Tremble

The lava hardens into stone
Layers rise, mountains form, birds of paradise bloom

The ground trembles and shakes
Life continues, steadfast around the cracks

The rock sometimes crumbles
Lying in ruins, the dust of foundations catch the wind

friday the 18th (meant to be a play on friday the 13th, but not funny)

Part of my morning routine revolves waking up to a rather freezing house (I like to sleep when it is cold—with the fan going and everything), waking up, to said freezing house, is less pleasant. I stumble from bed to the bathroom, where I immediately turn on the heater. Typically, I put toothpaste on my toothbrush and sit on the toilet while brushing my teeth, dozing in and out while the heater warms my feet. Usually, I then go let the dogs in so that they can have some interaction in the morning. I return to the bathroom, start the hot water to fill up the tub (also to help me wake up and be warm). While the tub is filling, I turn off the bathroom lights, the dogs stretch out over the cold tile. I knell prostrate before the heater and pray. No, not to the heater, smart ass. Then it is time to get ready. (And yes, I tell you all this right now because I really want to go back to bed. It has been one of those weeks were I have felt completely sleep deprived, even though I am typically getting six or more hours of sleep every night.
This morning, I had barely forced myself out of bed, I was sitting there brushing my teeth and I heard huffing and snorting outside of my bathroom door that connects to the kitchen. Nothing quite wakes you up like something breathing in an aggressive manner outside your door in the dark. I was barely alert enough to recognize the bathroom, let alone try to recognize sounds. I sat there, toothbrush hanging limply from my mouth, eyes wide, ears straining to assess if I was hearing things or not.
The huffing came again. My back went ridged. Ok, not crazy. What to do? Do I go wake Chad? Do I stay perfectly still and not make noise? Do I re-enact scenes from a horror movie? I choose the later of course.
My hand reaches out in seeming slow motion and grasps the doorknob that will open my tiny heating world to the kitchen and the source of the huffing. What if there is something or someone on the other side with a knife? All I have is my toothbrush. I turn the knob. Why do people always go towards the glowing red light in the forest that emanates screams? I pull the door open. Breath held. Skin atingle.
Dunkyn and Dolan rush in, cavorting at my feet. Thrilled to see their daddy. Relief rushes through me. Shortly followed by fear again.
How did the dogs get in? I always put them out for the night and shut their doggy door. Someone or something vile has let them enter the house.
After a quick inspection, I discover that it was only my sleep deprivation that allowed to the dogs to stay inside all night.
Finally, the dogs and I re-enter our heated bathroom to continue our interrupted morning. I should have just went back to bed. Who knows what terror awaits this morning…

a yearning

I have this desire. It’s nothing new, but it is continuously getting stronger. The more I see of the world, the more places I visit, the more things I do, the more it grows. I don’t think it’s wrong or a bad omen, but it actually can make me a little sad, or maybe a little claustrophobic in my own skin.
I want to live several lifetimes. Not just so I don’t die, I am not afraid of the next life—not like I used to be. I am still nervous about the next life, simply because my imagination fails me. The concept of eternity being forever has always made me a little nervous. Not in the whole ‘forever damned to fire’ kind of nervous, simply in ‘wow, forever? That might last awhile.’
The yearning to have more than my share of life is merely a result of how much I truly enjoy the world in which we live—even though parts are so fucked up and drive me crazy at times. So here are some of the reasons I want or things I would do with multiple lifetimes.
1. I want several different bodies. Well, not other people’s bodies (although I wouldn’t cry if I turned into Ricky Martin), just my own, over and over again, hopefully a little more in-shape than this first time around. Why do I want so many Brandon bodies? Because it is a tattoo canvas, of course. There are so many I would like to do, so many designs and themes that I have come up with. Really, they are very cool. The trouble is you can’t wipe your canvas clean just to bleed and ink it again. Maybe if we were built like the Barbie doll make-up and hair station where you could do her make-up and stuff and constantly put in a new batch of store bought hair to replace the old one you cut at differing angle degrees (Not that I had one, I must of heard of it somewhere…), we could just slip into a new batch of skin… Of course, tattooing would need to be cheaper, that could get expensive.
2. I want to live in so many different places, and not just for a few months or years, I want to spend lifetimes at each one. New York City alone could be explored for four or fiver generations worth. Then, move on to Hawaii, San Diego, Seattle, Little Rock. Ok, got a little carried away there. But really, I could spend a lifetime in Central Park alone, investigating every stone carving on every bridge, fountain, and staircase. You can’t really do it sufficiently in a solitary lifetime. I don’t want to see it and move on to the next one, I want to be immersed in it, become a New Yorker, a Hawaiian, an Irishman, a Swede.
3. I want to do so many different things, and again, not for a moment, but for real. I want to be a novelist (maybe this lifetime, we will see). I want to spend at least one lifetime, maybe more, at Disney World in one of their shows. One season be the Beast, the next, Eric and marry the mermaid (or, even better, be the mermaid, or just fuck it and be the merman!), the next be Aladdin. What a life! I also want to be a detective (specifically one of the Hardy boys [probably Joe] and/or Nancy Drew. I want a lifetime as an artist, maybe fantasy painter, maybe cartoonist or comic book creator. To simply be a beach bum with Matthew McConaughey’s body and a library worth of books. (Oh, yeah. One lifetime will be entirely devoted to reading.)
4. I also simply want more than a lifetime with people. My parents, my brother, my lover, my friends, my kids. To only know them for a lifetime on earth is not enough. Most, we won’t even know for a lifetime, as they tend to die. Rude much? Ideally, they would travel through each lifetime with me, adapting to whatever the specific lifetime holds and entails.
This was not a comprehensive list, nor a list that is really valuable or thought provoking to anyone else. But these are a few of the things that are on my mind more often than is healthy. Maybe this is what Heaven will be like. God’s supposed to make Earth into a new Heaven after awhile, isn’t He? Then I really can spend a lifetime in each of these places. I don’t know if we will have authors in Heaven, which is why I should try to do it now. I know we will have Disney World. Sex slave is definitely questionable. At least the people part will be there, although I know the aspect of it will be greatly different. That too I can’t quite comprehend, so it makes me nervous as well.
It’s silly how sad I feel at times that I don’t get the option to fulfill these lives and how frantic it can make me when I feel like I need to squeeze so much more in. I guess my sense of mortality is intact. I must say, though, even though I can’t spend lifetimes at life’s smorgasbord, I have to be humbled at the world we have been given in which to reside. What a gift.

