Monday, May 29, 2006

I swear I'm straight...

I’m on a roll,
I’m on a roll this time
I feel my luck could change.

We are standing on the edge.

“Mom, Charlie’s gay, I just saw him watching the Chippendale strippers on television” she shouted this triumphantly, running up the stairs to tell my parents. My sister caught me in the act, one might say, and she relished in the chance to finally be the favorite.

If you are unfamiliar with the Chippendale strippers, well, they are a bunch of naked, muscular men who dance around in pink briefs. I was around nine or ten and quite obsessed with men. My heart leapt as I turned on the television to this day time talk show that was showing these ill-clad men. I remember feeling a surge of shame and excitement at the same time. My whole body flushed, and I knew then and there, I dig guys.

There were many other times when my parents should have clued in. I remember watching a late night movie with the family one night and seeing so many scenes I wanted to revisit, cataloging them in my head, and waiting for everyone to hit the sack. I can’t remember the movie, but I remember we rented a VHS player one right and a whole bunch of movies. The scene I remember was a moderately hairy man, completely naked, legs spread, sat down doing stretches. His arms would stretch out to each foot, and I was completely entranced. It was one of the first times I got to see a naked man. It was wonderful.

When we watched the movie, I delicately hit the “information” button on the VCR remote to see what point in time this event was taking place. I catalogued the movie time in my head, and repeated it over and over again; I memorized it so that I could jump to that scene as soon as the living room was secure.

After the movie was over my sister, mother, and father retired upstairs, and I scrambled to rewind the tape to see this man do his exercises again. I rewound the tape to the point in time, and than hit the slow motion button. All of a sudden I hear my mom yelling out to me from upstairs…”Charlie, what the hell are you doing?” There is no way they could know, how could they know what I’m doing is beyond me.

“Nothing mom, just watching television…” I reply as my face starts turning red, and the thought of being caught is crossing my mind. "I'm just watching some TV."

Than my greedy sister shouts “Why are you watching the movie again, we can see what you’re doing, you're gay!" The VHS player is showing the movie on the TV upstairs. I didn't realize this, but the VCR was linked to all the televisions in the house.

Her raspy voice boomed down the staircase and I could detect a hint of glee in her voice. She always wanted their affection and would stop at nothing to portray me as the undesirable, bad seed.

I remember completely flushing and quickly thinking I replied “I tried to rewind the movie and it got stuck, the remote doesn’t seem to work,” as I scrambled to stop the VCR and remind the movie completely. After my response, there is silence.

I think my parents made great efforts to deny that part of me. They wanted me to be a normal kid. I mean, their boy was a great hockey player, he loved softball, played tennis with his dad, and threw ball in the backyard; how could he be gay? It’s impossible.

Gay boys liked hanging out with their moms, working on the garden, hung out with girls, and had a lisp in their voice. What I had on my side were stereotypes – and no matter how many times they catch me getting off on some gay oriented material, they would never think their son is gay…he just didn’t fit their idea as to what a gay man was.

I’m lucky we had these stereotypes growing up. I mean, I loath them now, but they really did save my ass time and time again.

When I was about six or seven I was a more effeminate kid. In the community where I grew up, we were quite isolated, and I had a speech impediment, so most of the young male kids distance themselves from me. My only friends when I was younger were my sister and my next door neighbor Christa. I would hang out with them most everyday, and even carry myself in a more girly way.

I had a lot of anxiety from my parents. They already decided what I was going to be, how I should carry myself, and how I was to fit into society. When they noticed I was leaning more toward a less informal style of living, they panicked.

“If he keeps hanging with girls, he’s going to be gay Eric. Oh my God, oh my God, what are we going to do?” I heard this particular shouting match before I even knew I was gay. I was in grade one and they were on to me. I knew that there was something out of whack with me, and my impression was I was becoming a girl, and my parents wanted no part of it.

“There’s nothing I can fucking do about it Meta, for fuck's sake,” dad yelled back. Then whispers. They just realized that I was around, and I probably heard the whole conversation. I was totally encompassed with a feeling of guilt, and the anxiety I have been fighting with my whole life as a teenager was consuming me. They had a way of making me anxious.

This brings me to one of the weirdest moments in my life. They reasoned that if I were exposed to men more, I would no longer be a gay. Shortly after the yelling match they both head downstairs to see me. My mother took the lead, and I could tell that a conspiring was taking place. They had a plan, and I’m sure that it was something totally off the wall. My parents were not worldly, nor did they understand the differences in sexuality and culture. They were isolated Newfoundlanders who only knew the world around me.

“Charlie, your father and I notice that you hang out with girls a lot. We are afraid you’re going to turn into a faggot. The only way we can think of helping you is to put you in a shower with your father….” I screamed “What? How is that going to solve anything?” They were at a loss for answers, but I could see the embarrassment and shame on both of their faces. They didn’t know any better.

