Montreal

Slowly, slowly, I am drifting.

I am back from Montreal and my mindset is different.

It took me a week to write this entry, only because I have been recuperating and bringing my mind back to a more positive place.

I had a great time, but most of it was in a haze of drugs, without food for periods of 12 hours, without sleep at one point for about 48 hours, and myself, partaking in superficial relationships that came and went as the days passed by. I am without remorse.

The gay scene in Montreal, especially with the Out Games and Pride taking place was something I haven’t witnessed before. There were streets upon streets blocked off; events all day long, people from around the world, athletes, mind you, participating. Masculinity, real men, everywhere.

The parties were fine. I saw some of the most prominent DJ’s in the world, rubbed elbows with the elite in our community, and met some accomplished people. At the end of the trip, I was so polluted by my surroundings; nothing was real anymore. I was devoid of emotion, four pounds lighter, stripped of morals, muscle, body fat, and was just a shell of a man. I was a shell that once was in love with the world and myself.

Now, I have witnessed debauchery at its worst. I don’t want to go too much into it, I’d rather talk about the city and how beautiful it is.

The churches in Montreal are amazing. Montreal itself is 95 percent catholic and the entire religious base is utilities these old, architecturally stunning cathedrals. I went to the church of Notre-Dame one day with my friend Clay. Walking in to Notre-Dame was like walking into some sort of illustration. There were stunning blues, reds, elaborate carpets, stained glass, pews and pedestals, it was a dream. I couldn’t imagine how a group of architects and builders could produce something so beautiful.

I knelt at the alter of Notre-Dame and thanked whatever force created this magnificent structure and teared up. Maybe it was the past night without sleep and on E. Maybe it was the fact that I know: this is living.

I then went old Montreal. The streets are filled with cobblestone, the buildings are old; Old Montreal consists of significant period pieces in a city that is fending off change. The streets are lined with tourist shops, old brick walls, fine dining, churches, and to the right a magnificent waterfront filled with activity.

Mont Royal, which is actually a hill in my option, was ok. We hiked it in no time at all and ended up in a circular view point which overlooked most of the city. Some of the banks, apartment buildings, and businesses were house in sky scrapers that towered over the remained of the buildings in the city center.

To be taken out of the gay scene and St. Catherine’s, even if it was for a small period of time, centered me briefly.

The city is beautiful. I just can’t get the images and sounds out of my head. The pounding dancing music, the men who are so stoned they forget who or where they are, and the couples…couples from around the world who should be proud and monogamous, finding their next fix. Everyone had a drug of choice, and because of the number of people, everyone was packed together for each venue.

I did some things I wasn’t proud of. But, at the same time I met some wonderful people and it helped redeem my faith that there are decent people out there. One man in particular, a gay Newfoundlander, who shares my birthday – Christmas Eve. I think I’m going to visit in Toronto during thanksgiving.

Urban Redneck

“You’re an urban redneck”, my friend points out to me as we stagger home drunk on Saturday night. He mentioned this after a few too many drinks, then taking my shirt off on the way home, and cat calling men.

I would shout “Nice ass, dude!” Maybe I should be a little more subtle about it all. I remember walking home one night with a bud and seeing this drunk hunk on the street. We kept joking out loud, “No, we aren’t going to take him home. He’s too hot. I don't think I would be able to handle it”. “No Paul, we can’t take this hot stud home, I don’t care how much you want him!” And so on. He over hears and gets upset.

I’m not afraid. And, the redneck in me would welcome a fight. After he turns to me and replies “What did you say?” I eagerly reply “Fuck off dude”.

Then there was the time with the cops. We were eating pizza early in the morning on a busy street and these three cops were doing crowd control. I couldn’t help but stare at one of them and challenge him. We made eye contact, and would look away, only to make eye contract again.

The officer didn’t know what was going on, so he asks me if I have a problem. “Is there some problem?” I immediately turn to him, walk to the three cops slowly and face him. “No, there’s no problem officer. I was just telling my friends how hot you were”.

“Oh,” as he steps back two feet, and visibly uncomfortable, “well, never mind then”. I could have sworn he blushed. I turned away smiling, and thinking, this is total freedom and abandonment.

I could recite stories for hours. They are all the same. Myself having a big mouth and being drunk, getting over my head in a situation, and using my intelligence to get out of it. I can’t help but lust after straight men when I drink. I can’t help it. The asshole in me doesn’t give a shit and it makes for a fun night.

I didn’t realize until now, I’m a urban redneck, and proud of it.

Reno

Everyday I approach the zenith of manhood with repugnance. The crisp air stings my cheeks, the cold ground frosts my boots, and there is no amount of cotton or Gore-Tex that can protect me.

Everyday I wonder if this is it. I’m in an icy prison where the sun is fleeting and the people hibernate. My boots chafe my sock, in turn my socks irate my pants, which hold a belt that hooks my shirts, layered, one by one, atop of a wreck of a man.

My breath is streaming the air, and everything smells so fresh and clean. The sky’s are vivid, filling me with the image of the sun, beyond belief, I open the back door to drift into absolute beauty.

I never realized how good I had it until I left this place. I didn’t realize how much destruction cities caused, how much pollution we are pumping into the atmospheres of urban centers. I didn’t realize that we dumped fresh sewage into some of the most pristine and inspiring waterfronts in Canada.

