Wednesday, December 11, 2013
How I'll Know IV
I'll know he's the one when he likes the Black Eyed Peas at least a little bit. And Scissor Sisters a lot.
Friday, December 6, 2013
No, Socially, ----------
I opened my arms wide for a hug. We hugged, and for some reason my arms were decided to be above his. We separated quickly, and before anything was said, he took another giant's step back toward me. And then a half step. And a quarter step, leaning from his back and bowing his head down toward me. My memory tells me the sun was completely eclipsed for a second before it became clear that his mouth was headed to mine. It happened. And then it happened again. And then one more time. Each time was no more reassuring of the total package.
"Are you content now?" said the Caterpillar.
"Well, I should like to be a little larger, sir if you wouldn't mind," said Alice: "three inches is such a wretched height to be."
"It is a very good height indeed!" said the Caterpillar angrily, rearing itself upright as it spoke (it was exactly three inches high).
"But I'm not used to it!" pleaded poor Alice in a piteous tone. And she thought to herself, "I wish the creatures wouldn't be so easily offended!"
"You'll get used to it in time," said the Caterpillar; and it put the hookah into its mouth and began smoking again.
-Lewis Carroll
I had a bunny for more than half of my life. She was my baby. I was her dad. I went to "work" during the day, and every time I would leave, I would tell her to be a good girl as I blew her kisses until I couldn't see her anymore.
When I like you, I nuzzle. When I sleep, I want to sleep close. When I appreciate something, when I'm thankful for you, when I feel you're on my side, I kiss you. When I perceive that you're scared, I know how to creep slowly toward you, innocently, until you let me by your side. If you pet me under my chin, I will bite you. If you try to tell me what to do, I may scratch you. If I'm happy, I skip. If I need your attention, I will...drink from my water bottle to make noise...passive aggressively.
I learned how to show affection from my bunny.
Learned from a past lover: I know how I like to kiss. I know where I like to be touched. I know how I like to be held. When we meet someone new, and we move to show affection, we don't yet know how that person likes to be touched; we show affection using our experience, what our past loves enjoyed. I can kiss you like I used to kiss someone else, and I can feel the same thing, or try to, but you will not understand.
I'm excited by the new, silent, conversation of affection with a new guy. Let's take it slow. Let's make eye contact. Let's listen and respond. Let's find our own way. Our own way.
I traveled 45 minutes to the Kingdom of the Upper West Side. I met him outside the coffee shop near his work. I made small talk as we got in line for hot beverages. He ordered a cappuccino and "whatever this guy wants." I wanted tea. We sat in the area that was less crowded. We talked and related for an hour.
Somewhere along the way, there was that pause. I don't know if anyone else knows that pause; it happens to me because I am a romantically inclined individual. You feel yourself finishing talking for a long period of time, and neither of you have something new to say, so instead you stop talking and stare into each other's eyes. As if existing as a pair in a moment of unplanned silence were any indication that you are soul mates. The thing about this pause is that it can be very real. The other thing about this pause is that it rarely ever is.
Gay people are great because they are often overachievers (overcompensating for shame)...but that means, for me who is dating a lot all of a sudden, that I can no longer go to that dance studio in Harlem, or use Vimeo, or go to a drag show...IF THEY KISS YOU AFTER A COFFEE DATE AND TOTALLY WEIRD YOU OUT BUT YOU'RE TOO COMPLACENT TO STOP IT.
Shit. I'm trapped. I'm nowhere near my home. I fell down this rabbit hole and now I'm trapped. I didn't pay for the tea...and neither did he; he paid for the kiss. He's tall, so he'll see if I run. Once the kiss started, I couldn't stop it. The subway is delayed. I'm far from home. I'm far from home and I'm scared.
If they are confident and productive, you're not good enough/worth it. If they are awkward and productive, they feel they need to jump you before you run away, and heck, they deserve you because they make that money and get signed by agents.
This was not a meeting of brothers. This was a date. With expectation. Conversation, yes, but to get familiar enough to kiss, not familiar enough to understand. Like a movie I saw recently, every action in the beginning to the middle to the end was in service of the surprise ending. And here I thought we were really connecting.