I was put in a shower with my dad that afternoon. We were both naked and ashamed; both of us turned away from each other, and hoped that it would soon be over. I remember being red the entire time, and catching glimpses thinking, maybe this is what I need, more exposure, maybe they are right and it will cure my problem.

The only thing it did accomplish was self-actualization. I realized that in order to survive my crazy parents, and battle whatever affliction they think I have, was to conform. I had to be masculine; I had to pretend to at least enjoy the male elements that didn’t bring me joy in life, such as playing trucks and guns with the boys. I had to be one of them, which is the only way I could get my parents off of my back.

I did it. I did it quite well. Before high-school I become a great hockey player, I started to despise my sister – and all women for that matter – and had a network of guy friends, who treated me like one of them.

I’m not sure if dad or mom even remembers that specific event that I could never forget. Sometimes, I feel as if I should ask”Hey ummm Mom, do you remember the time you threw me into the shower with Dad because you though I was going to be gay? Well, yeah, it didn’t work; you can’t cure me, there is nothing wrong with me.”

They know I’m gay now. It took sometime for my mother to stop blaming herself, LOL. But they know. Every once in a while, some of my old resentments come up and I sometimes play tricks. One April fools I phoned my mother and said “Hey mom, I don’t know how to put this, you may want to sit down.”

“What is it Charlie, what’s wrong?” I feel her general concern. I know that she is genuinely worried. We aren’t a family that brings up issue.

“Well you see, I don’t think I’m gay anymore. I’ve been dating this girl, and I really think I’m into her. I think I like women, Mom.” There is a silence on the other end, and I could hear her deliberating.
“Oh my God, that’s wonderful,” and I can feel her smiling over the phone over seven thousand kilometers way. “I have to tell your father!”

“April fools mom,” click.

Sunday, May 28, 2006

Never say a word

Wow, I just had a comment from a friend of mine who lives in Doha:

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It starts with blah blah blah, but lets get to the meat and bones of it all before I pass out and go to bed.

I have been keeping up with your blog, though. You are an amazing writer, despite being in desperate need of a spell checker! ;) I love discovering there has been a new entry and even more, I love reading those entries.

You certainly have a way of expresing the romantic idea most Newfoundlanders have of clinging to an island for dear life. There's no poetry, there's no bullshit. It's a damn good read Charlie. Seriously. If this were a newspaper column, for example, people would turn to it before reading the front page. (Well, maybe not the front page. Everyone reads the front page first. That's why they put it on the front page.) After scanning the headlines, for sure.

Keep writing. I look forward to more PROLIFIC works in the future!
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Saturday, May 27, 2006

Musings

It whistles sometimes; the wind that is, it makes a great roaring, ferocity; it leaves you with such a great understanding as to how such a magnificent force touches our lives.

The romans and greeks were right about most large masses, energy bodies, or structures; they are Gods. They are the forces that we had no control of, and they govern our very cores. Our struggles were directly related to the elements, and when they were kind, be praised for it is a blessing. I can see how a God complex could be built from such elements.

Thinking back I remember the aftermaths of hurricanes approaching the eastern shores of Newfoundland. The hurricanes were downgraded to tropical storms, breath taking, shattering, one hundred and fifteen kilometer an hour winds raping the shores. The communities would shut down, the people all in side, no cars in sight, and the power struggle to stay on. I remember those times and smile.

Watching the ocean - which was my back yard - I see a great fight between two great Gods. Two elemental forces that only skim by each other, and tonight they are fighting a battle that will never cease to exist. The complex winds scourge the ocean, uplifting it into waves a few feet high, fishing boats in the distance rock and follow the trend of the sea; they stay afloat only for as long as the waves remain below their level, and they refute the water in their hulls.

Nepture faces Aquilo, Favonius, Auster, or Eurus, I'm not sure which ones, but he faces these wind Gods; they can't uproot him, they can't tear away parts of him, he is one liquid body, the essense cannot be broken. There are ways to fight the sea, but the winds are no match. Nepture has proven himself time and time again to be one of the most powerful Gods ever created, he was worshiped for a reason, and nights like this reminds us why this was the case.

The waves are crashing on the rocky shores, and my friend and I are gazing through the window of our low housing shelter. He’s so afraid of it all; he is standing there on his tippy toes in fear that this storm, this great force plummeting off of the house will break through.

All my life I wondered why would Nick be so afraid? It makes sense now, you know. He lived in a trailer, and his mother had the same fear. That fear is much more amplified when your shelter is a trailer that’s much more subjected to the storm.

I always ran out into it, well sometimes. My main romance was to run down to the shores, where everything was much more epic and stand against it all. Challenge the shores that are challenging the waters, that are fighting the winds. I wanted to stand against them all, and prove once and for all that I am more alive than anyone else right now in this moment in time.

