I miss you Jesus

I found a guy who thinks really deep thoughts, what’s so great about really deep thoughts?

I haven’t seen my family for over three years now. The last time I saw them we vacationed together in Fort Lauderdale, which is the vacation spot of their choice. The last time I saw my parents I was still in the closet but just beginning to reclaim my sexual identity. I was on vacation and going through a major life change – I was gay and I was ready to tell them.

The last time I saw them I was twenty three and they still affected me. They could make me argue, anxious, and yeah, I wasn’t the bigger adult – I guess most of us aren’t when it comes to having a dysfunctional family.

Since then, I have came out them and I haven’t seen them since. When I meet my father in two weeks he will be meeting a different person. I am now not just his little boy, I’m a gay male who wants to be respected, and, I want him to be proud of me. I am a little nervous about the whole meeting but I don’t think anything has changed between us.

It will be interested to see if he treats me differently. Regardless, I’m excited, and it seems like a lot of great things are happening in my life. I have met some great guys who I will explore and hopefully something will come of it.

Churchy Church

Flooded

My workmate…enjoys food.

We hired him over a month ago and it’s been an adventure people watching this one. His desk usually as an assortment of plates that once contained food, two litre bottles of coke or coke products, a large bag of chips (probably still with the trans-fats in them), and an assortment of subway wrappers, forks, and crumbs.

I’m having a hard time mentoring him. I have had years of experience first being a product plant worker, then trainer; a tour guide turned trainer; and now, in my current position I automate processes, develop applications, and I train people on applications. I sometimes give presentations, and I think I communicate my ideals quite well; I am a configuration manager/software developer though, that is my title, the training is secondary.

I have found that if people know the lingo and take the opportunity to learn, they excel and we are able to discuss the complexities that exist in our business. And other times, I find other people have their head in the clouds. They are more concerned about getting a good deal on a two litre of pop or how big or small the deli sandwiches are at the grocery store. It’s all fine and well but I wish the same exuberance was expressed when dealing with work.

As you can tell, I’m having a difficult time right now. I have exhausted a lot of avenues trying to find common ground. I have tried to access whether or not my co-worker is visual by drawing diagrams and mapping out procedures; I have tried to communicate verbally our processes and expectations; and, I have tried to point him to various documentation and literature. Am I missing something?

I sometimes think people just aren’t driven or motivated to want to excel and learn. I can only hold someone’s hand for so long before I expect people to be able to learn on their own or take initiative. There are systems and procedures we have in place that I have had to explain multiple times, expecting him to remember or write it down properly, but I find myself having to go through the processes too many times. Someone that should have taken up double my time is now taking up much more.

The barrage of questions…oh my God. This morning alone, I think I was asked about ten questions in the period of an hour. Some of them obvious with the answer staring right at him…and what does he do…he asks me instead.

I’m venting, I know. I’m just frustrated. Not everyone gets it, I have to understand that, but still, my little brother could have figured it out by now. I have more confidence in a thirteen year old.

Where do I see him in six months when we review him? For one, he will have probably gained about twenty pounds, he will be still working on some of the projects I have given him, and he will be reviewed. It all depends on how he handles the next four and a half months. Right now I have my reservations and will keep them to myself.

His question asking may be attributed to a difference in schooling. I went to an institution where answers are not fed to you. You are given an assignment with very limited information and you have to make an effort to understand and learn. They don’t make it easy for students and at times it can be a constant struggle.

He went to a college that spoon fed answers and you can see it just by the questions I am asked on a day-to-day basis. I am to the point where I reply “Figure it out yourself” or “Don’t ask me simple questions like that without first trying to find the answer”. I feel bad about the way I am reacting but at the same time it’s “sink or swim”. There is only so much I can do and I have to make sure he starts learning on his own and is able to adapt/survive.

My vacation is coming up in a month or two and I don’t feel comfortable having him left as the main go to guy.

10:23 Nietzsche

Nietzsche said "We are like shop windows in which we are continually arranged, concealing or illuminating the supposed qualities others ascribe to us - in order to deceive ourselves".

“I want a dog”, my friend blurts out at a coffee shop last night. We are surrounded by friends, most of them with at least a cat or dog in their life, and then as I look around, I see the vultures waiting to decend.

“Paul, dogs are expensive, they chew on furniture, they require a lot of your time, and you have to groom them”, I respond in a supportive, non-judgmental way.

As I’m speaking on of my friends is passing Paul an “adopt a pet” document from the SPCA. My words dissolve, nobody listens, and I see Paul become engrossed in the paper.

