Juggling Act

#Romance is so enticing; we yearn for it. Even the best of us have been known to sneak in a Lifetime movie now and again. I, myself, rarely fantasize. I've never imagined being picked up in a town-car, driven to buy a fantastic and ultra stylish suit on Madison Avenue and then brought (in said suit) to a romantic bistro or rooftop restaurant overlooking the Hudson to eat oysters and gourmet cuisine, and then brought into said town-car to a private helicopter ride around the island, where I would sip champagne and be handed roses, culminating after landing with a drive, no longer in his town-car, but in his private Audi or convertible something or another, listening to the most amazing music, driven for drinks at some swanky lounge, and then finally, to his private penthouse apartment or brownstone or yacht, where the passionate night would continue, only to end with breakfast in bed... Alright, I may have thought about it once or twice. Maybe.

It's nice to whisk someone off of their feet, especially when you don't even know you're doing it. And it's just as nice, maybe nicer, to be whisked off your own feet. And as nice as the above fantasy sounds, sometimes it's the little things that go underestimated and unnoticed. Have we become so saturated with images of Mr. Big and other studs that we've forgotten the reality of the day-to-day? Do we expect perfection... in every which way: looks? Financial stability and excess? Spiritual and mental fortitude? Self-awareness and security? Have our expectations surpassed what's realistic for the 99% in exchange for holding out for a Mr. Robert Redford in Indecent Proposal? Insert extremely long diatribe about The Ex here.

Luckily, I've been in such shitty relationships that a circus clown could look to me. Even luckier, T is nowhere near to a circus clown. So on Thursday night when I called him to confirm our plans to meet on Friday, I was pleasantly surprised. I asked over text if he and I could speak on my house phone - an ominous text to receive I would imagine. Of course he said sure, and so, when I finally did call, I was a bit surprised at first: he was somewhere... a bar? Somewhere loud. But what surprised me more was, unlike previous partners, he actually stopped what he was doing to step out into a quiet spot to talk. T: 1. Exes: 0.

Without having to really delve into, he explained to me what was going on... having a post-work cocktail with coworkers. T: 2. Exes: 0. I asked what we wanted to do the next day. His reply? Don't worry. I've got it covered.

Beg your pardon?

He had it covered. What did that mean? What does that mean? How does one have what covered? This was relatively foreign to me. He went on: we would meet up according to my schedule. When I asked what he meant, he explained that if I needed to go home after work and rest, we could meet up later on. If I wanted to meet him immediately after work, we could do that, too. I should preface, before I go on, that he does have a life of his own and he wasn't giving up his time out of desperation: he simply had off, had the time, and, well, what? Wanted to... make me happy? My mind was abuzz, aghast, absolutely stunned... what did it all mean? I had to talk it through: "So, what does this all mean? I can meet you whenever?"

His words? "It's all about what you want."

DING, DING, DING! T: 20 points. The Exes? 0. The Ex himself, Diablo incarnate (insert excessively long diatribe about The Ex while referencing The Exorcist, Friday the 13th, Saw, and Child's Play)? Well... he has a -13. Or was it -666? I digress.

As a smile crept across my face, and like a schoolgirl talking to her first crush, I smothered my smile as best I could and elected to play upon the cool of TLC's Crazy, Sexy, Cool album. So, I asked him what we would do? It was a surprise, he said. He didn't want to reveal much, but he said it would entail dinner and drinks.

The next evening couldn't come fast enough. Listening to the Think Like a Man soundtrack, I drove into Chelsea to meet him. We would have dinner at a small, Italian bistro with brick walls, several types of pasta, and of course, wine. Timing is everything, they say and two moments after I entered the restaurant, he followed in. I turned, saw him standing there, and kissed him.

Though I was tired from an exhausting week, the conversation still flowed, with a few moments of comfortable silence. He ate pasta. I ate lobster with pasta. I sipped wine and we, goofy as could be, stared into each others eyes. We continued the night with a drink here and a margarita there, only to end at the Clearview Cinema on 23rd where we watched in literary fascination and nerdy unison the film version of The Perks of Being a Wallflower. He had borrowed my copy the previous weekend and had already finished reading it. Watching Charlie negotiate his inner monologue, we negotiated how to lean upon one another without giving ourselves or each other a neck cramp.