It’s always been a pastime of ours; to storm watch is to witness something so incredibly foreign to our lives in the city. To see the land sway, the oceans curling, and the sky melting into this abysmal everything; it can’t be described. When you can't see the world, this is as far from isolation and absolute nothingness than you can get. This is where it all happens, in the bodies of these great environmental events. I understand them all now; the storm chasers, the climitologists, I get it, and I envy each and every one of them.

One night, I think after a hurricane devastated the coasts of Florida, it approached. It was a large mass that we could feel coming; it was a mass that changed the atmosphere, the density in a matter of minutes, and it came. The sky slowly starting building up this thick and dark grey matter. The light from the day, although moist, disappears right before your eyes.

You can always tell a big one, so much more power was behind it; it effected the outdoors with much more of a struggle, and you wonder if the trees will start cracking in half. If you want to compare the magnitude of this event just imagine yourself walking down the street with an umbrella; the wind would pull it from your grip or destory it's foundation in seconds.

The eye passed right over the house. All the fury and hardness stopped immediately, and I knew it was still around us; the thunder was crashing, in the distance there were the sounds of the storm, but right above us it was completely silent. We were all huddled together in the living room just looking up and wondering why? Why were we spared?

In a matter of seconds, the slow build up began again. The storm felt as if it were winding up, regaining the strength lost, and readying itself for another round. The siding of the house was hanging on for dear life, and the old “weather proofed” windows were letting out streams of cold, dampened air. I could feel the drafts sway through the more opened and worn parts of the protective window.

I have so many memories of it being night, looking through the back window of the house at that ocean. The Atlantic is one of them most beautiful sights you will ever experience. The vastness is only disrupted by the smaller islands scattered along the coastline. I have lost many a friend, cousin, and even uncle to that sea. It swallows them up whole, and they can’t fight, the more they resist the rough nights, the easy it is to be taken. The all have their graves below the ocean, it’s impossible to find the ones who go out trying to make a living illegally. It just takes them, and we remember, never to see their face again, even during their own funeral.

During the day it’s much the same, except now we can trace the currents and follow their paths into the unknown. I don’t fear swimming in it, or fear the currents, only so much as I respect that body of water. I appreciate how it came to be, and what it can do for us as humans. Although we forget what it can it, most only remember either what it did to us; the moratorium, the loss, the damnation many families were cast into. We blame that body of water more than the government facilities set up to scourge our land.

We remember that the sea caught our Irish and English ancestors and forced them into isolated and unforgiving lives. We remember our ancestors suffering from malnourishment, from conditions a dog or cat in the present day would be taken out of. Inhuman but they forged what came to be in present day Canada. They were the back bone, and their struggle has been forgotten.

I can only laugh at the first world problems we have to suffer out. We have no idea where we came from anymore. The ocean itself was our birth ground. We came from a small puddle of amino acids forming the first building blocks of life. The ocean helped to cultivate us all, and sprang us into a dynamic, evolutionary pattern.

Wednesday, May 24, 2006

Mudder

My muse is my family. Although I haven’t seen them in about four years, the life they left me with constantly gives me inspiration. My mother in particular is one of the most interesting people I have met, including the family who born her. “They are a bunch of crazy fucks,” my Mother would quote over a cigarette.

Meta – which is an East Indian word for friend – was my mother’s name. She is a 5 foot tall woman, with rich, dark hair; she possesses the mouth of a sailor, and could out smoke and drink with the best of them. When I was younger, she was a great part of my life. My father worked away so it was her wing I fell under for six months of the year.

I’m not sure if she wanted kids, and to this day, I wonder how many regrets she had raising my sister and me. “You we monsters, you don’t understand how much you have done to your mother,” would be a common phrase she would throw at us. “Spoiled brats, I don’t know where your father and I went wrong.” The cigarette in her hand would be nearly finished, and at the same time she was scrambling to look for her pack.

There were a lot of times in our lives, when we seriously questioned whether or not she liked us. There were times when I wondered if I was the person who depressed and disappointed her so much. I think when you’re younger, you tend to look at the smaller pictures, and you are unable to factor in everything else. The pattern of guilt and shame I experienced was common to many families who were self-destructive.

We would go for drives into the nearest settlement – Gander – took nearly an hour and a half. My mother’s sisters all left the small out port we grew up in and moved to the town. There they enjoyed a grand life of video gambling, working at airport restaurants, hair boutiques, or local bars. They were all beautiful women. They were black Irish with blue eyes that would sear your eyes out if you looked at them for too long. They were all thin, pale skinned, quick, and strong women. You would never cross a Blackwood daughter, for their tempers were known all around the island communities.

I once saw my Aunt Amanda who was four years older take down a 180 pound woman. Amanda herself was about 5 foot 5 and barely 110 pounds. We would hang out on occasion and either smoke drugs, drink beer, or do even more corrupt things. I loved her rebellious soul, I loved her unpredictability. In once instance, there was a classmate of hers – Kirk – who teased her as a kid. I remember her telling me one night Kick destroyed her bike that Pop had bought her, and would get together with a group of boys and call her “dog”. All the while I was thinking how could such a beautiful women be mistaken for a dog?