“Ok, fine, well I want a pet. How about a cat?”

“Paul, remind me…aren’t you the same person who has banned all the neighborhood cats from entering your house? Aren’t you the same person who claims that cat scratches will give you worms? You can’t even pick one up.” I’m becoming on edge, only because we are moving in together in a month, and I’m not sure if a cat or a dog will benefit my life in anyway.

I want a dog, I really do, but I don’t think I have the time or the patience to own one. I want clean furniture, I do not want to come home and discover Spike chewing on the leg of my table, or dog hairs on the couch. I don’t think it’s going to happen.

“Paul you have to be realistic about this…you told me you don’t even know where you are going to be in six months. You maybe teaching in Japan or headed to England; I’m just wondering how a dog/cat fits into this?” I plan on exhausting this conversation, I want to know a dog or cat isn’t going to mysterious going to appear in my life one day.

“Until you can commit to living in Victoria, or at least the West Coast, you can’t have a pet”, there, that’s that, end of conversation.

I guess I feel like I’m parenting at times. We are the same age and our thought patterns are very different from one another. I approach things cynically, rationally, and I think out situations before I jump into them. I wait a day before I make a big purchase and I check my bank account to ensure it won’t make my life uncomfortable.

Paul jumps. Paul can hit the town on a day of shopping and buy things on sight. I love the guy to no end, but I pray we don’t clash when it comes to responsibility.

I am open to a dog. I am, but I’m not going to let him know that, it would open up too many opportunities to be impulsive. And, I always worry about people with new puppies; there is this stigma that people with new puppies have emotional issues. Whenever I see someone with a new pet, I think, oh no, I hope he’s ok. We all know animals are sometimes used during emotional periods for comfort and security.

I just want to make sure we are both ok before a cute, little puppy comes into our lives. And if I do get a dog it will be from an animal shelter, there are so many dogs out there that need homes, it breaks my heart.

We try but we don't belong

I’m having a hard time getting through Annie Dillard’s “Pilgrim at Tinker’s Creek”. It’s a good read, very descriptive, but I don’t think it’s my style.

The entire book is about Annie living in Tinker’s Creek and taking in the nature around her. She talks about egg casings, bull frogs, spider’s that spin webs, and the passing of the seasons. I’m all about nature, mind you, but I am having a hard time figuring out how this novel won a Pulitzer Prize in literature. I would have given the prize to her other work “Holy the Firm” instead.

The book speaks of human conditioning and our relationship with the Divine. I must admit her prose does wrap you up in the event. Every time I pick up the novel, it takes some time me to get into it, but once I do, I am deeply involved and taken on a journey. And, the references to physics, literature, numerous religious traditions, anthropology, medicine and folklore are astounding.

The book itself was indirectly influenced by a near fatal attack of pneumonia which she was stricken with in 1971. After she recovered, Annie decided she needed to experience life more fully. It’s debatable whether or not spending four seasons in a creek would be “living more”. Life is in the eye of the beholder, I guess.

I had a Tinker’s Creek when I was younger. It was my sanctuary, a place I could go and see the world for what it is, without the confusion of cities, commercialism, crowds; it was my sanity at times. As I get older, I want it again, but I feel the draw of urban life and am conflicted.

I wish there were balance. I wish a city planner like Jane Jacobs could make my dream a reality. Jane is now dead, and a lot of her ideas will be rendered useless, because Mrs. Jacob’s was the driving force and we are a world without leaders now. Our leaders are greedy and power hungry.

“There is a quality even meaner than outright ugliness or disorder, and this meaner quality is the dishonest mask of pretended order, achieved by ignoring or suppressing the real order that is struggling to exist and to be served”

–-Jane Jacobs

"But look what we have built low-income projects that become worse centers of delinquency, vandalism and general social hopelessness than the slums they were supposed to replace. Cultural centers that are unable to support a good bookstore. Civic centers that are avoided by everyone but bums. Promenades that go from no place to nowhere and have no promenaders. Expressways that eviscerate great cities. This is not the rebuilding of cities. This is the sacking of cities."

-- Jane Jacobs

I miss her...

The Coast Line

Even if I'm shouting, even if I'm shouting here inside.
Even if I'm shouting, do you see that I'm wanting,
that I want to be so,
bright,
bright,
bright as yellow,
warm as yellow.

It's over the hump day at the company. Today, because of a 5KM Cops for Cancer run last week, we are having a Salmon BBQ. I do realize I have sold out to Corporate Canada, but I really like Salmon. Is it wrong for me to get excited about these things?