My dog Reno doesn’t seem to mind. In fact, she doesn’t really seem to be aware of anything. I envy her at times. Even at six, I have to worry about my speech impediment, my effeminate characteristics that my father is picking up on, and my isolation, which seems to be getting worse, and my stunted growth.

I’m six and already I feel alone. Reno is too stupid to pick up on any of this. She’s content to live her life in a snow filled, dog house, wagging her dumb tail and panting nothingness. She doesn’t have the same free will that man adopted early on into our evolutionary mess.

I go out to the shed about 5 meters away from the house to check if she is still breathing.

My mother hated animals, claiming, “they are a fucking mess.” Reno would be left out in the elements at times, this rocky, unforgiving climate, and every night, when I curled up in bed, sleeping on my stomach and wishing I had a different family, I would think about her survival.

Some mornings she would be covered in show. A husk of a dog, with her coat completely engulfed with wet, hard snow. I would smile and greet her, and look into her makeshift dog home. I would start to pick off clumps of snow to free up her fur, holding back the tears and I would never shed; I’m too strong for that now. Some of the crayon colors we used the summer before are still standing out on the planks of her poorly construed home.

When she gets me in her sight, she jumps with enthusiasm, knowing full well I will release her. I could never chain up an animal like my parents. I run to her; I am grasping her chain and sliding on the leash, hoping to go for a nice walk; it's sunny out today. Today I will take her for a walk through the snow laid streets and hills. There isn’t a piece of land that isn’t covered with this mess of crystallized water.

I unhook Reno. Suddenly she bolts! I’m takin' off my feet and am being dragged for a few meters, my hands and elbows have been skinned, and I’m laying on the ground screaming “You goddamn fucking dog”, and all I see are the paw prints and a bolt of black furry, running off, hoping to gain as much freedom as possible before hunger sets in.

Being a six year old in a town full of simpletons was quite fun. And, being six in a town where there was no crime, no worries of being kidnapped and cut into pieces, was surprisingly freeing.

I would be the bait. I would follow this dog come hell or high reckon, and I would reclaim what is mine. I have nothing better to do, and I don’t even think Mom will realize I have left the house. She had a tendency to overlook us.

Being six in a town that never changed, made our lives unthreatening and predictable; it made caring for us easy, and non-existent.

I see Reno from afar. She’s nearing the hill close to the Humphries’s house. My mother always said they raised pigs and lived like them too. They ate their animals and were poor off, mind you. Not like us, my father does well, mom never has to worry. But these guys are in for some hard times.

I’m halfway up the hill calling out to Reno in the best unobtrusive voice I can muster. “Come on girl, come on. Let’s go for a walk. You like walks, don’t you?” She’s so close to me now, the leash is almost touching her. One fell swoop and I could claim her again as my own. But she bolts! I’ve never seen an animal run so fast in my life. And I scream at her, “You fucking dog, you’re gonna get it”.

I spent the remainder of the day climbing banks. Hunting Reno in all the recesses of our small village. The snow was so high, nobody ventured outside on this day. The chimneys were towering smoke from the woodstoves most families had. Occasionally, I would see a line of footprints leaving ones' door to the woodshed. Not once did I run into anyone.

Reno, by this time, was wagging her tail as she ran into me, some 4 kilometers away, near Reverend Moss’s house. This man was the strangest church official I have met in my life. Apart from having three strange kids: a hemophiliac who seemed to never have spent a day in the sun, a rock and roll dude (who I had the pleasure of seeing having sex one night as we spied through their window), and Greg, a massive lump of a man, who goofed around on old texas instrument systems programming basic code.

Reverend Moss always reminded me of Rex Murphy. His hair was curly, his voice was high and whiney, and he was skinny at that. I always got Goosebumps whenever I was around him, and would protest every time my mom made me visit his pale white child.

“It’s a sin by’, he has no friends. You should at least be courteous to your neighbors,” as I was pushed out of the house to abide to the deal my mother made on the phone to Myrtle, Mr. Moss’s wife.

I was in fear of Trevor, the pale one, seeing me on this day. I kept having this aching feeling that he was in the window watching, reading to yell out for me to come inside and watch him play with his wrestling figurines.

Rage was building as I dashed after Reno. I kept wondering if she would ever give up and let me win this battle.

I didn’t catch her that day. Instead, after being drenched in melted snow, four hours of chasing the elusive dog of my past, I head home for some baked bread and tea. Waiting at the porch of the house is of course, Reno.

I approach her, staring eye to eye, holding our gaze, only to deliver three hard smacks to the head. All the while her tail wags and she’s looking at me as if nothing ever happened.

I don’t think she was ever a smart dog. Most labs were, but this one, if I had a dollar for every time that fucking dog didn’t listen, I’d have my own fishing boat.

You know you've hit rock bottom when...

You know that you’ve hit rock bottom when you’re sitting at a bathhouse, talking to a complete stranger, explaining how faithful you are to your partner, who is sleeping in one of the rooms.

“We don’t normally go to things like this, but I was curious. Dennis and I are completely dedicated to one another. I mean, yeah sure, sex with other guys is important to him, and it hurts me, but we are more evolved, you know?” I’m saying this to some skinny, bitter, gay boy who is looking me up and down in my towel. He has no interest in this conversation and is silently planning his escape.

“Dennis recommended that we go to a sex club last night. There were all these guys around, roaming in the dark, and finally we were trapped in this small room with them.” I recalled to this fag who was incisively taking drags on his cigarette and nodding at the right times.

