and the beat goes on.

Well, another year. Another entry on this blog. And I also know that when we talk about ourselves we tend to be complacent. And blur the facts. But we all do it nonetheless. So this year has been eventful. Not like every one of my years is not eventful. I live in this kind of alternate universe in which everything seems shrouded with fucking drama.
So I had my ups and downs, living in another city, surrounded by putative family and working and staying in constant movement. I have realized that I am always moving. Whether literally or figuratively, I'm always on the move. And then everything stopped. I had to stop working for a few months and then I realized I need to be doing something constantly.
Funny, how you yearn for a snow day, for some down time, for waking up later. And then you have it and you come to understand that you really need to feel useful, to be doing something productive. So I did baby-sitting and small errands. And painted walls, and learned new things. And relaxed a little and tried to stay active.
And now I'm back on track. I have a new job and what I hope is a new attitude. I know my life has not settled, that I still have loose ends an unfinished business and things to do and worry about. Because I have realized that life does not get comfortable, just more ... livable. And that I have to learn to do is to learn how to live that new aspect of life I'm hitting, to work with what I've got.
So even though I don't do New Year lists, I think I'm going to try and worry less, love more and live better. So there. That's about it. So see you soon and hope your New Year is awesome. Because as L'Oreal says, you're worth it.

Love. Learn. Live.

xoxo

not everything that shines...

Ok, so this is how it goes: I lack passion. I'm passionate, but passion does not become me. I basically live a very passionless life. There's affection and love, but no passion. It's like everything about me screams about sexy infatuations and double entendres. But I don't feel it. Or enjoy it. Or share it. Most men my age go through what people usually call 'dry spells' in what concerns sex and relationships. They go from some weeks to some months. The spell has lasted years for me. And I don't know if I actually miss sex. Go figure.

I think I will revise that statement sometime soon. Because those who 'know' me would think 'what the fuck?' if they read this. Maybe an explanation is needed. For them and for myself. Because the problem is that I have not questioned my involvement in all this. Because it takes two to tango. Or not.

xoxox

and so the story goes...

So someone tried to pick me up on the street. I know. shocking. Especially considering that I was wearing cutout sweatpants, Skechers that have seen -much- better days and a sweaty white undershirt. Not to mention a baseball hat that shrunk in the wash -tilted way back in my head 'cause now it's fucking tiny- and dirty hair. Ready for my close up.

But it was not only that I looked like I had rolled out of bed and gone walking (I did) but how it happened. Bear with me, because I'm still in shock. Right. So I noticed the guy when I was going to cross a light but was like 'oh, well. He's looking, so what'. And I crossed the street. Then I saw him again, coming out of a drugstore exit right in front of me. I said to myself 'well, this is surprising'. It wasn't until I was going to cross the street again to go to the library that I saw his van (kind of red-flaggy) again and I said to myself: 'married, probably with children, looking for dick'. And I rushed into the building.

I returned my books, headed to the shelves to look for a new one and then I saw him. Yep. He followed me into the library. Kind of non-descript, older, about my height, on the fit side. And there he was, like fish out of water. And he was giving me the eye. I totally pretended I had not seen then and bent over to get a book in the lower shelf. Yes I did. Hope he got an eyeful. And I couldn't find the fucking book. So I headed to the main desk to look for help. A very nice lady helped me and I found my book (it's called Witch Eyes and I can't wait to start reading it!!). Ok. back to the story.

So he lingers, and broods and walks around and I do my thing: first some back issues of Rolling Stone (lost my subscription in May), then Chaz Bono's autobiography (he's on DWTS now and I found I needed to read about that) and then an Out magazine with Adele on the cover I had not seen. Done. And they guy? Right to my right while I was on the floor scavenging through past issues of Dwell. Not a word, not a nod, no nothing. Just there. I was like 'really?' and headed to the main desk to get going and do my walk back home.

So I checked out and hightailed back to the street. Less than a block away the station wagon stops right next to me and he asks if I need a ride. I refuse (graciously! I smiled and all) and kept walking. And that was it. I have to confess that my heart beat a little faster during the exchange and that I did not lean too close to the car in case he would go all Silence of the fucking Lambs on me or something like that. But it was weird.

What year did he think it was? 1982? A ride? Who offers (or takes) rides anymore? What? At that point all I could think was 'be safe, the promise of dick at ten in the morning does not merit risking getting on some unknown guy's station wagon (??)' . It was surprising and kind of weird to have a guy offer me a ride. Seriously. Do guys still offer rides? The whole thing smelled to closeted married guy on the prowl for dick. It was an out-of-body experience, almost. I could see everything developing from a distance.

I think that the experience kind of made me see that for some men time has not passed. It's 1952 all over for many men who do not know how to relate or connect with a possible mate/fuck buddy/trick. I'm not confused because he probably wanted to fuck me in the station wagon (I had done worse) I'm confused because the whole thing read like a story written before Gore Vidal published The Pillar and the City. Like something Salvatore Romano would go through in Mad Men. Not something a guy listening to his iPod while out on a walk to the library would have to go through in 2011.

He was furtive and awkward and shy and kind of sleazy in an understated way. He was also sad. Why didn't he approach me? Why didn't he strike up a conversation? Had he done that before? Was he a vigin? What the fuck? It just did not compute. Maybe I'm more used to the cut-to-the-chase of the guys in bars/clubs nowadays or the ASL straightforwardness of the online trolls.

I'm too all post-modern in what concerns gay lib and attitudes towards men. We grow accustomed to take our freedom to mingle at the least tingle by granted. Many men are still stuck (by preference or duty) to old-fashioned notions of interaction, even more restricted by their own baggage. I felt carefree and assertive and... young? when I walked back home. I promised myself that I will NEVER ever will let anybody or anything dictate how I get the sex I know I need and deserve. There. It may sound like some kind of an out-of-jail card to engage on slutty behavior, but I think it's more about agency and choice than cornholing. Hope he finds the release he so badly seems to need. Along some mental peace. So now back to that book I wanna read.

Bierce

I'm back at Bierce today. Just because. Like all those things that happen to me. I'm back at Bierce by chance or destiny or whatever you want to call it. But I'm back.
And I'm right in that tiny study room you used to take when you needed to study. The same tiny study room in which I kissed you countless times and in which I discovered that I was still alive, where I discovered my blood still pumped fiercely down my body, where I discovered I wanted to live.
It's the same tiny study room to where I carted chocolate bars and smuggled soda for you. The same study room in old, 70's addled Bierce Library. The same tiny study room where we almost had sex. And I'm here today, half alive and half content. But here.

And I wonder if all that was not anything more than a quick dream. One of those dreams that leave you half-groggy, half awake and wondering if what you just lived was a dream or if what you just dreamed was actual life. Because so much has changed, so much has happened, so many people have been involved and abandoned and exchanged since I kissed you in this same tiny study room in Bierce that I often wonder what happened.

Time does not move here. Time can only be counted by the slight improvements they make to the library. Just like the tiny improvements I make to my life. But time does not move for me, either. Time for me, as for Bierce is both a reminder and a curse. A reminder that everything ebbs and moves depending of where you're standing. And if you are in this tiny study room, time has not passed.