He turned me into something I'm not. Painted me red when I'm supposed to be white.
 |
| And down the Rabbit Hole I went... |
Somewhere along the way, there was that pause. I don't know if anyone else knows that pause; it happens to me because I am a romantically inclined individual. You feel yourself finishing talking for a long period of time, and neither of you have something new to say, so instead you stop talking and stare into each other's eyes. As if existing as a pair in a moment of unplanned silence were any indication that you are soul mates. The thing about this pause is that it can be very real. The other thing about this pause is that it rarely ever is.
"I could tell you my adventures-beginning from this morning," said Alice a little timidly; "but it's no use going back to yesterday, because I was a different person then."
-Lewis Carroll
If they are confident and productive, you're not good enough/worth it. If they are awkward and productive, they feel they need to jump you before you run away, and heck, they deserve you because they make that money and get signed by agents.
This was not a meeting of brothers. This was a date. With expectation. Conversation, yes, but to get familiar enough to kiss, not familiar enough to understand. Like a movie I saw recently, every action in the beginning to the middle to the end was in service of the surprise ending. And here I thought we were really connecting.
He turned me into something I'm not. Painted me red when I'm supposed to be white.
 |
| When Life gives you Roses, paint them Red. |
When you hold out your hand to a bunny, it pauses, assesses danger, and you can see her decide to smell your scent. She decides to figure you out, to learn who you are by where you've been and what you ate that day and with whom you've been. She takes the time to stop and smell the roses. She learns to love you because you smell like you.
"I wonder if the snow loves the trees and fields, that it kisses them so gently? And then it covers them up snug, you know, with a white quilt; and perhaps it says "Go to sleep, darlings, till the summer comes again."
-Lewis Carroll
Wednesday, December 4, 2013
Sunday, December 1, 2013
No, Not at all, Never
I can get competitive. I'm used to it. It grounds me. I can get passionate about it. I can trust it. Not everyone relates.
If someone compliments you, they are sharing their opinion. Personally, I put very little weight in compliments. They are subjective and rather impractical. (Socially, I'm learning to say thank you and really believe others when they compliment me...practically, I try to find the reason for them saying such a "nice" thing...what do they want?)
If you compete fairly with someone, and you win, that win is a fact. You won. You're better at this one thing at this one time against this one opponent. Thus, I enjoy competition. It's more accurate. It's more honest. And I just love seeing someone trying their hardest to achieve something. We are all capable of wonderful things.
---
Today is World AIDS Day. And really, that's all that matters. When I think of what it must have been like for Gay America before the AIDS epidemic outbreak in the 70s, I get excited for a community that was full of sex and love and pure freedom. It must have been the most exciting time, and a large part of me wishes I could have been a part of that experience. When I think of what it must have been like for Gay America during the AIDS epidemic, I weep and squirm and fully realize that I cannot possibly imagine the incredible force of that time.
---
As I walked to our planned meeting spot, I breathed loudly and psyched myself up. I caught a stride in my step and fixed my hair. We decided to meet in my neighborhood: home turf. I had the advantage here. This is MY HOUSE! I was nervous, so I left early, so I was going to be there about ten minutes early. I was going to get there, choose a strategic table and get a drink to get all of the unknown out of the way...but then he texts me that it's a "cute place."
Shit.
Wait...does that mean he's already there? That fucker. He stole my advantage. He's good, oh, he's good.
I walk into the coffee shop, and we shake hands over the table he chose (DING DING DING, the match has begun). He gets to the counter to order first; I'm last again.
We get our drinks, and I think that he'll want the seat he had before we ordered...but HE SWITCHES IT UP ON ME. He might as well have turned the whole world upside down. Okay, game on, boy.
After he "doctored up" his "cold brew," we got down to business. As discussed and planned, we would communicate only by writing on pieces of paper, back and forth. Like a real conversation, only different. Just like how he offered to come to my neighborhood for the date, he also offered to supply the pads of paper and pens. Everything is more "convenient" for me, yet he has all the control.