They say 30 is the age in which you cannot be trusted. It was coined in the 60's during the revolution (AKA Hippy Movement); the premise was when you hit 30, you are no longer free-thinking, and you have sided with the man.

In today’s age, I'd say it's now 40 or even later, people are no longer turning to the man after a quarter of a century of living. Have I sold out to Corporate Canada? Am I now one with the man after 27 years of living? I really hope not.

I still think of myself as the "Carney in the coal mine", I will expose all social dysfunctions and feel like I'm a contributing member that doesn't conform. Yes, I will be eating the Salmon and veggie dogs, but I assure you I won't be making small talk, I will be real, and the company will be secondary to my need to get to know people on a more personal level.

I was inspired by another blog to come up with a really fetching catch phrase or slang. I'm rooting it over in my head...and I have ascertained that all the good ones are taken. Wicked, Cool, Sweet, That's Hot, Eat me...I need something that'll raise eyebrows and be used day to day.

Maybe I'll just bring back the high five; people didn't really give it an honest effort. I think if the right people were high fiving, it would be cool.

Architecture

The Fall is here

Heaven holds a sense of wonder...

The Fall/Winter is coming. Our fall is winter…yeah. Anyway, I was at the coffee shop tonight after working, then working out for close to two hours; I wonder where I’m going with my life.

Yeah, so the coffee store. As I was biking down Cook Street I see Diana, and she yells for me to come over. I quickly veer my bike over and catch up to her.

We head down the coffee store only to meet Michael, another acquaintance. I am amazed that in the short period of four years…I finally am able to recognize people on the street and form relationships. We talk, we make jokes, and after a couple of hours at the coffee shop, we head to smoke a joint.

Now, mind you, I’m not a drug smoker. Two puffs of a joint and I’m completely high – in a manageable state, but stoned nonetheless.

We talk about the coming fall. We talk about why it’s so enthralling to be in such a beautiful place as Victoria, how lucky we are, and how we handle the winter. I have to give you some background first. In Newfoundland, as much as it snows, we can see the stars on winter nights, the days still have Sunshine, and the only thing that stops living is the snow, which is unbearable at times.

In Victoria it’s different. It rains, the sky disappears, I can’t explain why we are sometimes covered by clouds for weeks on end, or how I wonder if the Sun will ever shine again; I can’t tell you how many times I have woke in the morning only to see it pour, and to see the clouds so low to the ground, almost to the point of making me claustrophobic. That’s how we feel. That’s why I need to head away and find places where I can see the sky again.

There is an upside, a beautiful and agreeable one. The fall helps us to gather ourselves back together. I lose myself in the summer, in the weather, the beaches, the biking, hiking…and everyone else around me is active. It’s a time when I forget everything. In the winter, I regroup, recharge, I start to reorganize my life and take care of myself again. I get to write, to think, to once again feel as if I’m completely involved in my domestic and personal lives. In the winter, I am now focused.

We talk about these things, and we all agree we are lower, and we lose apart of ourselves, or do we just feel human again? I don’t look at it as a stale time. I think positively about the upcoming season. And I also see a different side to these two people. They are complex and somewhat unhappy beings.

The more people I get to know, the more I think, am I one of the few happy people out there? I mean, I have my bouts of problematic thoughts or situations, but really, deep down inside, I am content and happy. And saying it just validates it more.

I do want a boyfriend though…

Something that's never been done

Shorts, originally uploaded by copeseticnature.

I'm a coldplay junkie today.

Oh brother I can't get through...
I've been trying hard to reach you cause I don't know what to do
Oh brother I can't believe it's true
I'm so scared about the future and I want to talk to you.

Are you lost or incomplete?

I'm going to stop there. As great as coldplay's music is, the lyrics are fucking awlful. Whatever happen to great lyrics? "You can climb a ladder up to the sea...". I cringe everything I listen to the lyrics, although the Thin White Duke Remix is pretty amazing.

The song speaks of wants and needs. Although ineffective, I can see a lot of teenagers hugging into their pillows, dreaming of a world outside of the norm they are bought up in -- tears and the periods...yeah.

I think my friend was right when he describe coldplay...two types of people like his music...troubled 13 year old teenage girls and homos.

There is this gardener doing landscaping on our company grounds today. Lets just say I really don't need to see it today. He's a walking sex machine; hairy legs, redneck tendancies, in shape, well tanned, and I'm sure he's a lawn mower: No fair!

I was bold enough to flirt as my lunch crew walked by...