“We didn’t finish! I thought it was a gross experience and I made Dennis leave with me.” I had to make note of this and hang on to whatever dignity I had left.

“You went last night?” He finally spoke up and after I confirm the hard date he replies: “Dude, it was AIDS night, everyone knows that.”

My face turns an ashy gray color and I yell what? AIDS night? “Nobody told us this. Don’t you think they would warn us if that were the case?” I’m completely enraged right now and retracing the past night's events.

“It was in the paper dude,” he gets up and leaves only to say “You’re hot, man!”

“You’re disgusting,” I rally back, feeling free and liberated. I’m so sick of being objectified. He only turns to me again with a stunned look and walks off; actually, he wobbles off in his clean white towel, never to return again.

You know you’ve hit rock bottom, when you're standing by yourself, in a bathhouse, with your partner asleep in one of the rooms, thinking you may have just contracted HIV.

I run back to our room and shake him away. “Dennis, Dennis, get the hell up. We are leaving, I’ve had enough of this,” his lids flutter open and he’s obviously upset that I woke him.

“What?” he asks.

I explain the newly founded information about AIDS night and am in a panic. Laughing, he replies “We didn’t do anything unsafe, and I doubt it was ‘AIDS’ night. You’re over-reacting.”

“I don’t care I want out. I can’t take this anymore. It’s insane,” I’m picking up my things and dressing, expecting him to follow suit. “I’m done Dennis, its over.”

Why do so many gay men fall into this obscurity? Bathhouses, sex clubs, anonymous online hook-ups, these are the things that I have to deal with on a daily basis when facing men of my
proclivity .

Why are we so consumed with sex? Is it loneliness? Boredom? Is it different for everyone who partakes in the sinful side of being gay?

When I first came out I was so ignorant to it all. The only role model I had, the only man I could look up to and learn the ropes with, was Dennis. He taught me a great deal, most of it disturbing and wrong. I was taught that I needed to partake in the debauchery of our culture. He told me I needed threeways, and to experiment; I needed to get my heart broken by countless men, and then to finally collapse and become one of them: an emotionally, unadjusted gay male. It’s something we all strive for.

My role model. How I absorbed it all and questioned nothing. It was funny looking back how lost I truly was. Now I know what’s important and I am not tainted by love and utter conformity. Now I can look at these venues we went to, these acts that I can honestly say, I was forced into, and think how stupid I really was.

We don’t have to conform, nor will it make you happier. The only thing it will do is make you less human, less caring, and you will loose the most important parts of being human: emotional sensitivity, sexual intimacy, and trust. I don’t want to treat my partner like a porn star, and I don't want to be viewed as just another lay.

The weekend in Seattle ended with me punching my partner in the stomach, storming out of a bar, never to return again. That weekend was the breaking point for me, and I would never venture back into that dark side of the gay scene again.

I’m surprised I’m even writing this. I’m embarrassed that people may read it or judge me for my comments on this scene. I will not apologize. These are my thoughts and you cannot take my viewpoints away from me.

The only thing I can do is urge people to respect themselves, and respect your partners. We don’t need to have threeways and open relationships to appease our partner. We should be dedicated and respectful or each other; no bullshit. It’s an easy way out of making an actual commitment, and it certainly isn’t a healthy way to grow with someone and form intimacy. I see so many lost, lonely men who have chosen this path. The only advice I can give you all is: grow up.

Conversations

“He could be gay, you know. It’s kind of weird that a 13 year old boy is afraid of the dark,” I say playfully, waiting for the appropriate reaction.

“Why would you say that Char?” my mom is obviously uneasy about the subject and can’t even say the word gay or homosexual around me.

“I’m just saying it’s strange that he is still afraid of the dark. I’d almost say abnormal”, I am still waiting for her to keep the entertainment factor up.

“I don’t know why you would say that. This is the second time you have brought it up.” As she pauses, letting her mind churn it over. “Are there any signs I should be looking for?” as I burst out in laughter.

Are there any signs I should be looking for? What if there were signs. Would it make a difference? If my mother knew that my brother was gay, even now, there is nothing she could do about it, only accept it.

I always try to push limits with people, especially my family and friends. I tend to throw out various topics, or entertain bias notions to see how they will react. To summarize the whole concept so you can understand, I do it because people bore me, and I look for more substance.

“Mom, I was at the gym tonight and there was this really hot guy there. I’ve seen him once before, and damn, I was too shy to say hi”. I’m trying to let her into my life and take away the stigma of being gay. This should be an everyday conversation, in my opinion. “There was one point where I was sure he was going to say hi, but I walked by as he started to open his mouth. What if I never see him again?”

My mother listens contently on the line. I know deep down in my heart she still wishes for me to be one of the breeders. She listens to my conversation and I know there will be a less accepting reply.

“Why do you have to discuss this with your mother? Do you think it’s appropriate to tell your mother about these types of things?” There is discontent in her voice. I don’t care though. I want her to suck in this part of my life, and the more I share, the less obtrusive it will be.

“I don’t mind sharing at all. I want you to be apart of my life, and I should feel comfortable discussing these topics with you”.

The man at the gym was around forty. I am saddened at the fact that I have only seen him once before in the past year, but this time we both acknowledged each other. I feel a spark, which is rare and wonderful, and he is onboard. Yet, we didn’t say hi to each other. He made the attempt but while he was forming the conversation, and starting to approach me, I jet off in another direction.