Addictions of the AM

I have found myself in a seeming struggle for betterment. One that I not winning. It’s the little things that are adding up and taking me over. It is more of a battle since they are small—each time, I am like, “Oh, it’s just this one” or “I deserve this today.” If they were big things, you know, breaking into Amazon headquarters and swiping all their books and DVDs, stealing a lottery winner’s identity, calling in sick to work everyday, then I am sure I would not take much effort to overcome. As it is, though, I am swiftly sinking into the sand trap of over-indulgence and am paying the consequences. My Id is out of control.
The first is (as always) food. Just thinking about Sonic gets me excited. If I am not struggling with money, then its food. (Well, I am struggling with money too, but that is too convicting, I am passing that one over for the time.) I miss the day when I used to look in the mirror and sigh with disappointment—still need to work on getting the biceps a few centimeters bigger, losing another three pounds, hating skin folds when I would bend over. Now, I simply look in the mirror and try to focus on controlling the impulse to vomit. Of course, nearing thirty, I am learning what all the original old people said was true. The older you get the harder it is. I can work out the same amount and not much changes. Of course the all-you-can-eat buffet that my life has become does not necessarily assist in my goal of being able to fit into my nice jean again—or at least not having my belly hang over the seatbelt when I am driving. Whoever coined the phrase ‘fat&happy’ was a skinny little bitch who had a Santa fetish.
The other battle is similar, but for different reasons, and manages to encompass food and money. I have never liked coffee. Hated it actually. Then, one day, I had an hour to spare until I picked up my boyfriend from work. He suggested that I read my “Eclipse” novel (You must read this series—fantastic) at the Caribou Coffee by his work. Sixty minutes later, I walked out with a monkey on my back. Have I told you that I detest monkeys? Some of the vilest creatures on God’s creation list. Except for those cute ones that are no bigger than your thumb—those are ok. I still hate ‘coffee.’ Caribou doesn’t serve coffee—like Starbucks. They serve sex in a warm paper container. Sure it has coffee in it, but the only hint that its there is hidden in the addiction that ensues. On the top of their turtle mocha, they put caramel and pieces of Snickers. That’s right folks, CANDY. Therefore the first several sips have bits of chewable Heaven, then, as you reach the bottom, the pieces that sank have melted. Your last several gulps are pure, undiluted chocolate. OMG!!! As the days got colder, it became my morning routine to drop off Chad around 6:40 and dash into Caribou. Now, I am distraught if I can not start my morning with liquid rapture, the car’s heater blowing full in my face, the cup warming my hands, and listening to my books on tape. Trust me, the kids don’t love their mornings either when their Mr. Witt has not be sufficiently satisfied. So, now I am spending roughly $30 a week, getting stained teeth, and ingesting two meal’s worth of calories before the rest of the world is even on their way to work.
I am a man, a very fallible man. I had been taught the dangers and sins of gay sex, tattoos, going to movie theaters, wearing jewelry, and reading books about magic. I’m addicted to all those (well, wearing rings actually comes and goes). You would think since I was never taught to avoid early morning coffee shops and cheeseburgers that I would not feel the need to over-indulge. My poor students and boyfriend. In a few years, all they will have to look at is a three hundred pound blob with yellowy-brown teeth with an assortment of monkey friends screeching while playing hide and seek in the rolls of fat.

right now, right here

The first of my official vacations as a teacher comes to an end this morning. I am once again in my khakis, “dress shoes,” and my shirt is tucked in. There will be no morning workout today, no walk with the dogs while the sun is up, no writing on the book. However, there also will not be kids today (not till tomorrow), so I get to ease back into it. Chad and I did so, so, so much over Christmas break, that it actually seemed much longer than two weeks. We for sure spent more than should be possible in two weeks. It was really nice though. Chad’s birthday, Christmas, New Year’s. Two weeks of firsts for us as a couple. Tons of movies. (Go see ‘Juno’, twice—we did. Skip ‘One Missed Call’—we should have.)
Christmas break was exactly what I hoped it would be. My goal was to get reintroduced to my book that I am writing. I rewrote nearly half of what I had previously written, and started on a new section of it. It is hard to see clearly, as I am so close to it and invested in it. You would think with as many books as I read that I would be able to look over what I have done so far and be able to see the true ‘book’ quality of my pages. I can’t. It may be the best thing ever written. (A literary critic somewhere just died from explosive laughter.) It also could be the biggest pile of crap seen anywhere. Every time I sit down, terror fills me. It is hard to shake. Sometimes, after a bit, the writing just flows and it is a blast, feeling like the story is just there, aching to come out. Most of the time though, the terror stays firmly intact. It really is one of the scariest things I have ever done, and I haven’t lived the most timid life…
At the end of the month, Chad and I will be celebrating our ten year anniversary. In gay years, at any rate. It is hard to believe it has been a year. In some ways, it seems like a few months, in others (most), it seems like years. Not in a bad way. We hung out with one of my very best girlfriends yesterday. She kept commenting on how we are like an old married couple already. It is a strange place to be in, but a good place. I look forward to our second year together. Now that most of our ‘firsts’ are past, it will be telling to see how our next year goes and what traditions of our relationship begin to form and cement. It is such a secure experience, to just assume that the other person is there and will always be there. To begin to take each other for granted. Isn’t that the whole point of being in a relationship? Pretty wonderful. Similar to writing, though, it is one of the scariest things I have done. I have more to loose than ever before. And, I would imagine that is when it would hurt the most, when you are in the place where you take for granted that you will simply always be together. You know, right when you relax and feel that you can lean back and enjoy getting a tan, that’s when your inflatable life raft pops and you sink down into shark-infested waters. Of course that is also when you can feel your raft come to an abrupt stop. You look down and realized you have come to rest on a deserted island in paradise. Here’s to living in the tropics.
Last year’s New Years Eve was the best I had ever had and I said I thought it boded well, that 2007 would be my best year yet. Well, I was right. Well, this year’s was fairly simple and easy. I hope that remains true for the rest of the year. In our security, I pray that Chad and I can use our groundedness to spread our wings and fly—both as a couple and in regards to our individual dreams and goals. May 2008 be a year of renewal and fulfillment in our house and in yours.

no news

Just as an update. I haven't been blogging due to the busy Christmas holidays. Oh, and because I have started writing on my book again. Every time I sit down to write, I am terrified, however, I think it is going well. Keep me in your thoughts, I really hope that this dream can come to fruition.