Smile on his face

He’s got a rose in his smile
He says he knows and he does

And his mind aches
And his heart breaks
‘Cause he’s silly

Gonna teach him to sin
‘Cause I’m always knowing where he’s been
Livin’ on the wrong side of the tracks
And you know he’s never
Coming back

He’s got a smile like a flower
He looks so fine by the hour

But his mind aches
And his heart breaks
‘Cause he’s silly

Gonna teach him to steal
‘Cause I’m always knowing
How he feels
Livin’ on the wrong side of the tracks
And I know he’s never
Coming back

Nature

"The world is full of creatures that for some reason seem stranger to us than others, and libraries are full of books describing them--hagfish, platypuses, lizardlike pangolins four feet long with bright green lapped scales like umbrella-tree leaves on a bush hut roof, butterflies emerging from anthills, spiderlings wafting through the air clutching tiny silken balloons, horseshoe crabs...the creator creates. Does he stoop, does he speak, does he save, succor, prevail? Maybe. But he creates; he creates everything and anything."

-- Annie Dilliard, Pilgram at Tinkers Creek

I enjoyed taking walks along the shore, along the banks, coast land, and the only road our town had. Most of the time, especially in the summer months, it’s quiet, vast, entrenched, and slow. The lakes were always calm along the single road that made up the seven or eight villages that were slung together. Einstein said “The human mind is not capable of grasping the universe. We are like a little child entering a huge library”, and as I think back to these times and agree. I see so little of nature, only bits and pieces, with life working it’s intricacies in the background.

One day on a trek along one of the small lakes that we boast are pure and clean; I hear a splash. Normally you heard birds chirping, the sound of the wind brushing against trees and leaves, the occasion call of an animal, but a splash was something different. As I look into the lake, I see a ripple, it’s small and I know that the object that made this splash couldn’t be that big. Then another splash makes me jump, as I peer out past the cloud of black flies in my vision, I see what’s finally happening. The trout are jumping out of the water to catch the mess of flies that have infested our neighborhood.

These beautifully flecked species, glinting in the lowering sun are making their way of the lake to feast, and unbeknownst to me, it was a common occurrence. Suddenly the whole lake is alive with splashes, clouds of flies hang over the puddles, and now I get it. Quoting Frank Lloyd Wright, I believe in God, only I spell it Nature.

Some of the happiest times in my life, and the most isolating, was when I made these treks around the small community I grew up in. I was surrounded by nothing and everything at the same time. There were days when I was hiking up the marsh only to find a litter of wild kittens, with their ferocious mother, crouched, knowing full well she has to fight for her kittens. All we see are domesticated cats; it’s rare to meet others who have seen such sights. Upon finding the cats, I ran back to my dad and told him and all he said was “leave them alone, let them find their own lives”. Sometimes it’s better to leave nature alone, let the life around us have free will. Who are we to takes these wild cats out of nature, the place where they belong.

Other times while swimming in Business Pond with my dog Reno and friends there would be beavers allowing along by our sides. My father would never scream at us and tell us to the leave the lake, he would only say don’t get to close. Even Reno, our dog, would be respectful of the animals. A beaver, I’m told, are found to be gentle; there is even an Indian word for “beaver-like” which means “affable”. Their tails would always crack the water and their stride was amazing. Even though they are a very dense creature they are able to rake through the water at a very surprising speed.

I miss Newfoundland.

Short Shorts

I think the last few entires have been way too serious. I just want to show everyone I'm not a complete turd.

I did this on a dare to myself while visiting Montreal.

Morality

“Look, I don’t want to talk about it. It’s done. Finished! If you bring it up one more time, I swear, I will delete you from MSN”, it’s three days into this news and I have to constantly fend off the nice people in my life.

I think I am a giving person. I think of myself as an open person who is caring and compassionate. If you look at it through the viewpoints of my friends, I have far to go; I'm not afraid.

“I’ve been thinking about this situation I’m in Jake (Mark, Paul, whoever). Initially I was 95 percent sure that I am completely sound and there is no way in hell it can be me”, as I take a drag from a cigarette and let my mind wander even further. ”The more I think about it, the estimate declines and anxiety sets in...”, my words disappear as my eyes lower to my knees.

“I think I’m scared and when I have time on my own to reflect, I keep losing my sanity, it trails behind me, and I grasp for sight, smell, origin; I hate it”.

I think I’m a hopeless romantic that welcomes these monumental events. Otherwise, there would be no purpose, my life would be predictable, and dullness would set in. And now, after one life changing event after another, I wonder if I am strong enough for it anymore.