My Aunt Car (Carol) and my mother are visiting Paul and I in September. By that time, I will be moved in to my new place, and I will be further practicing my interior design skills. I want the place to be wonderful, and I want Paul to feel comfortable having my crazy family over.

I plan on having cook dinners; traditional Newfoundland meals, lots of alcohol, time on the deck at night where we all sit around smoking and drinking. I miss them so much, and I can tell you I’m looking forward to this reunion. It’s the first time since coming out that I will have seen some of my family.

My aunt and mother curse and use vulgarity at ease. It's second nature to see one of them sitting at the dining table and asking someone to "pass the fucking pepper", only have downing a few glasses of wine of course; they aren't complete rednecks.

I’ve been trying to fill Paul in on what type of people he should expect, but I don’t think he takes me seriously. They are the most unconventional Canadians you could imagine.

I can see some great times ahead. I have company next weekend. It’s a young lad who currently lives in Vancouver. He is an ex tennis pro who grew up in Australia. I’m very intrigued by him. His voice is sexy, and he is a bad boy, much like myself. I love situations like this. There is no commitment, no expectations; just two guys who want to get to know each other.

Relationships are over-rated. I prefer this way of things. I prefer having this non-conventional way of thinking, and I relish in the attempts at forming subtle bonds with other gay males who have no interest in relationships.

Besides that I’m off to Montreal. I have only been to the sister city Quebec City and am looking forward to it. I will be traveling with two friends; one of which I can’t take to, and I don’t plan on having a group vacation. I play on blending into the city as quickly as possible and meeting interesting people. If there is one thing I’m good at, it’s blending in, and forming superficial relationships.

Onions sacks and kittens

My grandparents had - on average - five cats at a time throughout their lives. When my family and I would visit their house, I would see white cats, tabby cats, pregnant cats; bowls were strewn everywhere, along with various fishes and meats. On my trip to my grandparent’s kitchen, to nose through their fridge, I would be attacked by these purring beasts that knew only absolute gluttony and laziness.

My mother would sometimes get a phone call telling us that they had a new litter of kittens. Even in the late eighties and early nineties, small town out port communities would not spade or neuter their cats. Most animals would roam around freely with all their reproductive organs in tact.

She had a distain for her mother's fetish with cats. “Crazy old bitch,” as she lit up a cigarette and plunged us into our Oldsmobile Cutlass Sierra. “Your grandmother is nuts.”

Seeing the cats would always excite my sister. She is a great animal lover. There were times when we would be highway driving and a squirrel would pop in front of us. Normally, if it were me, I would not flinch and keep true to the lane. My sister on the other hand would suddenly jerk the wheel in any direction, grind the breaks, and scream at the top of her lungs, only to see the squirrel make it’s way to safety. My heart would skip beats and I would always be anxious with her behind the wheel.

I’m ok with the act of saving a member of the wildlife. I mean, I can’t judge her for wanting to save a squirrel; for my life, and for the lives of her passengers, I would have expected her to check the left lane for oncoming traffic first. I value my life more than a squirrel.

My gleeful sister and I would run into my grandparent’s home to see the kittens. The women together adoring the pile of sickly kittens, and my grandfather and I would prepare for the journey.

For some reason he would always wait for me. Maybe it’s a rite of passage? Maybe it's an age old tradition that made boys into men. I’m not sure, but he took great pride in letting me be apart of the population control

We would walk into the musty old basement. It was in need of a dehumidifier and smelled of dampness. The bottom part of the house was carpeted and there were many doors leading into smaller rooms. Pop would grab a large neon orange onion sack and make his way upstairs.

The kittens by this point were tired of my sister’s relentless efforts to pick them up. The mother cat, in all her glory, would hiss and display her displeasure of this festering creature. Milk would run freely from her breast as she swayed over to the last kitten touch; she would smell and then lick the scent of my sister off of the kitten.

They say cats do not possess the same emotions as we do. I disagree, I mean, I think cats are more cleaver than we think. That cat knew that was going to happen, and I’m sure it isn’t the first time her cradle has been robbed by Grandpa.

My Pop would gather all the small kittens up and throw them into the onion sack. Seven or eight, small kittens, making panicked sounds, away from their mother, and not knowing what will happen next.

It would always be a sunny day. Summers. We would track down the lane, past the dog berry and evergreen trees that will always be stunted and sickly. Passing Uncle Larry’s house we would take a right down Blackwood’s lane. The lane itself slopped downward to another small cove of houses. And in the middle of this isthmus we would stop by the shore, gazing down into the reflective water. I know there are countless graves here. This will not be the first or the last time, and this place holds meaning to all men to come by this part of the shore.

He would look at me, almost asking with his eyes, if I wanted to do it this time. I would always look back with hatred and disgust. I would want to scream at him, “Why don’t you just fix your fucking cats. This is an atrocity”. I would always have this anger inside of me, this hatred for this act, and I know I could never talk back.

He would take the sack of kittens, which didn’t cease their crying, and fling them over the bank, into the icy ocean. A great splash, a ripple, and than calm. The air bubbles from the kittens would then float up from the buried sack. We would stand there in silence watching; I would hope that the kittens could escape somehow, but I think my grandfather watched to make sure that the deed would be completed. The last thing he needed was another kitten finding its way back to Nan.

“Those Goddamn cats,” he would blurt out. It would be the only words exchanged until get got back to the house.