Side note: I got a Victoria Secret catalog in the mail today. Why? How do they even have my address? I mean really... Might as well be hate mail (shudder).

Becoming Scrooge

Long, long ago, in a land far away, there was a boy. A very special boy with red hair, a My Little Pony collection, and a mermaid obsession. All through childhood and even into college, this little boy lived for Christmas day. Towards the latter part of this period in his life, he would send out an average of two hundred Christmas cards each year. He would buy a gift for everyone he knew—friend, co-worker, acquaintance. He hated Santa, not only because he is a child molester but also because he seemed to take away from the true meaning of Christmas. Christmas spirit and magic lived in this boy’s soul everyday of every year.
As the years went by, life’s trial, tribulations, joys, and celebrations helped to form and change this child. He became stronger, better looking (at times), more independent, less optimistic but more content, more real. Christmas began to take on new meaning. It became more intensely focused on those who were walking through his everyday life with him—his immediate family his friends who became kin. It remained a firm symbol of his faith and his heritage.
One morning, five days before Christmas in his twenty-ninth year, a realization came upon him. He no longer resembled Tiny Tim, spreading Christmas joy and cheer to the masses. He had become covetous with his Christmas love, only offering to the select few with whom he shared his soul. While co-worker after co-worker brought him pumpkin loaf, chocolates, cookies, and cards, he grumbled inside, muttering of the plot against his waist line. “You’ll get no present from me, I need not more obligation to shop at Christmas time,” he chanted in his head. No more stamps for Christmas cards, no more writing people he only heard from once a year. He would walk through the halls with his head held high and his Amazon Visa firmly in place in his wallet.
Even though ‘Bah-humbug’ flitted through his mind on more than one occasion as certain obligatory opportunities passed his way, Christmas time seemed to mean more to him, in a more real and genuine way. Even Santa had become a kindred soul (with the exception of the old man’s child obsession)—desperate times, desperate measures. As he opened his email and received a card from a dear, sweet, co-worker friend, he gagged and had to rein it all back in. There, taking the form of a beautiful Christmas tree and twinkling lights glared out the reminder of the rape that has happened to his beloved Christmas time. “Happy Christmas, Merry Everything” the card read. What a wonderful way to include everyone, truly touch no one, and miss the point entirely.
He thought back to the weekend before, the annual Christmas dinner with the men in his life who had become his brothers. He remembered their love and their devotion. He thought about the annual Christmas Eve slumber party with his little brother that would transpire in a few short days. He thought about Christmas morning around the tree with his family and dogs. He thought about Christmas night exchanging presents and kisses with the man he loved. Christmas may not be the way it was. Christmas may be lost to most of the world. He, the lucky Scrooge, would be safe in the real meaning of the day, surrounded by those he loved--human, deity, and dog.

city mouse lost in the suburbs

Chad and I had our nearly weekly date with one of my best friends last night (MS) to have fattening food and watch Desperate Housewives. We watched four episodes. It was fabulous! MS recently married a very wonderful man, and she moved to Colorado Springs, the Bible Belt of the West. MS, being even more liberal than me in most circumstances, feels like an extraterrestrial having to stay incognito in order to avoid ostracization. She is very protective and invested in the whole ‘gay-rights’ movement, as her best friend is gay and she had an uncle who was gay as well. Needless to say, finding people who are of the same frame of mind close to her vicinity is near to the task of locating a unicorn wandering around Pearl Street Mall (although, you can soon find a strip club there—crazy, huh?). I had flashbacks to childhood when she told the story of being in the grocery store after she finished school for the day—she is a teacher as well. As she was pushing her cart down the aisle, a little girl in the passing cart pointed towards the small tattoo on her ankle, looked up at her mom, and said, “Look what she has, Mommy.” The mother took in MS’s ink and looked back at her daughter. From a lowered voice, MS heard, “Yes, dear. She will be going to hell.”
I think that is the hardest I have laughed in weeks. Just one more reminder of my heritage and of the plethora of reasons I have a suite reserved with a sea of fire view.
Towards the end of the conversation, MS had a very genuine insight, one that many people never allow themselves to comprehend. She switched her position and thought about all the conservitive and traditional people who live in liberal areas (like big cities) and how they must feel like they are in a foreign land and have to be careful with every word they say. I think her empathy summed up what many people on both sides of fence experience. There was a news article by the gay press that was tearing apart a coach (I don’t remember which one or which sport—gay, remember?) for speaking at Promise Keepers and saying that if one of his team members was gay, he would speak to them about his beliefs and that he felt it was a sin. However, when asked if he would allow them to stay on the team, he said that he would, if they were a good player. What more could we ask of this man? To me, it seems like the perfect response. We all want to be open-minded and all-inclusive, as long as everyone converts to be exactly like us. There are many churches where I would not be allowed to work with children (despite my youth ministry degree) simply based on my tattoos—let’s not even think about my gayness. There are just as many places that a coach who maintains a respect for his players would be flogged and labeled a bigot/racists for simply stating his beliefs.
I have been astounded by the amount of people who have completely accepted my life and sexuality without so much as a question and have never treated me differently—I wish everyone could be like that. However, I have also been amazed by those whose very core tells them that the way I live my life puts me and others in eternal and mortal danger, and yet they have shown love, respect, and genuine tenderness. It is the ability and skill to care for and see the value in those that differ intrinsically from ourselves (on every side of the fence, if a fence had more than two sides) that embodies the true essence of Love, and therefore, the true essence of God.