This is one of the first times in my life that I have let myself be vulnerable to others. The only other time was my ex, he would dismiss whatever emotions I felt. Now I feel as if I can let go. My friends will listen and support me, and the fear of rejection that causes us to be guarded, is waning away.

I have let them in and this time I see that the people in my life do care. I see genuine concern and emotion. I know that I’m in a good place; finally, I have people in my life that love and care about me.

The greatest struggles in life occur when there is a battle, of the mind, body, whatever; I don’t need to define it for you. My struggles occur when I feel my life is put on trial or when I am given a challenge. It could be losing a loved one, or winning the lottery, or in the worst case scenario, having to come to terms with our own mortality.

I don’t live that way. I don’t think about the negative things and I push most problems out in the open so I can pick them apart, so they no longer seem intimidating. But, how do I handle the unknown? How in the hell can I justify this?

My friend once told me there is a lot of good in me. That it would be unfair for me to be giving a restriction on life…and I think about these things and wonder, why not? I am no different than anyone else. I am not special. I am the same as everyone else in the world. If anything, I am more fortunate, which isn’t a good argument for a person in my situation.

So why not me? I can’t answer the question; the next ten days of my life will be retrospective and careful. I will avoid any self-destructive actions and I will pray to my God with every spare minute my life has to offer. I mean, what else can I do?

I won’t bore you with the spiritual rant that I save for people who are fortunate enough to see me drunken and nonsensical. Today is a day of glory. For now, I know that whatever happens to me, I am without fear. I will relish in any struggle thrown at me, and conquer it with the fierceness I am known for. I will not be a victim and I will not let it destroy me.

And, I’m saying this while sitting on Cook Street in a small coffee store, surrounded by cigarettes, idle conversation, and the steady stream of vehicles passing me by. There is an eclectic mix off people as usual, and now, just because, I finally feel normal.

I can see my face getting older. I see the lines, slowly becoming more real, although I have the face of a child, the lines of my forehead are becoming more pronounced, and to the point I know that I am no longer youthful. My eyes change color depending on my mood, depending on the season, and they give far too much away with respect to my emotional well-being.

Adulthood seeps in without warning, my eyes, and my mouth, they are forming lines; it’s because my life has been good. An old buddy of mine said “whatever expressions you use in everyday life will be carried over to your senior years” and I believed him. If I ever see an older person, with a blank face, naked of lines, I’d worry about them. I’d wonder how many times they have smiled, how many times they expressed ire, or angst, I’d wonder if they have even lived at all.

The multitude of emotions any one human could express is staggering. I cling to the good ones, and embellish all the others; no one has ever accused me of being inanimate. And, as I look around, that is what I see, emotions, some more subdued, more quite gregarious, but I am surrounded by expression and am thankful.

I’ll leave you with these thoughts as the Chestnuts fall around me announcing the end of summer, as the blossoms of nearby bushes fall on my table, and one of the last remaining summer nights this year beings in the first inklings of the cold winds ahead.

I want you to know, I will not take my life for granted anymore.

Shades

The Last time...

We had a company event where the booze was flowing and free. Company events are great because a) everyone's guard is down; b) I get to see people in a different light; and c) there is a new coop that is fucking sexy.

Regardless, we took it to the next level and after the get together I met up with some friends on the street and it just got worse. I did something I consider ethically wrong - and his boyfriend would agree - and today and feeling bad about the whole situation.

There are a few things that are in the back of mind this early Saturday morning. One being the disease control center that phoned me asking me to get tested for HIV - it was abrupt and scary, I still don't think I'm over that episode. It turns out someone from my past has contracted the virus and my name was given out.

When I think back to the past year and my past test, I'm OK, I mean, I'm very sure I'm completely healthy, but the thought still lingers in the back of my mind. I don't think I have done anything risky since I had my last set of results back. I should be fine.

Secondly, my grandpa who passed away... Grieving is a funny thing, now I'm starting to wonder about the distance I have put between my family and I am thinking about who I hold dear. It's been close to four years and I need to see them. My life is passing me by at times and without my family, my base, I am nothing.

Third, dating! What can I say? I was turned down for the first time in my life this week...and it hit me hard.

Even when I avoid being busy - I am still busy - and escape from this 'busy' lifestyle is maddeningly impossible.

Passing...

It’s hard living 7,500 Kilometers away from your nearest relative. As independent as I am, as much as I tell people I’m better off without them, I’m not.

My grandfather, who shares my same name, passed away a couple of days ago. When I first heard the news, I simply lashed out; holding on to grudges and refusing to even feel a bit of remorse. This is the same man who didn’t attend my cousin’s funeral when he killed himself. I forever held on to that grudge…until now.