It’s such a savage land. People ask me all the time how it differs from the rest of Canada. Growing up in a small out port isn’t something I would wish upon any person who is accustomed to the world. It’s a hard place.

Obsession

I’ve spent the last few days painting. I was shopping around with my ‘friend’ Paul on Friday when we walked by an art store that had twenty percent off its merchandize. Paul decides to go in looking for a frame, and I leave with a bag full of art supplies.

It wasn’t a bad idea. I mean, this was something I have had a strong interest in for a while, but I know because of my addictive personality and my uncanny ability to be a perfectionist, it would probably cause severe mental trauma.

I have created four pieces of art. Each one different in their own merits and each one constantly in my mind. I have deemed these two as finished pieces that I am truly satisfied with as finished, and the other two…lets not think about it right now.

All my life I have put my soul into various projects. When I was a kid I would collect both stamps and comics. My collections are well organized, well thought out, knowledgeable and organized. At the age of eight I would peruse stamp collection magazines, whip out my fathers credit card, and proceed to order stamps until I reached the threshold: punishment.

My father was good about it all. He encouraged both collections, although holding the costs over my head, and nurtured this creative environment I was in. I loved him for that, even though I took advantage.

The collection of stamps is immense and it spans over a period of about six years; the comics span about ten years. I want both of these items in my life again, but sadly, they are in Newfoundland, and my father is hesitant to give them to me for three reasons. One, it would occupy me again, and he would consider it a waste of my time and energy. Secondly, he did invest his money into these projects also (although when I started working at the age of 13 I supported my own habits). Three, shipping is expensive. I did opt to pay for whatever shipping costs incurred.

Now, I have four pieces of art, and I also have a deep desire to run to the art store this afternoon and buy a massive canvas. It would keep me up for a few nights, maybe talking to myself about the proper colors, constantly working and reworking the piece, and thinking: I am as crazy as Jackson Pollock.

One of the things I am missing in my life is an artistic/creative outlet, and this would accomplish this yearning desire to produce. Unfortunately, I always take it to the next extreme and I don’t know when to quit.

I have four pieces…two are questionable, and I will bask in the enjoyment of creating something that I truly enjoy. I consider two of these works purchasable. I would buy them, and because of that I am truly satisfied and happy about the whole process.

The memory of being stoned and drunk, with a set of tweezers, arranging stamps according to their history and date of conception into a gigantic collector’s book still flashes in my mind. My back would ache, I would almost cry at times because I couldn’t escape my work, and the sun would eventually appear in the sky. I don’t want to do that again. I never want to be that obsessed again.

A real eye opener

He had a conspicuous smile. I never quite knew whether or not I was coming or going half the time. The morning, lying together side by side, and knowing that I would have to leave him to a day of listlessness; he would be sprawled out on the bed, in and out, and hoping I would leave him to sleep.

Most mornings the window would blow in cold air, the birds would chirp, and I would leave his place and allow him to enjoy it all, but only for as long as I could. We lived on the lower portion of a house up in View Royal.

The area resembles a park, tree clad, green, and eventful but slow. The ocean was about a block away with little to no traffic at all times. It was one of the most romantic settings I have ever been in, and I’m sure part of it played into why I loved him so much. The peacefulness around us was breathtaking. Dennis, myself, and our two cats were the only things in the world for a year of my life, the rest of it was so inconsequential. The rest of it didn’t matter anymore. All that mattered was him.

Have you ever had a friend and lover that totally threw you for a loop? I came into this relationship completely oblivious and skeptical with respect to love. Love was something you see in movies; nobody could possess such a powerful emotion in real life. It just didn’t seem like something tangible, and still it’s not tangible, it’s something that we were given as thinking organisms, and it has allowed me to explore sides of my spirituality I never thought possible.

I remember the night I came out to my parents. I was living in British Columbia for about a year, and at the age of 23 I finally started exploring who I was. I finally started breaking down all my mental guards and I met someone.

He was the fourth guy I had ever slept with and I fell for him immediately. The night I saw him at the club my heart leapt. The first night I saw him, he was with a group of his friends, and I assumed he wasn’t from BC. I was so shy and uncomfortable that I didn’t make an attempt to intercept his attention. He wouldn’t have wanted me anyway…

A few months went by and I was just getting back from a vacation in Fort Lauderdale with my parents. I head out to the club and I see him again. He is leaned against one of the poles talking to a friend of his.

His dress was unusual. He wore checkered shirts along with standard jeans you could buy at a Winners location. He was 38, had a goatee, about five foot nine; he was someone that I wouldn’t consider hot, but there was something about him, some sexual presence and aura that I was drawn to.

As I walked into the club and saw him, the same complex emotions set in again, and I began to clam up. I almost turned around and left immediately, but the driving force inside of me pushed me forward. As I walk by, I make an effort to let him know that I am interested, I make direct eye contract with him, but unfortunately he is more focused on his friend.

Turning red with embarrassment I run to the bar and order a beer. A few minutes later he is on me, and later he tells me his friend told him that I was sizing him up. I’ve never been chased to the degree Dennis had perused me.

He stood in my eye view and just smiled, staring until I flushed and looked away. I quickly ascertained that the idea of subtly never quite was grasped in his long life. But, I play into it nonetheless.

After about ten minutes of idle conversation, I tell him I’m leaving and put on my jacket. I proceed to the exit only to be cut off by him. “Where do you think you’re going?” he asked. His stance is challenging and his playfulness is all too aparent.

