel that way anymore. I don’t see that day coming, but I hope it does.

The movie clarified something I’ve felt for months, something that I think I’ve tried to say a millions time but haven’t been able to verbalize. Knew it in feeling and in gut, but not in form. In the movie, the characters weren’t trying to build life back the way it was, they weren’t trying for something better or to fix things, it was all they could do to simply keep going, take another step, to survive, and for most, even that was denied them or proved too much. I know the feeling.

Everything in me tells me that I’ve reached the peak. I think I even knew it at the time, and I’m thankful for it. I knew I was living a life I hadn’t even dared to dream of. I knew I had to relish every moment. And I did. I was at the top of my life, the pinnacle of my happiness, contentment, joy. I don’t see that returning. I see days and years filled with people, family and friends, that I love. Maybe even highs in my career and hopefully writing. However, I also see me at fifty, seventy, eighty looking back and knowing that those few years were the greatest gift I’d been given, and nothing else compared. Even as I try to explain it, I’m not able to. It sounds forced and hollow, but my soul recognized it tonight, and it terrifies me that I might be right. I pray I’m not. People say I’m not—people say a lot of things all the time. I’m not sure how it could be so true for one of us and not the other, but that seems to be life as well.

Maybe it is just the grief still talking, maybe it’s the depression singing, maybe it’s reality, but I’m broken, and I’m fully aware of it. My laughter, and there has been plenty of laughter, is never as deep as it was; my smile never Brandon’s smile; my excitement never more than a flicker; my hope nearly, if not completely, non-existent. I am a shell of who I used to be. I am afraid to go to parties because I may see him and crumble. Plus, I don’t want him to see what I’ve become—or anyone else for that matter. I’m afraid to be with my old friends that I love so much because I don’t have their friend to offer them. It’s easier to be with new friends who never knew who I used to be. I don’t speak very much because it’s hard to find something important enough to say. It’s weak to say I lost myself because of a man, and its not like it was his intention, but part of me shattered, and it really feels irreparable. Everything is dulled by a thick layer of ash, including me. But, I keep walking my road, only leaving footprints to prove I was there.

Everything I ever needed to know I learned in. . .

I opened my facebook this morning to this:

“hi mr. witt, i cant wat till monday!!!!!!!! and its weard that a teacher has a facebook???????”

(from one of my sixth grade girls—doesn’t your heart melt at how wait and weird is spelled [let’s not look at the punctuation], as well as your brain cringe at our educational system)

I promptly screamed and asked one my friends who wasn’t yet a facebook friend to look up my page and see what parts of my profile were visible to people who weren’t friends. Turns out, all you can see is my main picture and an option to send me a message. I experienced a sincere heart-calming from near explosion moment, followed by a surprising damn it moment.

I seems I had the wherewithal when I set up my FB page to set the security level high. I had a very bad experience at one of my internships where a gay student found me on MySpace and sent me a message saying, “I knew you were gay! I knew you were gay! I knew you were gay!” Well, duh, kid, that ain’t news. I didn’t respond to him on MySpace, but told my supervisor and my student-teacher teacher about the email, and promptly had a huge meeting and then met with the kid and the school counselor. So glad it wasn’t turned into a big deal. Uh-huh.

I have mixed emotions around it all. If I were in high school, there is no doubt in my mind that I would be out to my kids, or at least not actively seek to hide it. Not that I hide it now, my Para and I have always talked about him in class, but kids tend to be oblivious when it concerns the teachers around them having an actual life. However, teaching 4th to 6th grade, it isn’t so clear-cut to me. I really would like it to be out in the open. All the teachers know, but it’s never been an issue with the kids. And when the kids bring up why I’m not married, well, I’ve had thirty years to perfect that blow-off answer, so no biggie. However, I remember how desperately I wanted to know someone else who was gay when I was a kid—younger than the kids I work with now. And I have kids that I know are gay, and I hate that I can’t be a mirror for them. I don’t want to have class about it or discuss sex or dating or anything with them, not appropriate—no more than if I was straight, that is. I don’t have the gay-agenda thing going on that so many of my dear fellow Christians say, but I do hate seeing children struggle in shame and loneliness when I know that I could change all that in an instant. However, I also know (and I know this sounds classist and elitist, and I don’t mean it too, but I’ve worked with this population for over a decade now and I know what I’m talking about) that the culture of my kids’ parents (for the most part) doesn’t have a paradigm for a gay man who isn’t a pedophile or cross-dresser [not that those are the same—as I have friends who cross-dress and none that molest children]. On a purely selfish note, I also know how my kids are and the things they say (or scream) when they are angry, and I really have had Faggot yelled in my face enough to last me a life-time, and I don’t want to hear it from my kids.

So, although this student (who I adore by the way) doesn’t yet realize that 80% of her teachers have a facebook page (I talk to some of them more on FB than I do when we are at school), she managed to scare her math teacher (yes, I teach math—yes, that is should be a crime—not my enjoying men, but my math skills) on a perfectly lovely Sunday morning. Also, she doesn’t realize how easy it would be to find out so much more about her short, red-headed, learning-elementary-math-right-alone-with-her, teacher with just a few more strokes of the keypad. Say, for instance, if she began to read Ramblings. Oh, lord. I am fairly certain this whole gay-teacher thing will come to the surface in the next year or two, how could it not, unless I was willing to lie blatantly or hide who I am, both of which I have done enough of, thankyouverymuch. Plus, I do need to give lessons to my gay kids before it’s too late. Little lesbians, lets talk about mullets, flannel, and power tools and how to avoid them. Little faggies, let’s talk about how you need to dog that’s a good cuddler, cause your gonna need him when the man you choose to spend your life with forgets your existence. And little transgender/transsexual boys and girls, that conversation will have to wait until you get in 7th grade. Mr. Witt ain’t touchin’ that one.