He was funny, smart, and wasted most of his life away drinking. People stole from him, people took advantage of his drunken state of mind, and all he ever did was put up with it. My grandfather wasn’t someone I bragged about, and when people told me how much I was like him, I would cringle and become deeply offended.

Still, he was my grandfather. The one thing I did this week was let go of grudges. I let go of the fact that he wasn’t an ideal grandfather, I have forgiven him for not attending my cousins funeral, and I send home a goodbye for the church to read aloud during service.

I was respectful and I made an effort to look at the positive things.

My grandfather sailed around the world twice; he served in World War II on a navel vessel off the coast of Germany. He became on of the first millionaires in my small town and had a knack for taking advantage of opportunities. He painted, made fantastic blueberry wine, and when he finally sobered up, made great efforts to seek forgiveness.

I didn’t do it until he died, but now he has it.

There are so many funny stories I could tell you, so many pictures I could paint with the whimsical stories surrounding this man, he was a legend and everyone knew his name. I will leave you with the assurance, he was the only person I found intriguing throughout my childhood and it shames me I didn’t spend more time getting to know him.

Death to me is different. I have seen so many pass. I have lost my uncle to a drowning, my grandmother to a botched operation/possible suicide, my first cousin (who I regard as a brother) to suicide, two first cousins who were caught at sea, a classmate from leukemia, and so many more. I no longer mourn, I am totally desensitized to it and I am respectful that it was their time to go. I am sure they are still out there someone, although I can’t saw where or how, but they are, and I will see them all again.

I was happy he passed. No more suffering, no more old age homes, he is now in a better place, with the people he held dear in his life…hopefully sober.

I love you grandpa.

Death...

My grandfather passed away two days ago.

I owe him an entry besides the previous "My Grandfather's a drunk" blog:

http://copeseticnature.blogspot.com/2006/01/my-grandfathers-drunk.html

I wrote this entry some time ago. It is very characteristic of him and I have no doubt he would find it amusing.

Stay tuned...

Last night in Victoria

You’d have a happy life, if you did the things you like.

Its quiet today, quiet and I feel completely absolved to the world around me. Since my trip to Montreal, my life has been out of sorts, coming home only to have more obligations, more company, and my domestic life is suffering. I am down to my last pair of underwear, my sports socks are all used; I am wearing t-shirts that I would consider worthy of the Salvation Army Thrift Store, and I’m fine with it.

The past few days I have been gingerly exploring two new acquaintances in my life. They are quiet, hesitant, and pure in mind and spirit; I am the loud one, who makes decisions, who dictates likes and dislike, and I am the one who was trying to break their shells, just to get a little more depth.

They are gone, and now, I’m sitting at my office, chewing my finger nails, haunted with the realization that it’s time to get my ass in gear and organize my life again. The weekend will be sunny and brilliant though, maybe I should put it off…yet again?

Last night we went to the Empress, which is a well known and very formal dining area in Victoria. The food was amazing, and Ben, one of the visitors with me, gets fifty percent off the meal and drinks; the meal now is reasonably priced.

I love the Empress. We are surrounded by the higher echelon of society. We are surrounded by turn of the century architecture, impeccable service, great food, and the expectation that we know the etiquette associated with formal dining. We do, and I think the night turned out to be fabulous.

I love looking around the restaurant and seeing the different groups of people. There are a group of boys, all under 18, who are well dressed and polite; their posture is commendable, and the only thing I could critique are the cans of coke sitting around the table. I’m surprised cans of coke would be outwardly displayed at a restaurant like the empress.

Around us there are singles, eating their meals, and I’m guessing they are on business. I hear thick American accents, I see the older, social elite in Victoria entertaining out of Towner’s, and a mix of people who are dressed well, who know which fork to use, and who are intelligent and worthy of the pleasures this life can grant.

It’s nice to step inside of this environment at times, to dress up, approach it with sincerity, and enjoy what it has to offer.

To even out the night, after the meal, and a lost parking ticket that was to be validated, we head to Big Bad Johns. It’s another ‘must see’ tourist spot in Victoria; and now, instead of lush wallpapers with polished diners, agreeable teas and deserts, we are thrust into a completely different environment.

The floors are sticky and littered with peanut shells, the people are bordering on redneck, and the ceilings are covered with women’s bras. I think people get their tab paid for if someone is willing to strip off their brassiere.