He hands me my pen and pad, and he starts writing. This is cute. It's weird, meeting someone for the first time like this, but he's cute and unexpected.
I start to write a response, a simple hello. Halfway through the word, my pen stops cooperating. I can etch an imprint of what I want to say, invisible on the paper from across the table, but no ink will come out to help me express my thoughts.
He keeps writing. And tearing pages. And showing them to me. And as I read, I think of more that I'd like to share. And he keeps writing. And tearing pages. And the moment passes. And I can't write anyway.
I don't know what to do. He has wonderful, beautiful, well-thought-out ideas. I'm very interested in reading what he has written down for me to see. He is very generous in his sharing.
"I love telling stories, as you can tell."
He shares ideas that I've actually thought as well. Sometimes in ways better than my own. Sometimes. I'd like to share my own thoughts, really make it a conversation. I try. I use my pen to imprint the paper with what I want to say and present it to him. He looks at the paper, squints his eyes, frowns, and looks away. Then he continues writing.
He loves his job. He has a wonderful, supporting family. He doesn't imbibe. He finds community over the internet.
I feel my pocket buzzing with messages, and choose to ignore them for the sake of giving attention to this human interaction in front of me. It never occurs to me to use the phone as a means of typing what I need to say.
I have to say, it did occur to me to just talk out loud, but there was never a good moment. I would be shattering what we had set up. I would be interrupting the flow. I was made the bad guy. I felt uninteresting because I couldn't share any of my interesting life. I felt mediocre because he wouldn't ask me any questions; he wouldn't share the good pen and let me have a say.
He won. I was defeated.
Honestly, he expressed and embodied my idea of treating everyone around you like your brother or sister better than I do. He had zero expectations for this first date, which is the point. Friends first, love later.
I walked away from our date, really feeling how much I didn't talk and wasn't heard. I felt untested. He won, but it was an unfair competition.
I walked some more, and I thought some more, and I didn't talk some more. And I realized: he is better at many things. And I am more romantic.
Also, he doesn't know anything about me. What a loss, am I right?
---
There is a concept of horizontally and vertically learned behavior and traditions. Vertical learning of traditions come from your family tree; your genetics dictate who passes on this culture. Horizontal learning happens, specifically, for example, with gay people. We have a long tradition of discrimination and disease and overcoming hardship. We have traditions of being "a fun people" with parties that feature drag performers and gogo dancers. We have a history of being shamed and overcoming that shame until we can begin to cultivate authenticity.
I am very proud of my horizontal gay history. I am excited by the idea that I am connected to a bunch of strangers. I feel passionate about fighting for a cause that continues to plague the world: AIDS. Prevention. Knowledge. Treatment. There is still so much work to be done. Past generations fought the war, and many died, and it's our turn to speak out now that AIDS is no longer on the forefront of attention and concern.
Thank you to my gay forefathers for allowing me to sit with a cute boy for 2 and a half hours in public and talk about being gay without fear of physical or mental harm. Because, really, that is what it is all about.
If someone compliments you, they are sharing their opinion. Personally, I put very little weight in compliments. They are subjective and rather impractical. (Socially, I'm learning to say thank you and really believe others when they compliment me...practically, I try to find the reason for them saying such a "nice" thing...what do they want?)
If you compete fairly with someone, and you win, that win is a fact. You won. You're better at this one thing at this one time against this one opponent. Thus, I enjoy competition. It's more accurate. It's more honest. And I just love seeing someone trying their hardest to achieve something. We are all capable of wonderful things.
---
Today is World AIDS Day. And really, that's all that matters. When I think of what it must have been like for Gay America before the AIDS epidemic outbreak in the 70s, I get excited for a community that was full of sex and love and pure freedom. It must have been the most exciting time, and a large part of me wishes I could have been a part of that experience. When I think of what it must have been like for Gay America during the AIDS epidemic, I weep and squirm and fully realize that I cannot possibly imagine the incredible force of that time.