As we left, we debated the ultimate question: whose place? Yours? Mine? We chose mine and ended up there 20 minutes later (have to love nighttime traffic in the City - there wasn't any). The next morning, after an evening of cuddling in bed, we awoke and fell asleep and awoke and fell asleep and talked, and talked some more, and talked some more, and... well, let's keep some things private. After all, this is the internet. In short, we spent the day in bed... learning each other. We finally made a plan: we would go for breakfast (yours truly was craving chocolate chip pancakes with whipped cream and high fructose corn syrup posing as maple syrup). Breakfast at 3 pm? Yep. We sure did.

Here's the thing with romance: it sneaks up on you. You don't know when it will infiltrate your life, but when it does, it is like a drug. Addictive. When you meet someone with whom you click... with whom there isn't any pretense... with whom you can be yourself... talk about science fiction, watch Netflix in bed, talk books, writing, have sexual chemistry, and have a mutual love of food, and of course, share your histories, your pain, yourselves... yowzah! I laid in bed, felt relaxed, and really, felt like I could lay there forever without a care.

Our plan was to eat and then part ways. The beautiful thing about romance is also the downfall, perhaps. Now - my history? My history would show that I have had a tendency to make poor choices in the name of love. Giving of myself, all of myself, to the person with whom I am convincing myself will lead to love or with whom I had convinced myself I was in #love already (not to invalidate my previous experiences, but I know what love is, and a lot of what I've had has not been love: think of it as asking for bacon and getting turkey bacon or asking for a juicy, meaty hamburger, and being handed a veggie burger... or asking for a ripe and fresh piece of fruit and being handed a moldy banana...). In any case, the day, the night previous, had been so subtle yet so concrete in its amazement, that I wanted, like an addictive drug, more.

And after the meal? Picture Thanksgiving. I was wiped out. Why don't we go back to my place, watch a movie, and then you can go home. I'll do work for work after, because, after all, that's all I seem to do: work. Work. Work.

Now, despite my best intentions, when we awoke to the end of our movie in bed, I didn't want to leave his side. I didn't want to call it a night yet. I convinced myself it was okay, quickly, and we made plans to go see Paranormal Activity 4.

After dessert and wine outside at a well-done corporate rendition of an Italian ristorante, we saw our movie. Again, not calling it quits, whose place was posed and again we ended back at mine for a second evening of cuddling. Only this time, I didn't sleep so well.

Whether it was the air conditioner, the insurmountable amount of stuff I had to get done for life, or the work I had to do for work, I was equally tired and anxious. I knew it was my doing, but I didn't and I don't feel it was a bad choice at all: sometimes, ya just need a break from life in order to be better at what you do: work to live not live to work, that sort of thing. Still, I couldn't help but wonder, with romance being so appealing, with affectionate being so infectious, with cuddling being so contagious, and with dreamy eyed staring being so stunning, how does one balance romance and life? Is it possible? Do you have to live together to make it happen, since then you theoretically are around your partner all of the time so there is less planning involved? Is there a perfect #balance? Is this an exclusively #gay issue? Or is it always a rushed struggle? It doesn't feel so overwhelming at all to spend time with T. For me, though, a Cancer, and an individual who needs order at home and significant amounts of 'me' time, I wonder if there is a way to achieve a balance, especially so early on in a relationship of such romantic proportions. I'm sure there is; my fear is that I already see him seldom: on the weekends with the oh-too-occasional mid-week encounter. I'm sure if I lived in Manhattan, it'd be easier.

That next morning, after tidying up my place a bit, with T's help (point again!), I drove him home. The morning was beautiful. The air was crisp. The vanilla chai he bought me was necessary. And when I arrived at work, job number 2, I felt inspired. I would not write, in my spare moments, a disparaging, dark, brooding, Hamletesque poem of intensely dramatic imagery and Virgina Woolf sentence structures; instead, I'd write the beginning page to a story of love conquering all-odds. When the mood strikes to write, ya gotta go with it.

Funny enough, somehow, thinking about the time that passes between my seeing my boy, what sits in my gut is not a nervousness, insecurity, or jealousy, as though my not seeing him as often as I'd like will result in the quick and speedy demise of us. I feel rather secure. I look forward to seeing him. I look forward to having time to do me and share with him. 