We sit around, drinking, more loosened up after two days of hanging out, and a fake spider falls onto my friends shoulder. We all start laughing and look up and see that there are small inventions, such as the spider, supported by a string that is controlled by the bartender.

Our last night in Victoria…we go urban-sophisticated and then redneck.

I think they had fun…

Dating...part II

This is the beginning of the third week of being asexual…

There is one problem: I have a visitor from Winnipeg and he has a crush on me. I mean, it’s fine, and yeah, I have self-control. I let him stay at my place last night after we hit the town and had one too many drinks.

We both agreed beforehand, that if he did stay at my place, it would be purely platonic. There would be no kissing; no nakedness, no fooling around, and I think we held true to the majority of those agreements. I don’t think I’m asexual anymore.

This morning, after waking up way to early and being hung over, we snuggle some more, we kiss, and I am left feeling guilty. I’m guilty because a) I also did the same thing to his ex about two weeks ago, b) I’m not even sure if I want to do this with him, and c) I have broke a promise to myself.

In the long run, it will be meaningless, and just another experience, but now, it’s causing me to think into this situation far too much.

“Can I sleep over again sometime?” he asks as I’m dressing for work.

“I don’t know. We’ll talk about it later, ok?” I go over to him and give him a hug goodbye, not knowing how to approach this situation.

We had a fun time yesterday. I left work and met him and a friend at a sushi place downtown. Mostly, I talked to Doug because Mark was too shy.

He was just sitting there smiling and being fidgety. At one point after Doug and I gave summaries of our lives up to this point, I put Mark on the spot. He turns red, fidgets even more, and proceeds to give us the quickest overview out of all three of us.

I shouldn’t tease him so much. I know he is shy and I guess I’m prodding him a little so he can come out of his shell.

After sushi, we go for a run. We start on Dallas Road, running about 4KM along the ocean, over to a breakwater where a single lighthouse – painted red and white – stands. It’s a beautiful backdrop…and, I think we both appreciate the here and now.

Later that night, after a work out and a shower, we head downtown. The streets are empty for the most part; it is Tuesday after all. Even at eleven some of the local tourist shops, gelato houses, and small pubs are still open for business. I don’t venture down here that often on the weeknights, so I guess I’m pleasantly surprised.

We head to a pub called Irish Times and order a couple of Guinness. The pub is nice, quoted as being Irish, but the architecture, and interior, well, I’d hate to say it, but it’s more English.

The take away is the fact there is a stunning performer on stage. The minute he starts playing our conversation with one another stops, and, I’m drawn into his beautiful Irish ballad. His voice is pure, and it reminds me of a Celtic Bob Dylan without all the frills and tangles. He’s wonderful and I’m taken back to the good ole days in downtown St. John’s.

I think he had a good time. I mean, I know he had a good time. I always enjoy it when two strangers, who barely know each other, get together and discover whether or not they can actually be friends and tolerate one another. I think we can.

Dating...Part I

“So, how did you meet him?” I ask, and he thinks I’m prodding. In a way I am, I mean, I want to know how this man spent the last 38 years of his life before me. “Did you meet him while cruising the park?”

“No, of course not”, he replies, acting as if it’s the most hurtful and disgusting judgment I could ever make. He sneers at me and upset with the question I asked.

I feel bad about the comment, thinking, maybe his life was normal and he wasn’t as big of a sex addict as I thought. Maybe I’ve been looking at him in the wrong light; I can only go by the stories and relationships that he has told me.

“I met him in a bathhouse”, he replies.

“Oh, yeah that’s much different than looking for sex in a park. I’m sorry I made that assumption …and I thank you for the clarification”. I’m thinking the whole time this man is a diluted asshole.

Why is it so hard to meet somebody ‘normal’? Why has the gay culture taken away wholesome and meaningful events like monogamy, dating, trust? Why can’t I find ‘Mr. Right’ at coffee stores or social event?

I guess the biggest question of all is: “Why do I still care?”

The Seasons

Rocky crags littered the coast lines. The rocks were worn, discolored, and suited no purpose but fending off the large vessels that tried to settle this wasteland upon its discovery in 1497.

I was a lonely child. I would sit upon the shores while the other kids were out biking together and playing guns; I would become one with the ocean. I would smells its salts, watch its movements, and take in the water and its surroundings as if I were mapping it out in my mind.

Along the coasts of Newfoundland you can smell the sea salt miles away. The humidity in the air would spread the familiar stench throughout the community. It would also spread the salts to our vehicles and homes, and after a few years, corrosion would set it. Most everything rusted after time, the bottoms of cars would be eaten away; the windows and siding on houses would turn brown and rot. Even the faces of people couldn’t resist the elements; aging set in quicker, and although salt is usually a preservative, it would deteriorate the living.