the strength of a woman

I have always hated work parties. When I worked in residential treatment, I never went to them. I am sure it came off as snooty and pompous. However, inevitably, the next day all of my feelings of hesitation and distain would be confirmed. There would be stories of co-workers showing up high, a boss that would get so drunk he would be puking, or married people making out with other married people. Have I mentioned how much I really don’t like alcohol? There is something about seeing people who work with kids lose their morality and common sense that is beyond off-putting. To see someone stoned off their ass one night and then have to rely on them to help you keep a restraint safe the next day is nauseating. To hear them preach to kids about making good and healthy decisions and give them consequences for their negative choices when I knew who they were cheating on was simply more than I could take. Therefore, no work parties.
Last night, I broke my vow. I went to a work Christmas party. Chad went with me. It was at a bar—I was worried. Most of my co-workers are white, middle (to upper) aged women, and they were bringing their white, middle (to upper) aged husband, and some of their kids. (My school is in the suburbs, btw.) I knew they were all very sweet women, but was not really sure about they type of reception that Chad and I would receive and how overtly uncomfortable the other people would be. I was not sure how this might effect my work environment for the rest of the year and how I might be received by the kids, if they hear gossip through the grapevine.
I was shocked by the amazing group of women that were at the party. They had their wine, beer, margaritas, etc, but never were the slightest different than what they normally are. Due to their ages, there are many of them that have lost their husbands to cancer, some of them have husbands that are going through cancer currently, there are women who have had mastectomies, and are going through health problems of their own. Not only did they show their strength last night, but also their intrinsic love of life. They all got up and danced with pure abandon. At one point, Chad looked over at me and said, “If we were here with our friends or other people our age, none of them would be having as much fun as these women are.” He was right. They have learned to dance despite the past and current pain and fear. They have learned to love and live in the moment and take life for all it has to offer. I watched the husband of the woman who has had the mastectomy as he sat back and watched his wife dance. The quiet love he has for his wife was clearly obvious radiating from his eyes. I will return to work on Monday with a new-found respect and admiration for these amazing women.
In addition, and it was only icing on the cake, everyone was so welcoming to Chad, and only a couple of their husbands even looked remotely uncomfortable. However, even they shook our hands. The highlight of the evening was when another of the special education ladies (a stunningly beautiful and vivacious woman) came up to me and said, “I knew it, I knew you were gay.” I laughed and said I figured it was obvious to everyone. She said, “No, not at all. In fact, the only reason I knew was because of how you came in and redecorated your classroom and how beautiful it looks.” Ah, tell-tell signs. . . The interior decorator gene strikes again.
It was a gift I was not expecting to receive. While I still don’t really like work parties (after all, work is in the title), it was such a beautiful experience to partake of the joy and love that exists in the midst of all the trials our lives have to offer.

this moment

There are nights where I feel like everything I touch will turn to gold. I will make up my mind and bam, I will lose the extra thirty pounds and get all my muscle back. I will clean the house and keep it that way every day. I will sit down in front of my computer, my fingers will soar over the keys and my novel will emerge. I will be able to keep all those I love near to me and alive. I will be the man I want to be so badly.
Then, there are nights like tonight. Despite the blessings of my love live, family life, friend life, and dog life, that everything I touch will turn to rot, or even worse, simply be mundane and ordinary. A life spent in front of the tv. A life spent eating. A life spent breathing. period.
I look forward to tomorrow night.