And if it does not work out with T, I can say confidently I've made a friend for life. After all, the best relationships are where you can be friends with your partner, that person with whom the struggle to find balance between life and romance is a welcome one.

Still, I have to wonder, will I ever get to that Master Pangloss best of all possible worlds version of balance between my relationship and my own individual life, responsibilities, obligations, and the like? The jury is out on that. In the meantime, I'll start putting in requests for my next life. Perhaps, in my next life, this Cancerian will return as a Libra. They seem to do better with the whole juggling act.

Real Education Means Real Challenges

#Education is vital. I think about it often. When I see an adolescent on the train mistreat another person, a total stranger, I think to myself, my, my, how? How did this... happen?
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Do we want to improve our kids?

Do we want to improve ourselves?

Whether you're a businessperson, a fry-cook, an accountant, a parent, or a teacher, we are all educators in our own right.

I once heard it said that the quality of a teacher preparation program does not make a difference insomuch as getting hired, teaching, and in terms of what you learn.

I entirely disagree. 

Just as military service is mandated in some countries, I believe that teacher education service should be mandated for all. I have many reasons for this. I will not go into these reasons at this time except to say that such a restructuring of priorities in our country, in the world, would result in a completely changed culture; those in power, who wish to remain in power, do so through various modes, including the perpetuation of ignorance, and the permeation of opiates among the masses, such as reality television, or the idea that you need certain objects, materials, goods, resources, in order to be happy, whole, and complete within society. Much of it is just plain bullshit, in the end. 

I digress. Insomuch that a society exists as a result of its culture, its culture, a reflection of any given society's core values, exists because of education, in turn. At length, our society in America has gone to shit in many ways. I won't provide the ways in which our culture has spiraled at this time except to say, I'd be willing to debate the issue with any one at any time. 

In order to effectuate culture, to actualize knowledge, to encourage free-thinking at odds with the insurmountable modes of oppression that currently surreptitiously exist within our society, we need quality teachers. My Master's thesis was on this very subject. I can say, whole-heartedily, that good quality teachers result from quality teacher preparation programs based on empirical observation, qualitative and quantitative analysis of various data collected, and the most logical and objective conclusions elicited from that data. Any one who claims that quality preparation programs does not affect teacher quality within the classroom has not experienced, in my opinion, a quality program whereby the difference was clear and palpable. To claim that much of the practice is learned on the job is entirely untrue, but there is so much, so very much, that is learned given the instruction of concept, theory, and then application of pedagogical strategy in real, authentic situations with a variety of opportunities to explore, explain, and reflect upon practices experimented upon. Professional development is critical, but the quality of development depends on the quality of the planning of said development, the determination of the need of said development for any given population of teachers, and the delivery of development in conjunction with teaming strategies, learning activities, time allotted and so forth. In short, "p.d." is better than nothing, but is a poorer substitute for ongoing quality teacher preparation programs. The reality is there are multiple factors that determine a teacher's success and the quality of a program only increases the odds of success. We must look at ourselves as teachers and ask if 1. we would get a job at a nonpublic school that prides itself on its student success rate (extenuating circumstances and variables permitted), and 2. would we be successful at our current school were it not for any number of in-school factors? Did our program adequately prepare us? How did it prepare us? Did it provide multiple avenues of reflection, approach, and experimentation? Did we receive multiple forms of feedback from our academic advisors, teachers, and the like? How often were we in the classroom? How many different pedagogical structures did we practice and then, how many did we push ourselves to utilize despite what might be a natural inclination to us, such as "yelling" as a classroom strategy versus calm speak; or something like the importance of student observation and what we do with that data? Or how we team? Or how we provide feedback? Or why the prepared environment is very important? Or why optimism is and will always be more powerful than negativity? Or how we differentiate to meet our students needs? In short, a quality preparation program will push us to do what is not easy, but what is challenging, what is right, given the complex realities of today's world, and the truth in our common value and belief: that all individuals have a right to a quality public education and that all students, anywhere, can learn given that we provide the right conditions, given that we study how they learn best, given that we understand why they 'do' whatever it is they do, and so forth.