---
As I walked to our planned meeting spot, I breathed loudly and psyched myself up. I caught a stride in my step and fixed my hair. We decided to meet in my neighborhood: home turf. I had the advantage here. This is MY HOUSE! I was nervous, so I left early, so I was going to be there about ten minutes early. I was going to get there, choose a strategic table and get a drink to get all of the unknown out of the way...but then he texts me that it's a "cute place."
Shit.
Wait...does that mean he's already there? That fucker. He stole my advantage. He's good, oh, he's good.
I walk into the coffee shop, and we shake hands over the table he chose (DING DING DING, the match has begun). He gets to the counter to order first; I'm last again.
We get our drinks, and I think that he'll want the seat he had before we ordered...but HE SWITCHES IT UP ON ME. He might as well have turned the whole world upside down. Okay, game on, boy.
After he "doctored up" his "cold brew," we got down to business. As discussed and planned, we would communicate only by writing on pieces of paper, back and forth. Like a real conversation, only different. Just like how he offered to come to my neighborhood for the date, he also offered to supply the pads of paper and pens. Everything is more "convenient" for me, yet he has all the control.
He hands me my pen and pad, and he starts writing. This is cute. It's weird, meeting someone for the first time like this, but he's cute and unexpected.
I start to write a response, a simple hello. Halfway through the word, my pen stops cooperating. I can etch an imprint of what I want to say, invisible on the paper from across the table, but no ink will come out to help me express my thoughts.
He keeps writing. And tearing pages. And showing them to me. And as I read, I think of more that I'd like to share. And he keeps writing. And tearing pages. And the moment passes. And I can't write anyway.
"I love telling stories, as you can tell."
He shares ideas that I've actually thought as well. Sometimes in ways better than my own. Sometimes. I'd like to share my own thoughts, really make it a conversation. I try. I use my pen to imprint the paper with what I want to say and present it to him. He looks at the paper, squints his eyes, frowns, and looks away. Then he continues writing.
He loves his job. He has a wonderful, supporting family. He doesn't imbibe. He finds community over the internet.
I feel my pocket buzzing with messages, and choose to ignore them for the sake of giving attention to this human interaction in front of me. It never occurs to me to use the phone as a means of typing what I need to say.
I have to say, it did occur to me to just talk out loud, but there was never a good moment. I would be shattering what we had set up. I would be interrupting the flow. I was made the bad guy. I felt uninteresting because I couldn't share any of my interesting life. I felt mediocre because he wouldn't ask me any questions; he wouldn't share the good pen and let me have a say.
He won. I was defeated.
Honestly, he expressed and embodied my idea of treating everyone around you like your brother or sister better than I do. He had zero expectations for this first date, which is the point. Friends first, love later.
I walked away from our date, really feeling how much I didn't talk and wasn't heard. I felt untested. He won, but it was an unfair competition.
I walked some more, and I thought some more, and I didn't talk some more. And I realized: he is better at many things. And I am more romantic.
Also, he doesn't know anything about me. What a loss, am I right?
---
There is a concept of horizontally and vertically learned behavior and traditions. Vertical learning of traditions come from your family tree; your genetics dictate who passes on this culture. Horizontal learning happens, specifically, for example, with gay people. We have a long tradition of discrimination and disease and overcoming hardship. We have traditions of being "a fun people" with parties that feature drag performers and gogo dancers. We have a history of being shamed and overcoming that shame until we can begin to cultivate authenticity.
I am very proud of my horizontal gay history. I am excited by the idea that I am connected to a bunch of strangers. I feel passionate about fighting for a cause that continues to plague the world: AIDS. Prevention. Knowledge. Treatment. There is still so much work to be done. Past generations fought the war, and many died, and it's our turn to speak out now that AIDS is no longer on the forefront of attention and concern.
Thank you to my gay forefathers for allowing me to sit with a cute boy for 2 and a half hours in public and talk about being gay without fear of physical or mental harm. Because, really, that is what it is all about.
"Hey! Thanks for coming all the way to my neighborhood. I had a nice time."
"Ditto kiddo, thanks for the conversation! Enjoy your Friday :)"
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