The crippled coast line had little aquatic life. The sea barnacles would attach themselves to the crags and build up mountains of white, crusted life. The marine life consisted of scopies, rock cod, shrimp, lobster, and the occasional jellyfish plotting they way along the shore. We could pick mussels and cook them during the summer months – provided the ocean was clean of red tide.

There were four seasons in Newfoundland; this is a long withstanding joke, but a truthful one nonetheless: winter, still winter, almost winter and construction.

In the summer, instead of a barren wasteland of snow, there were barren wastelands of bog. Up behind my house, there was a trail, forged so long ago by my ancestors, which led the way to the bogs that surrounded most of Newfoundland.

In order to get there, I had to pass behind my grandfather’s hotel, and trek for some time through the rocky and sandy trails. There were two large hedges of weedy trees, thinking back, I remember calling them alders, but I am not sure what the appropriate name would be.

There was nothing special about the bogs. They grew bakeapples (or cloudberries to some), blue berries, pitcher plants, marsh berries, and was a breeding ground for black flies and mosquitoes. In the summer clouds of black flies would torment us. Camping, although plentiful in these areas, was discouraged during certain times because of the abundance of biting insects.

I was a lonely child, and I would go to the bog for refuge. I would sometimes grab a gallon bucket and pick berries for my mother. I would fill her in on my expedition and tell her I would grab some bakeapples for her, and with that said, she would run for the bucket.

The bog was so barren the only things that lived on it, or inhabited it at times, were black bears. I think there was a dump nearby and the bears would forge these areas for berries. Most of the bog was acidic though, not even pine trees would grow there; if they did they would only be stumps and would only grow a few years before their bark turned white and started rotting.

About 20 minutes of hiking would bring me to a solitary lake. Nothing surrounded it, and it was like an oasis in a desert. The lake would reflect the sun beating down from the blue sky above; all that surrounded it was the brown, orange, and red boglands, no trees, no life, just berries as far as the eye can see.

Sometimes when I sat around the lake, a pool of water with no life, and I would hear the call of a bear or moose. It was the single to pack up and leave. A bear could easily out run a person if the need arose, and because their food sources were limited, I wouldn’t put anything pass them.

The winters here would transform the bog into a ski-doers paradise. There were many intersections and roads, the plows would smooth out most of the main routes with a small donation from community members. And, after school, the bogs, and most of the community, was transformed into a very unique transportation system. Everyone had a ski-doo, and if they didn’t, they would find a friend who would take them out.

Most of the road systems that we had would be covered in snow, so taking the snow mobile out would be the sensible option to getting around. Gas stations would be lined with motorists, people would go to grocery stores on ski-doors, to the liquor stores, and as you make your commute on the ocean or lakes, groups of five or more people would have their snow mobiles parked together having a yarn or scoff (a talk).

This was not a men’s only environment. All walks of life would be out around; bankers, teachers, fish plant workers would all be out, they are equal, and the only thing that separates the middle class from the working poor are the quality of your ski-doo and the type of dress. Women would float by, their hair done, make-up applied, speeding down the trails just like everyone else.

After a long day of ski-dooing we would head in, with our hands nearly frost bitten, our noses red from the cold, and would relish in the front of warm air as we barged into our home. Our mother would be waiting, smiling, and asking if we were cold. We would sit down and have a cup of coffee and home made bread to set us right.

One winter, I’m guessing because of the harsh cold, the arm (Inland Ocean) had frozen over, and seals were making there way down to the shores on ice sheets. Driving along the loop where we lived, we could see one or two battered seals strewn out on the ice-laden shores. Their blood would soak the white snow, their pelts dirty and unkempt, and someone in our small community ended their life, just because they could. The seals were a harmless nuisance.

The occasional polar bear would find its way down also and the communities affected would be put on alert. They weight a ton, are very wild, and if they want to get into a home, they will. Most polar bears that found there way down to the coast were shot on site unless an animal rights activist found them first.

It’s a raw environment. There were no wal-marts, sport checks; commercialism never existed until I moved into the city at 17. If we were bored, we would go on hikes, explore nature, or hang out with friends and play some sort of sport. I still don’t understand the need for people to shop; I don’t understand the need for people to surround themselves with this ideal accumulation. I don’t understand television, being idle, or complaining about life. I understand the simple things, and although I live in a moderately large city, I think the life I had, shaped the life I have now.

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.