I remember being about 12 and seeing my Aunt attack him, punch for punch, until someone pulled her off of him. She was a beautiful woman, and I knew my limits after almost losing a tooth when I teased her for having a boyfriend. It was a wedding held at my other grandfathers club, I was on a date with a lesbian to be, and had free reign of the drink menu’s that night. My lips were loose and she was very disappointed.

On the trip into Gander, my mother would have the odometer up to about 120 or 130 KM per hour, a cigarette in her hand, and all we would see were the fragments of cars left in her reckless path. Her eyes would intensely view the road for moose. They were abundant in Newfoundland, and we were always on watch. The scatter time when we did see one, we would scream MOOSE! And depending on where the large beast was, my mother would make the right corrections.

The car itself would be filled with smoke; all the windows would be up and we would be sitting in the back of the vehicle persistently clawing into one another. By the time we were eight we knew most every curse word you could imagine. All you would her coming from the back seat was “Bitch, you fucking bitch” and a reply of “Fuck off you Goddamn faggot.” Mom was very good at dazing off into her mind, and leaving us to fend for ourselves. The only time she noticed us is if we did something to affect her personal space. Putting down the windows to air out the cloud of smoke would generate a bark, “Put up the Goddamn windows, you’re blowing ashes all over the place.”

“Mom, we can’t breath, the car is filled full of smoke,” mind you in the early eighties, smoking still wasn’t proven to be as dangerous as it is now. After five minutes of screaming and shouting, the windows would go up. The threat of being left on the highway like our Aunt Cassie was once was too hard to bear.

“Your poor mother didn’t have it easy; I was Cinderella. I had to be the caretaker of the family,” pleading with us at the grocery store, and trying to guilt us into being good. My sister and I would have the grocery cart filled to the brim with useless items. We would open bags of chips and leave them in isles and than kick our mother if she disagreed with us.

Ethel and Gerald were good grandparents, for what they had. They had six daughters and three sons. My mother fit somewhere in the middle. I remember mom looking back on her childhood with such hatred. She had to wash the clothes, cook for the family, and clean the household. I never asked where the other sisters and brothers were…Looking back some had jobs to help support the family like her parents. My aunt Charity would clean houses, Pam would work on the plants, and Larry would fish, and so on. Looking back, she wasn’t that unique; she worked much like everyone else in her family.

Cinderella actually married well. She married my father, who works for Halliburton, who saved this young woman. Now instead of scrubbing dirty pots and pans, she spends thousands on a monthly basis on needless things. They dine out regularly, buy expensive ski-doos and vehicles, and well, money is no object. Their world is very centered on materialism and self-improvement.

Sooner or later she tired of it all, picked up one day with my little brother on the way and announced that she was having an affair. An affair! For four years my sister and I were shipped back and forth to our half-uncle house. The funniest part was they only lived about 5 minutes away – just down the road.

Our high-school years were a lot different than the kids in the neighborhood. Our mother was the first women in the community to have an affair, and she proudly stated that fact. Soon, we started hearing of other families having affairs and splitting up; all the while my mother would smile and say “See kids, I started that.” She was convinced that the women in the community would always follow her lead. When her house was redone, she would point out the other community members who copied her style; when her garden was redone; the same; her dress and hair; and the list goes on.

The affair lasted for four years, and in that time, she took my father back. I was than in grade 12 and just praying that I would soon be away from it all. I prayed that this wasn’t the world I was going to live in, and I made sure I took the appropriate steps to get away.

I don’t think she ever found what she was looking for. She’s 45 now, and still searching for something. I mean, we are all still searching for something, but I haven’t encountered as many people who are that restless and full of regrets. And, I always viewed ourselves as inconvienences, as kids who stopped her from having that life she always dreamed of. I’m sure it consisted of trips to Paris, romancing the deserts in the Sahara, tracking through unbeknown forests in South America; it’s funny though she can’t even get on a plane by herself, I can’t imagine how she could have done all those things.

Wednesday, May 17, 2006

I can do no worldly good

Does heaven have enough angels yet?

I went to the mountain equipment coop shopping for a tent and some biking gear last weekend. The store was packed on a Monday afternoon with people from work and others in the community. The layout is nice; I mean it's a big warehouse full of outdoor goods - very appropriate for the BC culture. There are rows of outdoor, weather resistant jackets; kayaks; tents; biking equipment such as lights, odometers, and other necessary items. Quaint and impressive.

I looked over some tents and looked at some great bargains on biking shirts...but than I wonder, how do they manage to sell things so cheap? There must be an overseas, underaged and overworked slave camp, pumping out all of these questionably stitched fabrics. I have major reservations about buying something that was produced by an eight year old kid trying to earn enough money to help feed the family. I refuse to be one of 'those people'.