the love of the rant

When I am not listening to books on tape or to Britney Spears’ new CD (she may be having a mental breakdown, but the girl put out her best music yet) when I am driving, I am listening to talk radio. Conservative talk radio. Not necessarily Christian talk radio, but definitely right of center, without a doubt. It is the only way that I will ever listen to anything news related. It is so completely obvious that the mainstream news media is full of corruption, bias, and an inability to simply report what is happening without an agenda. True some of the conservative news is biased as well, but it is easier for me to see and identify. They do a pretty good job of presenting both sides. There are even some of the talk show hosts (some are national figures on TV and such—can’t remember their names, except Bill O’Riley) that even are supportive of gay rights and gay marriage. Of course the more right wings, like Bill, categorize that as an attack on the foundation of marriage. I think I basically listen just to give me a reason to be royally pissed off. Most of the time about how our country is making decisions around immigration, making more and more thing Spanish (language, not the people [if you wanna live here, learn the fucking language {after all, I had the courtesy to learn Gaylish before I inflicted my presence at the gay bars, and that is a lot more detail specific than English}]), altering education, and allowing, legally, people to trespass on someone else’s land and then take if for their own (look up the Boulder Land-grab—it will blow your mind and allow you to feel an intense sensation of fury [fun]). When not about how fucked up we can be as a nation, then I am pissed off by the narrow minded views of the homosexual rights and ‘agenda’ of intelligent and well-studied men, men I agree with on so many levels, that want to whittle me down to my fagotry in order to negate my importance and rights on an individual level. Chad loves it when he gets into the car after one of my talk radio sessions. Either I am in a pissed off mood or berate him with a shovel full of America facts that he probably didn’t need to know to begin with.
Before I go off on how stupid our nation is attempting to become, let me just say this: The right and ability to be stupid, make bad decisions, and have the freedom to make an ass out of ourselves is my favorite quality of America. I grew up very patriotic, and that fell by the wayside for many years due to the corruption and lack of integrity and consistency that I saw everywhere in politics and government. However, now that I have come to accept and expect the vast majority of leaders (political, educational, religious, you name it) to be somewhat corrupt or at least majorly fallible, I have found my patriotism again. We live in the greatest country in the face of the Earth, in the history of civilization.
That said, let me tell you how retarded we are (this is again the politically correct label for those with a lesser IQ score—crazy how things ebb and flow). So, Massachusetts (I think, one of those M states), apparently, likes to stick sharp metal objects up its nose and wiggle the point around in its brain. They are trying to pass a legislation that would out-law spanking. That’s right, a parent could be brought up on criminal charges for spanking their children. There are several other countries that have done this. No one really expects it to pass. However, I believe it is just the beginning. This will come into effect at some point, unless people remove their heads from their asses. What infuriates me is how this so obviously is an example of the government infringing on how people run their own homes. Completely un-American.
Now, the other side of the argument could be said that it wasn’t that long ago that people were this upset over the government saying that a husband can’t beat their wife. I can actually see that as a legitimate point. It is one I relate to. I often relate my fight for the right to marry the man I love to the time when African-Americans and whites had to fight to marry and to have greater equality. However, there is huge difference between spanking and beating. I got spanked with anything that was handy all the time, and I was never abused physically. I am so very grateful for those spanking, without them I would be a complete obnoxious, selfish ignoramus. Now, when (if) I have kids, I don’t plan on spanking them, I really believe there are better ways to discipline. For most children. There are a few (and I was one of them) that need a spanking for their own good. I have one of those types of students in my class right now. He doesn’t have anything emotionally severely wrong with him, like all the paperwork says. He is simply a spoiled brat whose parents have taught him that if he terrorizes them enough he can do whatever he likes. My heart aches for him, and that pain of adult life that is waiting for him, all because his parents are weak and don’t love him enough inconvenience themselves.
Here is the part that ‘gets’ me the most, however. It would be such a completely inconsistent law, and one that is not needed in any form. The intention behind the initiative is good. Children should never be abused or hit. I don’t consider a spanking on the butt a hit, a slap on the face is an entirely different matter, in my opinion. If this would help stop children being abused, I would be behind it. It won’t. It would be a weak law that would not address the issue at hand. At the current time, you can get in much more trouble for animal neglect than for neglect of a child. I can not count how many times I have had to let a child return to the home of the father or mother that sexually abused them, sold their bodies, or physically tortured them. Legally! One girl even tried to kill herself, and nearly succeeded, because she did not want to return to her sexually abusive father. But, the courts made her. However, we are too weak and afraid to truly face the threat that our children face everyday. It offends too many people, and it costs the government too much money. So, let’s outlaw spanking! It won’t stop any child from being abused, but it will take a needed tool away from loving, responsible parents.
See what Chad has to deal with? Be glad I don’t blog every time I listen to talk radio.

another part of me

Damaged. Irreparable. Damaged. If they had insurance for this type of thing, I would invest. (Not that insurance does much good. Did you hear about the Denver school that burnt down recently? Their insurance determined that they had too much paper on their walls, therefore, none of the damage was covered. You know, we will give you fire insurance. It will protect you. Unless there is a fire. Then your SOL. Sorry.) Ok, back to me. I am not sure which part of my damaged self is responsible for the stress in my life today, but I am sure it is one of them, if not all of them uniting in perfect harmony to produce a pathetically tragic cacophony of insanity. Maybe it is the death of so many that have been dear to me. Maybe it was rejection of the man I loved before I met the man I plan to marry. I have learned that people will leave me. They will turn around, run screaming, pleading for sanctuary. If that doesn’t work, they will even choose company with the faceless, hooded figure as opposed to suffering in my presence. Maybe I have learned that when something seems to be going well (nearly perfect, knock on wood) that things fall apart. Maybe I grasped onto the belief that God desires to keep me in some form of disequilibrium and pain in order to become more like him, or to just make him giggle. Or, maybe, I simply have found that if I create stress and something to worry about I won’t have deal with whatever shadows of my psyche I have yet to face. Irregardless (fuck off, I like this word), I managed to work myself into a tizzy today at work. I could barely focus enough to teach my lesson on ascending fraction quantities. And, believe me, if I had any hope of understanding that (let alone teach it), I needed every functioning brain synapse I possess. I almost showed a movie so I wouldn’t have to deal with faking clam and intelligence. Thankfully, my background in religious guilt paid off yet again.
What was the cause of all my strife and turmoil you ask? You didn’t ask? Well, fuck you. Go read someone else’s blog. Chad left this morning to visit family in Florida. He and his mother got on a plane and zoomed through the air. Now, I am not afraid of flying. I love it, actually. I am not even afraid of jumping out of airplanes. I have done so twice, actually. Chad survived his first twenty-five years of life without my assistance, and I have no reason to doubt that he has lost this ability in the past ten months. Still, he is now dating me. Therefore, the plane was doomed to plummet into the sea. True, there is not a sea between Colorado and Florida, but that doesn’t change the fact that it could. At the very least, he would meet some bimbo stewardess (flight attendant, excuse me), realize he is straight and that he likes blonds and never call me again. After three hours, and he texted me (fifteen minutes early) to let me know that he had arrived safely in the land of dinosaur mosquitoes and Mickey Mouse, I had to rely on deep breathing techniques to function somewhat normally. That was all well and good, but now I have the next three days to worry about every minute detail. He even texted me and let me know that his sister had told him not to go jogging (he is on get-in-shape kick—you should feel his chest, grrrr) due to the pack of wild dogs. Wild Dogs! Fuck! Come on! Wild dogs? It’s not fucking Africa or Zimbobway (Zimbabwe, for all you people who can’t spell phonetically (which I think is in Africa). Let your boyfriend get attacked by wild dogs and see how good your geography recollection is! Even if the damned wild dogs keep their distance, there is still all the driving around in their rented convertible mustang with a plethora of material that could plummet from the sky. There are hurricanes that might have scheduled a vacation at Universal Studios. Let’s not even talk about the possibilities of the plane ride back. At least if he gets plowed down by a homeless man in a run away shopping cart here in Denver, the chances are I will be plowed as well.
I would like to say that this sensation is specifically related to when Chad is thousands of miles away. That would be misleading though. It is a feeling I can’t shake, although most of the time, not played out through fear of his demise. Things are so good and I am becoming so content and happy, that I keep waiting for the axe to fall. Even when I didn’t go out in the scene, people would tell the guy I was dating that I was cheating on him, people I didn’t even know. However, as most people know, that guy I was dating wasn’t the most stable, so maybe the voices were in my head—nevertheless, I paid the consequence for it. There is so much gossip in the damned gay scene (not that it is really specific to the gays). Shit, on Halloween, one of our friend’s sister told someone that I made out with her. A girl? Gross! Seriously? If there are going to be rumors of me cheating, let’s bring in Ricky Martin or Scott Caan. Even outside of rumors, I wait for the moment when he realizes that I am annoying him too much, am too needy, am too bad with money, or _____(fill in the blank)_____. I have gotten used to the fact that my friends know who I truly am and love me in spite of that fact. It is wonderful. Still, it is a different thing entirely to trust that from a man whom I may spend the rest of my life with. Ahhh, won’t sanity be nice one day. And boring.