“Home,” I reply, knowing full well I just want to be with him. “This bar makes me sick. ” All I can do is notice his bedroom eyes, the cut of his jeans, his arms which are dark and hairy, along with a smirk that would piss off the best of people.

We spend the next year together. We move into together after three months. There were highs and lows, great travel experiences, some intimacy, and a great learning experience. This man brought me out of my shell and made me realize what is important in life. He made me set a standard so high, that I fear I will never find such a connection again.

On the third month of the relationship, and after one significant break up, we decide to move into together. My parents tried to reach my apartment all that week, unbeknown to them, I was never home; I was always with Dennis.

I phone them after the move somewhat distraught; I'm upset that they have such control over my life. “Mom, I haven’t been home for a week, I’ve been really busy.” She expresses how worried she has been and that they were ready to phone the police. “How could you not check in after a week? What have you been doing?”

“Mom, I have some good news. I’m moving in with someone. It’s a one bedroom apartment and I’m going to live with my friend Dennis”. I hear the gears ticking and there is silence on the line. Dennis is sitting in the background watching contently, and wearily lending his support. He is more afraid of the consequences than I am.

“A one bedroom? Where are you going to sleep? Charlie, this makes no sense at all. We are worried about you, come home!” Right then and there, I guess after years of being controlled and put into a society that prevented me from both loving myself and being loved, I knew then and there, I will no longer hide who I am. I spend far too long in the shadows and this moment will change me for the rest of my life. For the first time in my life I felt truly alive.

“I’m gay mom. I’m in a relationship with Dennis, he’s my partner, and we are gong to live together”. My soul is screaming this out on the inside; I’m grinning and happy that I, the boy who was awkward and sad, the boy who never had a place in this world, and I have finally found something viable and meaningful.

“That’s gross.” She hangs up only to phone again twice telling me that I shouldn’t joke with her. She’s pleading that I change my mind, and that I’m confused right now. British Columbia had changed me, in her opinion, and it wasn’t for the best.

We all come around in time. In less than two weeks we were talking again, and in less than a year, we had the same unfounded relationship that had always existed between us. It takes time…for some people. Gay is a small part of the world I live in, and I’m glad. To analyze this culture I’m in would only upset the general population. I am much more old fashioned and respect myself far too much to follow their viewpoints.

I loved him more than you could possibly imagine. It took a year to get over it, and then, another year to regain who I was and to finally be in the proper space. I am finally complete and he was a big part of my life journey.

My only regret was being too logical in our relationship; I refused to accept his disability because I couldn’t reason his claims. He has a ‘sleep disorder’ which I couldn’t understand; I couldn’t find enough proof one way or the other, and because of that I grew skeptical and mistrusting.

The prediction early on was that we could never be with someone due to his disability. His doctors said it would ruin any relationship that he would make efforts with; although I disagree with his self-fulfilled prophecy; I believe he was the one who failed to make it work, not the disability.

Even so, I miss him so much.

Disruptive

Saturday night…

I end up at this character house – three floors tall – after hitting the majority of the club scene in Victoria. My friend Jay is with me, and we are a bit fucked.

The house has a DJ table set up, and the DJ tonight, is a handsome, dark haired man. He’s spinning the most amazing yet mellow tracks. Some of it is full of a lot of base and others are just on the brink of being great.

I’m high and I’m looking around only to notice some familiar faces who are apart of the nightlife here in Victoria. There is a gay couple making out on the couch while we are dancing in the main living area. Their energies are mix. The more handsome, dark featured gay boy is closed. I’m guessing it’s because he has been hit on one to many times. And, his partner is looking around, trying to gain the attentions of others in the room.

At one point he waves at me, singling me to come over and chat, but really I have no desire to help boast his ego, or join in some sort of one night partnership. I keep dancing and notice the people around me. I should have approached them.

The deck off of the main living area is massive. Plants are all around, and we are surrounded by trees. The night sky is now turning towards dawn, and I noticed the people around me. Some are guys who are still up at 5 in the morning; they are sizing up females, and also catch my eye only to give me subtle gestures, letting me know that they play both sides of the field.

I’m not sure if I want to be an experiment. I’m not sure what I want at this point, and I can feel myself becoming more and more introverted. This isn’t what I want.

One of the patrons is a lifeguard at the Y. I remember having a few conversations with her in the past, and on this night she is giving me her history, letting me know far too much in such a short period of time. After hearing about her ‘accident’, falling from a balcony and breaking her neck, than having less hours at the Y because of her disability, and how her brother… I lose track and go further into myself.

Looking around I see people on different highs and levels throughout the night. One bi man who is looking around decides to come over and sit next to me. I think he is high on cocaine, and he starts rambling about nothing. I forget what was said, but I only remember having to get up and approach someone more mellow and less stoned.

She was on the couch with prescription sunglasses. They are tailored and resemble ray bans. We talk for a while, and I decide she is an interesting chick. We lie outside on the deck, with a comforter over us, and just talk about nothing.

It’s all about nothing. I had the most superficial, meaningless conversations this night, only to be left wondering what’s important in life. I know this isn’t. This is the dark side of oblivion. I don't mind the scene so much as the way I am when I'm in this environment. I go home upset that I'm not chatty, and I'm basically a walking zombie. I need to do these things sober, otherwise I crumble, I change into the complete opposite of me, and that isn't acceptable.