As I approached one of the many isles I catch a familiar face in the distance. It's my ex, and he's waddling along the isles with a smirk on his face. What is this, a friend, a partner? He's with another man! Now, I know you're thinking I'm not over this guy, I mean, I disagree, it's over and has been over for a long time. I know that thanks to this break up I have gained so much perspective, have traveled, and have really made some great and needed friends in the gay community. I see him and his 'friend'.

My first reaction is to turn away and pretend I didn't notice either of them. I walk up to a grey, riding jacket and start looking over the quality, examining the stitching, and looking over the price tag. Dennis – my ex - taps me on the shoulder. As I turn, everything seems to be in slow motion, and I catch the eye of his friend, who at this point of time is directly boring a hole into my soul. I have a strong disdain for men who are so aggressive; it’s such a turn off to meet a man, who you know is gay, who has no social tact whatsoever. I’m already taken aback from the situation and am made slightly unpleasant by this forceful, social gesture.

The friend is a short man; I would say he is about five foot six, and can be easily identified as being gay. You know how some men just look gay? I mean, it's not so much his style of dress which is unfortunate for someone his age, it was his look in general and his eyes: very gay. He is also older; I would estimate the age of 40, his face is wrinkling and his eyes have crows’ feet.

Personally, I would rate this man as a mess, and thanks to my ability to be able to sum them up in less than a minute, I can assume his intelligence level is lower than average. His jeans are worn, a little baggy, and black; the rest of his outfit, I forget right now, but I can assure you it was equally as disappointing. I don’t mean to be judgmental, but a lot can be said about the way one takes care of himself.

They are two gay men, enjoying the mountain equipment coop together. Fine.

I do turn red after I look at both of them. I think when I'm put on the spot; I just tend to brake out into a bright red glow for the situation I'm thrust into. "What are you planning on buying?" he asks. My body language is apparent at this time. I'm hunched and protective; my arms are inward and protected the rest of my body. I'm not looking him in the eye, but still staring straight into the grey racing jacket. "Nothing, I'm just browsing," I say in a contorted manner. He gets the hint and moves away from me. I don't allow his partner to briefly glimpse into my soul again. Their energies are something I refuse to be around.

I'm happy for him for either finding a friend or a fuck buddy. The recipient, I'm saddened to say will have a horrible time with it all. He doesn't understand who he is dealing with, and really it's no longer my business. Sometimes I just want to scream out: “Don’t you get it, he’s a fucking loser. He will do nothing but treat you poorly, use and lie to you, and in the end dismiss you as if he had no emotional tie to you whatsoever,” but I’m thinking this is something I should save for a therapist. It’s my shit, not his.

I leave immediately after in a daze. My heart is racing, and I'm still trying to figure out why this affects me so much. I think I know why now; it's not because he has someone in his life, it's because I don't, and I'm wondering why he can, and I cannot. I'm the better person. I'm the person who doesn't want to have superficial relationships where I gain and the friend or partner slowly withers away.

As I walk up the street, I spot a fitting acquaintance. It's a guy I've known over the past few months who has had his heart broken. I see him in a daze, and he is probably still at a loss, still feeling that separation, and that guilt of no longer being with the man he once loved. We chat as we walk up the street and I get my latest encounter off my chest, and he shares a part of his struggle.

He's a nice guy but I really couldn't see it going anywhere. I'm a "one foot in, one foot out of the door" kind of guy when I deal with the gay culture. I could never fully immerse myself into it, nor would I want to. It would be the clincher on life; I would be totally absolved to defeat if I were to play that card.

I hear Vancouver's gay district always whispering into my ear. "Join us Charlie, it really isn't that bad. We have rugby, many forms of nightlife, an after hours place, and a community full of people just like you." Why wouldn't I want that identity? To no longer have to search Victoria for like-minded people. It's just a ferry ride away and I could find a job.

The fact of the matter is: that's not me. I don't think it ever will be me. If I were to live in the West End of Vancouver, I would change. The straight friends I have would dwindle away, and I would slowly become more like them, and at the same time, grasping for whatever is left of my identity after I become part of the community. I would be sharing after work martini’s with a group of like minded, educated, and reasonably comfortable gay men. They, after a while, would start telling the same stories, performing the same rites of passage and philosophical discussions that I once found intriguing. But slowly, it will no longer be random, it will be predictable and dull; once again I would have to leave myself to search out a newer form of entertainment again.

I dull of things easily - especially people - and I fear that I would dull of gay men. I would break down one day over while eating Sautéed Pumpkin Gnocchi with Duck Confit in Sage Brown Butter sauce, and just shout at my companions: “My God, you’re a bunch of fags! Can we talk about things other than sex and fixing up your trendy apartment that overlooks English Bay? I mean, guys…ok, I don’t mean to be disapproving but seriously look at your lives; you live in a fucking bubble and I hope for your sake it bursts soon. Oh my God, I’ve become one of you!” After this self-realization I would run out into the street, looking around and noticing that I live in this community; I am completely engulfed by it.