everydaylife

The pile of dishes diminish
The counter slick with suds
Your arms encircle me from behind

Dogs race and sniff
Their leashes tangle
Your hand warms mine

My shift crawls by
Through tantrums and defiance
Your message interrupts with love

Dirty clothes piled on the bed
Press into my back
Your form rises and falls above

Life passes a day at a time
Some with laughter, all with imperfection
Your life blending with mine

Gracias

So, that was it folks, at least all of what I am willing to share at this point. It was really nice for me to go back through all that I had written over a year ago. I am sure most people are greatly relieved that my self-absorbed wandering through the past is finished, and now I can move on to self-absorbed wanderings of my current. Rejoice, rejoice.
I have been looking forward to today for a couple weeks, knowing that I would have time to really blog again, and now, I have decided not to. As much as I love scrapbooking, I have found another advantage of my apple computer (now complete with my Harry Potter, Buffy, and Mermaid stickers)—there is a program that allows you to create photo books online and then have them printed into real books. So excited. They will not be as neat and personable as my scrapbooks, but they will create more time and save me thousands of dollars. So, I am off to learn how to do that. Yay. However, I just felt the need to blog and say thanks for taking the time to read bits and pieces of my past. Oh, and Happy Thanksgiving!

the end

I curled myself into the tightest ball I could possibly contort my body into. I knew that I would be too big to fit under there much longer.
“Dad, turn up the heat, please!”
I sighed in contentment as the warm air flowed over me. My belly was full from the fried zucchini and chicken fried steak we had just consumed at The Red Barn. We had about half an hour longer before we would arrive back home.
I glanced at Mom in the backseat of the van, she smiled at me. I returned to my spot on the floor, under the dashboard on the passenger side. Dad was singing along with ‘The Happy Goodman Family.’ “I wouldn’t take nothin’ for my journey, now. Gonna make it to Heaven somehow. Oh, I wouldn’t take nothin’ for my journey now. . .”
My eyelids grew heavy as the heat intensified. It made my skin tingle. As I began to drift off to sleep, I thought about one day when I was grown and getting married to someone. What would be like to kiss somebody? To have them hold me? I uttered a little prayer that I would one day have a little brother, even though I didn’t dare believe that it would come true. I decided on which ‘My Little Pony’ I was going to purchase when Mom and Dad took me to the toy store the next day. I fell asleep, snuggled up by the heater at the foot of the passenger chair, my red hair falling onto the dirty foot-mat, my skin turning red from the heat, my heart full of dreams and hopes. I fell asleep, there on the floor of our van, completely and utterly safe.

short sermon

They say that everything happens for a reason. That it all works out in the end. Well, of course it all works out in the end. No matter what the outcome, what the solution, it works out. Even death is a resolution. I don’t believe that everything happens for a reason. Children are not molested for a reason. Genocide is not attempted for a reason (at least not for a good reason). Earthquakes and hurricanes are not accomplished for a higher purpose. Cheese does not grow green mold for the sake of enlightenment—it just does. Period. Life sucks sometimes, simply because sometimes life sucks. People die because, well, people die. Hearts break because that is what they do best.
That is a lie! Sorry. Breaking is not what hearts do best, if though they have a disposition that ensures that occurrence. Loving is what hearts do best. Imperfectly, clumsily, sporadically, and at times even selfishly. No matter how you cut it, though, human hearts (like Dunkyn’s) were made to love and to do so deeply.
While I have not had the most dramatic, the most riveting, the most horrific, or the most wonderful life over my twenty-eight years, there has not been one day of my life that has not been drenched in love—even when I felt none. If there is anything I want out of life, it is love. If there is anything I want to pass on to others, it is love. If there is anything I covet, it is love.