Jay and I leave when the sun hits. The sky is clouded over, but we are thinking it’s about six in the morning. I like him, and I don’t like him. I think we share a lot of silence between us, and I’m not sure if I can relate to him. His energy is so different than mind, and I feel certain things emanating from him. He watches, and unfortunately for me, I think he is judging whether or not I am good enough for a relationship with him. I on the other hand know that it won’t happened, it was decided a year ago when we first slept together…he just doesn’t know it yet.

We get back to my place and both shower – with Jay taking the lead. As I get out of the shower, feeling groggy, dizzy, and inconsequential, Jay is lying on my couch in just a towel, turning red from embarrassment. I move over to the couch, and than lay on top of him, thinking this is what I want, minus of course the issue in the back of my head - there is a reason I'm not into him. Regardless, I go for it, and I imagine he is the one. I imagine we have a relationship and that I know him on a much more deeper level.

He is a great kisser, and has a great body. The downside of it all, the entire package is lacking.

We spend the reminder of the day together – until noon or so. Kissing, touching, sometimes talking, but not having sex. I touch every part of his body as we law sprawled out on my bed, with white sheets in under us, and a soft atmosphere me room provides.

The one thing E does is allow me to completely scan a person’s body, and pick up on energy deficiencies. I feel more in tune, and I complete this private act, but he wonders what I am doing…he picks up on it. I decide to tell him – fearing I will be judged – but in the case of Jay and I, it really doesn’t matter.

I find he has shoulder problems. One of his rotator cuffs will cause him lot of trouble in the future. It’s already happening, but I keep it optimistic by saying it wouldn’t occur until your 40’s. Or, what I was really thinking: You need to stop serving; it will destroy your body.

He has a mummer in his heart, bad knees, and a great deal of pain in his lower back. The poor guy is 30 – and mind you, he looks good for his age – but his body is already falling apart on him. After scanning him, I start to slide the negative energy away from him; I start with his hands, and slide the energy all the way down to his waste, not ideal but sufficient…I really should be standing over him and following all the way to his feet.

The more time I spend with him, the more I can feel that he is no longer interested. And, I don’t care. I mean, it would be nice to cuddle him all day while fighting this hangover, but I really don’t see the point. We have both now made up our mind, and hopefully the best we can do is hold on to a friendship; there will be no long term relationships after this seedy encounter.

I'm on this spirial. Sometimes, everything is calm, beautiful, and I can be me. I can head out, enjoy my confidence, and make impressions. Othertimes, I sink into myself, and I'm clawing to bring me out again. It doesn't bother me so much anymore, it's just a sign that something is amiss. We live our entire lives dealing with and helping other people, but in retrospect I really should have been working on myself.

I'm going to take myself out of it all for a while. I need to find me again. He's in there, screaming sometimes, but I need him back. The spirial is slowing down, and I'm wondering where I am in the chaos.

He's back

The married bi guy is back in my life again.

http://copeseticnature.blogspot.com/2006/03/its-alright-bi.html

I know you are thinking I’m crazy for even considering this, but we have been talking, and well, I have completely fallen for him. We have had some great conversations about how we feel about each other, and he is really opening up. I do understand that this will never go anywhere; it’s like our version of Brokeback Mountain, and I’m all for living out this experience. He has went from being more attracted to women, to now being more attracted to men, and is really giving me much more of himself than he refused to others in the past.

Mark (not his real name) told me that if he wasn’t married and so programmed not to fall for guys, he would be dating me and falling for me. All the while I’m thinking, why this guy? Why is it I fall for the men who are so emotionally unavailable?

Dating – a field where I am an experience veteran. I have been asked all the questions, I know the right things to say, and how to win a man over and get him into the sack. I do all these things, and meet great guys, but sometimes when I think the date is over, they develop a connection with me. I don’t.

When I date I almost always have zero emotional connections, but give me a guy who is conservative and emotionally distant, and I dream about being his husband. It’s certainly not healthy, but that’s what I’m into it. I could explore it in a much more pathological way, but I already know what I will find…

He’s coming over twice in August. He arrives in Vancouver, than to Victoria where I am asking him to extend the stay for an extra night. After two years of living with the infamous and emotionally distant Dennis – who by the way was very similar to this guy – I am now developing something more real with another man. My guards are totally down and I’m being candid, forward, and am starting to care a great deal about him.

The only warning I got was “don’t get too attached, I don’t want you to be hurt when I can’t return the same feelings”. And, yeah, I know I will be. I know that after spending these two weekends with him, I will be utterly devastated. The hopeless romantic inside me is yearning for it.

After he leaves me again; I will paint, write, become a little more cynical and relish in the love that I will have lost. You must think I’m a sucker for desperation, that I want to be hurt, but it’s not true; I enjoy the inspiration I gives me, the life experience that I will have obtained; I enjoy this lost soul who is struggling to find himself.

Tomorrow on the Runway

Old days, don't come to find me,
the sun is just about to climb up over there.
'While my heart is sinking I do not want my voice
to go out into the air'.
Did you leave the darkness without me?
You're always miles ahead.
And you're standing in tomorrow on the runway.

Oh be the music in my head,
the air around my bed, oh be my rest.
Replace the small disgraces of
the times and places that I never really left.
Did you leave the darkness without me?
You're always miles ahead.
And you're standing in tomorrow on the runway.