That night, after making up a open house sign, I would plan my escape. I have a low tolerance for conformity. I would sort through my closet full of pressed jeans, pants, shirts, and tight vintage t-shirts; my pile of GQ magazines; the high quality watches from both Hugo Boss and Rolex. I would wonder what it all means. The only thing I would keep is my expensive art. That is something I enjoy, and no matter what type of person I became, art will always be important.

I think it's hard enough being an individual in today’s age without having to put the social and sub-cultural pressure of being apart of the elite gay culture in Vancouver. I think it’s hard enough to just be, you know, to just be a person and make something substantial out of life without having to think about all the other bullshit any community would throw at you. It’s far outside of being gay also – don’t get me wrong – it’s religion, it’s family, it’s everything. It’s every preconceived notion as to how someone ‘normal’ should live. I wouldn’t be surprised if you are one of them.

Monday, May 15, 2006

Just lost a little faith

One day, some sweet smile might turn my head.

The summer is finally here. I can walk around with t-shirts, and shorts, and sandals; I can tan, and see other tanned people enjoying cold coffee beverages and quick made salads. Oh yes, the summer is here, and the city of Victoria is feeling it. I see beauty everywhere as of late.

Do you ever get the feeling that you are surrounded by so much stunning, visual imagery? Does your soul burst with happiness on those days?

That's how I feel when I gaze upon a great piece of art, or meeting someone extremely beautiful. It's a feeling I can't measure, and a feeling that I welcome. There is nothing more pleasurable than knowing that this is it, and well, I'm ok...

A couple of nights ago I met Dale - who has a boyfriend - and asked him to head down to Dallas Road for a walk. It was a cool night, and we both strolled along Cook Street; the street itself is tree lined, and full of old character homes. The sky was clear, and as we approached the ocean, we could see Port Angeles very clearly in the background. The lights of the port town were twinkling across the ocean, and making their way to provide an adequate, romantic background.

I always wonder what the people in this well lit town are doing. They are so close, yet we never see any of them. The trail itself smelled beautiful. I could take in the grasses, the saps from the trees, and the array of different types of flowers. We approach a tunnel of bushes and trees, which blocks out the sun/moon and makes you feel as if you are somewhere completely different. And the ocean, we can hear the ocean beat against the rocks. If I weren't so respectful I would have pressed myself against him, and kissed him.

The moon is like some Roy Henry Vickers painting; full and reflecting across the sea towards us. I feel as if I'm staring into one of his works at this moment in time, and I could do nothing but enjoy it. I'm with Dale. This is what it would be like for us both, if we were together. Nothing else would matter, only our strides together, and comments about life. The moon, the sky, the lights, and smells; all that would matter is the here and now, and nothing else. I ask myself why I keep putting myself in this situation with him. I mean, he has a boyfriend; he is happy, together, and content...for the most part. Yet, I yearn to still explore him as a friend.

We are both hesitant, and have both admitted our attraction to one another, but neither of us will cross that life. We are not the same as every other gay man. I have been describe as 'one foot in and one foot out' of the culture I am apart of. I can say the same about this guy. There is so much I don't know about him, and so many bits and pieces that I'm so curious about.

All I can do is relax and stare into his hazel eyes, knowing full well, this man has struggled and had to keep his life a secret far longer than I could ever cope with; deep inside of myself, I feel love towards him. It's not because I love him so much, it's because I love the struggle he had to go through. It whispers to me, and pleads for me to break into that mess, that tangle of everything wrong with the world that has left a lasting impression on him.

No, I won't. I can't really. That is an intimacy that only his partner is aware of. That is something so personal and meaningful that only a select few could be apart of it. The only reason my life differed from his is because my courage forced me to confront it a lot earlier in life. There is beauty everywhere lately.

I went on a 40 KM bike trip this Sunday after waking up around two and missing an invitation to go hiking. I was sour at the fact I woke up so late, and immediately prepared for the journey. The trails themselves are well laid out, paved, and lined with trees and flowers. They weren't as busy this Sunday, and I attributed that to mother’s day. I pushed hard and crashed through the trails passing most everyone in my wake.

After 40 KM only one person passed me, and I could cope with it. It's not a competition, but I do like to know that I'm athletic and that at some point in my life I could take this hobby more seriously. I arrived at Sidney after biking 26 KM. The town is quaint, quiet, and settled. The majority of the tenants are older retirees; there is an energy of calm surrounding the place. It's mother's day and most of the older population is out enjoying the sunny day. The Bistros and Deli's are filled, and the older generation, who are wearing their brightly colored sweaters and pants, are basking in it. Their shades are on, and the conversations are flowing.

I am nervous looking at it all. I'm the outsider who will one day be that age. Will I want to be in a group of older folks, still being the token gay male? Will I have someone before I reach that age? What will become of it all?