the folks

My parents were always some of the strongest, most determined people I have ever known. Once they set their minds to something, there will be no rest until it is accomplished, possessed, or fulfilled. They have passed that trait onto me, which I often use in less than productive ways. The one area they wavered in was whenever they saw me in pain. There was no limit they would not cross to alleviate my hurting—unless the hurt was for my own good or the pain could lead to better things for me.
In addition to my detest for spelling, I loathed reading anything more complicated than my ‘Archie’ and ‘Garfield’ comic books. Dad would work with me on spelling, and Mom would try her hand at teaching me to read. Both of them had their work cut out for them. Before we would go out to dinner with friends or to meet my grandparents, Mom and I would be found in the bathroom. She would be taking out the hot-curlers from her hair and brushing them out until they were sleek and smooth, curling her eye-lashes, and applying the minimal makeup she required to glow. While she undertook this process, I would sit on the floor my reading book propped up on the closed toilet lid. I would read about how the mouse used the fox to cross a river, the goose lay golden eggs, and some damned frog went on some damned adventure. By read about, I really mean blubber. I would sit there and cry and wail, frustrated by the never ending string of words in front of my that seems to be conceived with the single minded intent of my torture.
Mom would rarely get frustrated with me, although she would express her concern that I was not learning to read and how she wished I could learn to enjoy the written word. She had grown up with less money than wheat farmers who reside in the desert, and books had provided her an escape from a dreary life and with visions of a life with less conflict and torment. She would run her fingers through my hair and pat my check. She would close the book and get out a piece of paper. Quickly she would draw four different profiles, always two boys and two girls. Inside, where their faces should have been, she would construct addition or subtraction problems. Now, I liked math even less than reading, but I loved drawing, especially drawing people, so her math problems were pure magic, and I would forget about the escapades of the various animals that tried to appear interesting on paper and solve the math problems so the beautiful people Mom had created would be complete.
I think I learned to cry from my Dad. Unless I did something bad and was crying due to a hearty spanking, if I was crying then Dad was crying. There are very few animals in the world that I have not owned. Half of the time, we could have charged admittance into our house as a wild animal park. Having a gazillion animals meant experiencing a gazillion deaths. Each one traumatic. Each one earth shattering. Each one preceding torrents of tears. My new baby bunny dying in his sleep the very night we brought him home. The baby hamster getting partially eaten by their mothers. My chickens treated as a buffet by the neighborhood cats. My pheasant having a freak heart-attack as we moved her pen. My dog Ginger getting put-down due to infection. My tank full of guppies floating thanks to the gallons of fish food dumped into their water. My parrot flying away when we let his wings go to long in-between clippings. My white Pomeranian, Bingo, having his backbone cracked in half by the garage door. Well, you get the idea. No matter what the animal, no matter what the cause of death, Dad was there. Sitting by my side. Holding me in his arms. Bringing home a new animal. Always bawling as hard as his fat little son. Not because the animals were dead, but because their death’s brought me pain.
Mom was my strength growing up. Good boundaries or not, we protected each other and confided in each other. Any honor, integrity, determination, and tenacity I poses is due to her regal influence. As I have grown into a man, she has grown into a friend and a pillar of strength.
As you already know, my feelings for my Dad have been rocky, at best. I remember the first time I hugged Dad, truly. It was nearly three years ago, at Six Flags, no less. We were walking behind Ted and one of his friends, conversing over all the drama, death, and hurt our family had endured. I was overcome by the amount of changing he had done, in order to save his family, and of his own brand of love that he has lavished upon me. I was overcome by his vulnerable and loveable humanity. Without even knowing what my arms were doing, I found myself embracing him, standing outside some rollercoaster, and confessing my new found love for him. With each passing year, I see more of him in myself. His tenderness, artistic flair, and endearing insecurities. Although I live my life in a way that terrifies him, he continues to stand by his son and offer his consistent love and his tears when I am in pain.

Trenton

We were all sitting together, fairly close to the front. Well, Grandma and Grandpa were on the front row of course, but Mom, Dad, and I were only a few rows back. The morning rays of sunlight streamed through the stained glass tinting the pews and floor of the church in a radiant spectrum of color. The heat was turned up enough to warm the sanctuary despite the mounds of snow covering the ground outside, up just enough to cause the congregation to be contentedly drowsy. The voices raised in song from the children on the raised platform in the front were off-key, un-syncopated, and a little screechy—Heaven’s angels could not have sung a more melodious anthem. Sounds of Christmas from the mouths of our little ones. Sappy, over-rated, perfection.
Ted was in the front row, between his two best friends--three year old Jeremiah, and Alice, technically she was his ‘girlfriend’, but whatever. The kids are about half-way through their program, only six more songs until the reached the conclusive ‘Silent Night.’ Before they had finished enlightening us upon the fate of ‘Three Wise Men,’ Ted turns to Alice and snakes his arms around her neck in and pulls her to him. Their lips met, her chubby little arms enveloped his waste, and they tumbled from their spots in the chorale. They managed to regain their balance while keeping their lips joined—impressive, really. The innocent kisses became impassioned, and the meaning of Christmas morphed into ‘The Young (albeit very young) and the Restless.’ Everyone watched, thinking that if they did nothing, they would soon grow bored and return to their singing. After a couple awkward minutes, it became apparent that boredom would not be achieved until St. Patrick’s Day or even Memorial Day. The children’s church director finally approached my little Casanova and reminded them of the sanctity of marriage, and privacy.
With red faces and sly glances and grins to our friends and neighbors, my family continued to watch the youngest of our clan proclaim to the world that he would never walk by the lines that others lay before him. However, return to singing he did, and Alice followed.
‘Hark, the Harold Angel Sings’ and ‘O Little Town of Bethlehem’ fulfilled their destiny from start to finish without interruption. Something about ‘It Came Upon a Midnight Clear,’ however, must have reminded Ted that it was cold outside. He looked down at his little legs. His knees poked out from his Khaki shorts; he looked adorable—short, dark blue long sleeve shirt and a little knit vest—simply precious. After observing his display of skin, Ted glanced over to his right at Jeremiah and took in his full length jeans, and then he pondered his own legs again. After a second, he turned his head to his left and took in Alice (even though one would think that he would have already have imprinted her upon his memory for eternity) and observed her long red velvet dress, which barely covered her shiny black Wonderland shoes.
I heard Mom gasp; always one step ahead of the rest of us. Ted returned his vision upon his naked calves. With lightening speed that would have made Santa’s reindeer green with envy, Ted grasped the edge of his shorts legs and yanked towards the grown. Sure, his knees were still not covered and his diaper was showing, but his calves and shoes were covered, just like his friends. With obvious pride and contentment, Ted returned his gaze to the people taking in the miracle of Christmas and belted out the final notes of the carol.
Even in embarrassment and compulsory humility, the family laughed as Mom rushed to the front of the church and returned Ted’s pants to the more conservative positioning, despite his vehement protests. Somehow, we all found this display an example of Ted’s budding independence, creativity, and ingenuity.