Oh I want to fly, fly forward into the light,
be alive, to come alive,
on the leaf-bright Friday drive,
sudden horses at the red light,
turn around, see clearer ways to go now.

The Omen

My salvation lies in your love.
But sister, you know I’m so weary.
And you know sister, my hearts been broken.
Sometimes, sometimes, my mind is too strong to carry on.

There was a man at the pizza place tonight, sitting by himself, with a leather pocket book on the table and a pink rose. He looked polished, in his mid 40’s, graying hair, with a black jacket, grey pants, and black shoes. His socks were white, but I won’t hold it against him.

He was staring out the window. I assume he’s just finished a date, or is celebrating some sort of event, and the night in now closing in. I don’t see a lot in his eyes, and he barely moved; he just sat there, with no pizza, just staring out the window.

There are two girls at the next table eating pizza. They just finished up watching the remake of the Omen and were talking about it. That’s where I was tonight also. I was watching the Omen with a young gay boy who is struck with me and his friend.

The man suddenly lets out loud laugh. He’s laughing and mumbling things, and then it seems as if he is crying. We all look up stunned, not expecting this well-dressed and taken care of man to just burst out in this psychotic episode. I make eye contact with the two girls and we question each other with our eyes.

He suddenly slides back into his catatonic state, staring out the window again. Than a few minutes later, another burst of laughter and mumbling. As unsettling as it was, I wonder what happened to him. Is it a live of now being alone that is affecting his mental state? What went wrong?

In a virtue of ruins, I walk back to my car and drive home. Alone; leaving my friends behind in a crowd of moviegoers to fend for themselves. I’m seeing Gary this Thursday, and we are open, forward, and honest about what we think about each other. We have already taken it to a level I’m comfortable with; if I don’t shed my guards I’ll never let anyone else in.

In a virtue of dreams, I can only imagine the life that will follow. I met men all the time. I charm them into my bed, than I pick apart why it should never happen. Its distance, it’s his way of eating, lack of education; I will chalk up any excuse to get away from intimacy. But I’m ready again. I swear this time I’m ready. I want to be the hopeless romantic who gets caught again.

The prime minister of Canada will be a lesbian...?

It’s strange. It’s completely and absolutely strange.

We danced in lines. All throughout our teeny bopper years, than teenaged dances; weddings, and in the adult years clubs, the gentlemen would form lines, with the females in their eyesight standing quite far away, and they would dance.

The men would have their legs apart, and proceed to shuffle side to side depending on the tune. Nobody would ever dare dance in their own small group or break apart from the line. We were all afraid to standout and oppose this conformity. Some would joke in passing about the way we danced as kids, even still though; nobody ever said it was wrong.

It was not masculine to dance outside of the norm. If any of my community members back in ole town Newfoundland saw me dancing now; well frankly, I think they would be shocked. My hips go from side to side, I use my hands and arms to communicate and express myself with the music; it’s very masculine, mind you, but I could see receiving some blank stares and looks of hatred.

Tonight, the energy out in the club was very strange. I couldn’t dance, and felt my energy was being sucked away from me. Energy draining, it’s actually one of the few places – Victoria, that is – that is considered an energy pit. A place that completely affects its inhabitants on a mass scale.

I talked to my friend who is a genius, a psychologist who gave military counseling. We both talk about our interests in body language, human design, and how much you can really pick up from a person – if you are sensitive to that. Astoundingly, our ideas we’re so on par with other.

I know you may think it strange, but it’s all derisive to the less sensitive mind. I have found I can pick up a lot from people based on first impressions and reading their 'language', but at the same time there is a guard up, and I don't allow myself to explore it from a closer standpoint. To do so involves not only conversing, but investing some emotional energy into the encounter, and it really does take more effort.

A lesbian stood up, and the music shut off; she was just standing there and making the speech that she is running for the next prime minister. Her speech was fabulous and heartfelt; I’m wondering who she is. I can’t imagine her addressing this gay bar full of less than ideal candidates and expecting something more. They are not really there anymore, they just all stand there hoping someone will notice them, someone will hit on them, take them away from this complacency. God, seeing this sad little place makes me want to pack up and search for something more.

Most people ignored her, but she spoke clearly and strong. I was draw to her essence. She was standing straight, her hair was dark and curley, and a following of lesbians circled her, along with one older gay male, who looks familiar. I'm thinking there must be more to this, she must be someone of stature in order to get this air time. I gave her my attention.

Tonight, I’m adrift. There’s a warm wind; it’s racing through the streets. It's being funneled by the buildings surrounding it, and the wind is gripping. I’m walking home and experience one strange event after another. Lesbians giving speeches at gay bars, an apartment filled full of young adults belting out 80’s glam music, and the club itself which is filled with so many different people; lost souls, man. It really does a number of my psyche.

We get one chance. We get one absolute and complete chance to get it all right. I can’t imagine that ever happening. I don’t know; I’m too tired to think about this stuff. I have to concentrate on the simpler things in life like laundry and making dinner.

http://www.sundayherald.com/56107

The Sunday Herald gave an interesting commentary on the war in Iraq. It’s so fucking insane what they are doing over there. They are killing innocent families and people who aren’t that different from us. They are massacring them, and this will result in one of the worst war crimes book ever seen.

This is why lesbians want to be prime minister. Our system has gone amiss, and people are struggling, but nobody is really listening.

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.

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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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.

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.

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.

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..."

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.