It really doesn't matter, you know. I mean, I'm living and breathing; learning so much. The rest is meaningless. I'm thinking about Saturday night, and a friend of mine asked me a simple question: "What do you want out of life?”

Immediately I reply, "Nothing, I want nothing; I'm a driven guy and it would tear me up inside every time I concentrated on the things I wanted. You see, I was once consumed with want; everything around me I needed to accomplish or gain right away. If I didn't get what I wanted, my very essence would be crushed. So, long story short, wants make me unhappy, so I have managed to eliminate a life of wants and just limit myself to basic needs."

It was effective, and I think I really brought the point across. I'm living life as a Buddhist for the most part. A life of introspection and I try not to cloud it with the absurd things that most people get caught up in while living their lives. "I want nothing, man. I only want to live, change, do good..."

Tuesday, May 09, 2006

Driving Mr. Charlie

I woke up 5:30 this morning! I'm amazed. For some reason I went to bed extremely early, than awoke to the sound of chirping birds. It was great to have that much time in the morning before having to head to work.

I made some espresso, took a shower, and watch an episode of South Park about Mormons. It was so friggin' hilarious. I have come to realize both the Mormons and the Church of Scientology are both fucking wackos.

Marty picked me up around 7:30 to bring me up the dealership. I think he was a bit taken aback with how cheary I am in the morning. I was laughing, talking about how great life is; I'm thinking he had a flashback to the five days we spent together in Vegas.

I don't mean to be positive; I should pass along my blog to Marty so that he can see the darker side of me. You see, in person, it's I'm more annoyingly happy than anyone else I have met in my travels - minus my cousin Jill who's a raving Jehovah's Witness.

I grabbed my car from the Nissan dealership and told them I'm getting my brake work completed somewhere else. They were a bit disappointed, but it's their fault I have to replace my rotors anyway. They gave me an inaccurate quote last time I got my brakes checked, and I gave them a piece of my mind.

My car is at Midus. They seem like a great bunch of guys, and it's near my company. I went in like a pro, having a conversation about the brakes, and showing my knowledge on the subject of auto repairs. If they only knew that I had to go online reading about this stuff.

The most I can do is change the washer fluid, check the oil, and identify most every sound and say it's either the fan belt or the brakes. I think they thought I was one of the guys, and they won't be able to give me the once over. Knowledge is power.

My sister and I made amends two days ago. I appologized to her for being so cold and blunt. At the same time, she took her guards down and all is well. We talked about how much we miss each other, and how it's a shame that we haven't seen each other in at least 3 years. I have only saw my newphew once when he was a month old.

I'm not sure how to handle it.

Monday, May 08, 2006

I have no car

After dealing with an increasing scary car noise, I finally gave in. On the way to work this morning, I swerved towards the dealership and decided to pop in. For some reason, I try to be charming, I want them to help me out...maybe get my car in quicker, or I don't know give me a loaner for a while. No such luck.

I approach the overly busy service guys and I tell them in a blunt manner: "I have an appointment for next Saturday; I don't think my car can hold out that long." They look at me with a level of understanding and sympathy. "I'm just going to drop it off, I can't drive it. Let me know when it's fixed." Done and done. I also updated my information detailing what exactly is wrong with the vehicle. To be honest, the noise sounds really bad. It sounds like either a brake rotor or a wheel bearing is fucked. C'est la Vie. I just hope it doesn't put me in the hole.

After getting a 15 dollar taxi voucher - which I know will not cover the cab to work - I decide to limp to the bus station. I have been running quite a bit this week, and yesterday the heel of my foot encountered a sprain. I'm limping towards the bus station, chewing on a MacDonald’s breakfast sandwich, holding a 15 dollar taxi voucher, and the sound of my detox pills in my nap sack are loud and drawing attention to myself.

I'm trying to quit smoking again. Its' going well, but today will be one of the biggest trials I have had to face since stopping. It's always the way...things always go wrong when you need sanity and calm.

I arrive at the bus station, which is empty, and I'm making the assumption I just missed the 75. I look through the times, and I'm 2 minutes too late. If only I didn't stop for MacDonald’s. The next bus is in...What? 40 minutes? Jesus Christ! What kind of a bus system do we have in Victoria? This is unacceptable.

I know if I wait that long, I will be late for work. I decide to phone a cab. I'm still calm, and I think that I have a firm grasp on the situation. I look at the street name (Vernon, remember Vernon), and I spot a cab driving by and memorize the number. Things are starting to fall into place.

"Hello, Blue Bird cabs, can I help you sir?" She sounds young, slightly ticked, but she wants my business.

"Ummm yeah, I'm on Vernon Street, at a bus station, behind Save on Foods, can I get a cab?” I ask politely, hoping to just cut this conversation shop. "Sir, we need to have a street address...” she's already impatient and we've only just started to talk.

"Yeah, I'm on Vernon, behind the Save on Foods, isn't that enough?" All that has happened today is slowly starting to build. I'm still cool; I can do this without raging. "Sir, we need an address", and silence.