Mel

One Thursday night, after our shift ended at eight in the evening, Marissa and I decide to walk from work to downtown, a couple miles away. We had known each other a little over a year. We had already had the long walk were I told her I was gay. She and Meryl were the first people at work that I came out to. Marissa nearly cried when I told her. I thought that she would be revolted by me. She simply told me how much she loved me and that she had an uncle who was gay. He had died of AIDS. At the time, it was like one more confirmation of where I would end up, still, it was wonderful to have her support.
Our walk downtown was only to kill time and enjoy the warm summer night air. It is the night that I believe cemented our friendship into the life-long category. We walked down Colfax Avenue, which used to be the hubbub of all that the city had to offer, and is now the hubbub of all that loose women and drug dealers have to offer. We weren’t nervous. We had to restrain angry, barely lucid teenagers who were bigger than us everyday. We could take whatever might come our way.
We walked and laughed as we told each other more stories form our childhoods and college experiences. We didn’t have a destination in mind, so we just turned any corner we felt like when we came to the downtown shopping district, know as Sixteenth Street Mall. We soon came to a stop in front of the Brown Palace Hotel. Built in 1892, it is one of Denver’s oldest and finest Hotels. It is a mix of colonial and Victorian styling. Neither of us would ever be able to afford to stay or dine at the Brown Palace.
We looked at each other, grinned, and entered the front doors in a flourish. It was like stepping into the Titanic, without all the ice and water and Celine Dion. Everything was decorated in rich, warm tones. Everything was elaborate to the most minute detail. There was a restaurant, bar, salon, shops, formal sitting parlor—old-school luxurious. We walked around the first floor area, looking conspicuous in our jeans and t-shirts to be sure. However, as the Brown Palace is a historical monument, the public is free to come, explore, and enjoy the main floor. Soon, we came to stairs with a sign reading, ‘Only paying guests beyond this point, please.’ We give each other another ridiculous grin and rush up the stairs, stooping as if not to be seen. Apparently, it worked. No one said anything to us.
We found our way to an elevator that was hidden from public view and hoped on. We decided to go to the top floor. The doors opened and we stepped out, feeling like we had stepped back in time. Both of us have a rather effervescent imagination, and soon we were discussing what ghosts might reside on this particular floor and wondering how many distraught business men might have come to this floor and thrown themselves off the railing and down upon the guests below when the stock market crashed so many years ago. We wandered down every hallway. Outside of one of the suites, we discovered a cart with trays of food on it. It had obviously been picked over and discarded. However, it was not picked over very much. It would have been simply wrong to let it go to waste. There were about eight very long, very thin, very crunchy bread sticks protruding out of a little crystal vase-like vessel. I glanced around to make sure we were really alone, caught Marissa’s eye and stuffed the breadsticks into my pocket. Giddy with glee, we giggled all the way back to the first floor and exited the building.
Once on the street again, we doubled over in laughter. I pulled out the breadsticks and we began to devour our feast. They were outstanding. It was like biting into crispy butter. For being seemingly hard and stale, they melted in our mouths. It was all Marissa could to do convince me to refrain from going back in for a second helping.
On our way back, we walked up Seventeenth Street. It is a little more user friendly than Colfax. We laugh all the way to our cars at work. On the way back, we past the bright, friendly, packed bar where I would meet Hew several years in the future. I had yet to be in a gay bar. Marissa and I looked at it in curiosity. It looked inviting. There were windows around it, and a warm amber glow seemed to emanate from inside. People were crowded out on the balcony and spilling through the doors. Laughter wafted to us as we passed. It didn’t seem like the dark, evil places of which I had heard tell. Not that I wouldn't find those too. :)

sister

I know I told you previously that the first person I ‘came out to’ was Ashton. I mislead you, a little. The first person I told was ‘my little sister’ Selah. In my defense, I did not mean to tell her and, in fact, did not know what I was telling her.
I was six or seven. Selah as three or four. We were in the back of Dad’s van. Our fathers in the front seat, our mothers in the middle bucket seats. Selah and I on the floor in the back. We were returning home from a trip to some neighboring town.
We were playing with Selah’s dolls. I was enjoying myself much more immensely than she was. At some point, the dolls’ clothes started to come off. We weren’t trying to do anything dirty, we were just playing. Somehow the conversation turned to the subject of strippers. To this day, I have no idea how we were even aware of what stripper were, both of us being sheltered as we were—although me winning the award in that competition.
I looked at Selah and asked in all innocence, “Who would you rather see take off their clothes? A man or a woman?”
Selah pondered the question before answering in hast. “A man,” she spoke with conviction.
I looked at her and thought, although I didn’t need to think, I already knew. “I would rather see a man too” I nodded my head in confirmation. “I mean, there is nothing to even see if a woman takes her clothes off. Why bother?”
Neither of us had any clue as to what I had just admitted, and the conversation turned to other topics dealing with subject matter that were not so thick with foreshadow.
It would be nearly eighteen years later before the conversation came full circle. We were driving from Denver to Estes Park when her family came to visit us. We have always seen each other as brother and sister, but we rarely spoke deeply about present issues in our lives. If we ever delved into the more serious topics of our lives, it was always over things that had previously occurred and were no longer any risk.
For some reason, this evening was different. We both began talking about pain in our lives that was consuming us. We got on the topic of relationships, and I brazenly told her that I had been battling same-sex attraction (I was still in learn-to-be-straight therapy at this point). She was shocked. I was surprised. After all, she above any, had seen my feminine ways—the dolls, the ponies. She always beat me in an argument and left me in tears for pity sake! Nevertheless, she hadn’t a clue.
She was not angry or disgusted. She did not follow the strict religious beliefs that we were raised with. She has always been the more progressive of the two of us. She was sad however, “You know, it’s funny. We have never talked about it, but part of me always thought that after we get done with our different relationships that we would end up together.” She actually was a little teary.
“You know, I have had similar thoughts. When I beat this same-sex shit, then we will have a chance. And, I will beat it.” I wasn’t lying. She was one of the few girls that I thought of when I contemplated marriage. I loved her more than any other girl alive. I wanted to protect her. Make sure she knew how wonderful she was. What more could you want to feel for someone?
As we reached my family’s house, we got out of my truck and Selah came around and hugged me. I think she knew and accepted the real truth about me before I did. She knew at that moment we would always remain brother and sister. She spoke in my ear, “I love you so much and I am proud of you. I want you to be happy.”