"Fuck, I'll walk over to the Save on Foods, can you send a cab?" Click. I cross Vernon which is a one way street with four lanes of traffic. I have to limp because of my food, and I'm grasping the 15 dollar voucher which won't even cover half my trip...I shouldn't have pointed out where I was going...I could have gotten it fully reimbursed...

A wall of traffic approaches, and I have to pick my limp up to a jog, and I howl in pain. If you asked me what I hate most about Mondays, I would probably break down and cry at this point. I finally make it to the Save on Foods center, and a minute later a cab arrives. We make some small talk, but he can tell that I'm really not in the mood. I stare at the meter rounding 30 dollars and we are at my workplace. I handsomely tip the man and stroll into work.

I have 8 missed phone calls and a pile of e-mails.

I've managed to hook up rides with my workmate Marty for the week. I mean, I can survive without a car. I never use it when I'm home, only for groceries, and occasionally when it's raining and I don't want to be in the elements. I'll be fine. If worse comes to worse I can take the metro bus.

Monday, May 01, 2006

I drove all night

I have a new ring tone on my cell phone. Now, it is by far the gayest ring tone I have ever had, and I'm so excited to try it out. The song is "I drove all night" by Cyndi Lauper. I have a feeling there are going to be a number of gay/st8 people who are going to be incredibly sickened when they here it, it's going to rock. I imagine myself at a restaurant or coffee shop, and all of a sudden "I drove all night" starts hammering out in my pocket. The looks of disgust will be enough to keep me going for a few days.

I was talking to my sister online the other day. Life isn't what she expected it to be. She has a 2-3 year old child who I only saw once, he was one month old at the time, and I was visiting for Christmas after living in Victoria for a year. Another thing she has is a deadbeat boyfriend, who I think, causes her to take her problems out on others; this is not an uncommon phenomenon.

She noticed that I wrote on my messenger that I was going to Montreal this summer. It was a perfect time for her to attack. Right away, after we get the pleasantries over with, she asks me why I never come home. I explain it's because of cost, location, and well family. All three things are unhealthy for me right now in my life. "You're so selfish," she replies. "You never give me or Logan anything." Selfish and ‘give me’ should never be used in the same sentence.

"Lisa, what can I possibly give a kid that has four bicycles and a collection of toys that are still in boxes?" I'm pissed right now, because this is the way my sister works, guilt; she was never really crafty though.

"Well, you can send him some money..." this equates to send me some money. My sister is on social services right now, and it is because of her own doing. All my life I have tried to help my big sister. We went to secondary school together at the same time, when she didn't have a place to stay, I let her room with me and my two buddies. The year after, we lived alone together. I have blocked out that portion of my life, it was not fun.

I’m sick of talking about money, I’m sick of being reminded as to how materialistic my family was. Every Christmas my father would shower us with thousands of dollars worth of presents. He would readily buy us a new car, a ski-doo, or whatever else he felt he had to give us to make up for the lack of emotional love he was incapable of giving.

A hug from my father would be a very uncomfortable situation. We had a thing about touching in our family, it just felt wrong and weird. My mother is the only other affectionate one, and we get along quite well.

Now, Lisa didn't attempt to finish her schooling, in fact, she had one assignment to finish at the end of her last term, and she refused to do it. She claimed, it didn't matter because it's was a stupid program anyway. Fine Lisa, I give up.

She started dating a loser friend of mine. Now, this guy is an only child, who wants nothing more in life than to drink, have a nice car, and be far more selfish than either myself or my sister. He is the father, and he is not helping her out in anyway. He even borrowed 2,500 dollars from her for his schooling, and refuses to pay her back. This is the man who allowed my sister to go on welfare while they were still together; he had a career and was in her life...

Yesterday, after giving me a guilt trip about not wanting to visit Newfoundland to bicker and fight with my family for 2 weeks, she decides to use her son as the main argument as to why I'm so selfish. It would have had a more lasting impact, if I didn't know that all her life she ratted on me; she bad mouthed me, and only ever looked out for herself. The only thing I'm selfish about is looking out for my mental well-being.

She than asks me to buy her ticket to Florida when my parents head down. I could do nothing but laugh. "A ticket, to Florida?" I reply. Thinking quickly I respond, "Why not ask Ryan for the 2,500 dollars he owes you?” Silence.

I hope I'm not failing to see why this doesn't make sense. I have a problem with people who expect things from others their entire life without trying to better their lives themselves. Call me crazy, but I value drive...and I don't believe in letting people sail through life, totally and utterly reliant on family hand me downs.

Sorry sis, my last words to her, which I may regret, we're "fuck off". This is my complex and strange relationship with my sister who would throw metal objects, claw skin off of my body, and consider me her punching bad when I was younger. I have forgiven that person, but I will not allow her to still be that same person. We are adults now, show some tact and suck it up.

We'll see how it goes...