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As professional educators, we must choose to remind ourselves of these facts, especially if we "dislike" a student: 

1. Our first job is to educate. Everyone. Plain and simple. 

2. They are not 'our' kids and we are not their parents; it is not up to us to treat even the most troublesome student beyond a practicum of professional conduct. 

3. We are in the service of education; these kids, and their parents, are our clients. Just as we beco

me irate when mistreated by someone hired to perform a service, and defer to the customer is always right mentality, so too do our kids and we must treat them accordingly: completely neutral and professional. Tone, words, insinuation all carry meaning inferred by our kids and translated accordingly, which thereby causes reaction. We must then recognize we were the impetus of that reaction, whether the child, who is a child, had, like an "annoying" client, said or done anything to precipitate a response from us. This is why there are steps, procedures, and codes of conducts teachers must follow. 

4. Our students are children. We are the adults. Period. We must behave as the example and exemplar at all times. Sinking down to a childlike level is not the same as showing a child you understand but remaining the adult in a given situation. Childlike behavior will illicit childlike reactions. Adult behavior will command respect. This begs the question, what is an adult and what does an adult behave like, questions that would be explored in various programs that teach teachers more than content and basic instructional strategies, but philosophy, theory, history of the development of said points and so on.

5. We must model those behaviors we wish to instill into and see practiced by our students always, regularly, and consistently. How we react to a given situstion will to determine the students future reactions, and thereby may or may not cause problems for us later on, for their own kids when they have them, and for society. This means always taking the high road. Educators are revered as sources of what is good and right and true in society, and that means approaching any given situation, if we want our society to evolve, rationally, calmly, with reverence and respect, with stewardship, with focus, and with positive and realistic high road mentality. Remember our values aren't and don't have to be our kids for those reasons aforementioned. 

6. We must observe, observe, observe and analyze those observations outside of bias to inform our actions, determine reasons for behaviors, and give us understanding. 

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So, we must determine a common language of decency, expectation, uplift, and motivation. Do we motivate through scare tactics? Do we motivate through engagement? Do we force that which a child is not ready to learn? Do we make assuptions about what we think a child should know by now and where do those assumptions stem from? If we espouse multiple intelligences and differentiation, that applies to every aspect of an individual, including behavior. It is not for us as educators to make the case that they need to know a behavior now because they will learn it later on, on the street, outside of school. They are not our own kids! And even though certain life lessons may be learned in raw and unsafe ways, we must model ways to 'deal' and react with grace, dignity, true strength, the strength that helps kids to rise above and not degrade, to critically analyze, to not succumb to emotion but to treat others with kindness and strength of conviction and heart, even in the face of brutality, danger, and monstrous inequality. We must model firmly how Rosa and Martin and other educated greats have acted. 

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In short, yes school is more than academic content, but there is a fine line between what we believe is right and what is right based on guidelines, certain truths, and facts. We can ignore this and succumb, as so many educators do, without realizing it, to the slow demise of complacency and jaded cynicism. Or we can always and constantly work, never taking anything for granted, and evolving within our professional practice by pushing our thought process. Do we want to sink into becoming those teachers we always said we never want to be? Or do we see the difficult and unyielding work ahead and continue in a pursuit of collegiate excellence within our practices? No teacher ever said they wanted to become 'bad' and in our hearts, we all mean well. But meaning well, nowadays, isn't good enough. We have to meet the challenges head-on to prepare our kids to compete in a global society, think critically, become contributing members of society, become life-long learners and thinkers, and find inner peace. No teacher strives to be bad, but complacency is a cancer: It happens slowly and without warning. The realization to a teacher that they've become everything they never wanted to be happens never or when it is too late. Quality preparation programs, ongoing professional growth, the establishment of a culture of collegiality and rigorous academic pursuits, with kids at the heart of every conversation, all contribute to effective teaching and thus, effective schools. 

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In the end, it's hard, thankless, exhausting work. We must see that, recognize it, stare it dead on and say, do we meet the challenge? How do we support each other in meeting the challenge? And what will our future be if we do not? We must look into our crystal ball of cause and effect and say what type of human being are we 'manufacturing' into the world given our current practices? And, do we blame that image that we see on ourselves or on everything else, and why? Because it is easy? Because we have accepted defeat? Education... real education... means real challenges. 

What is love? Oh, baby, don't hurt me...

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Dear Blog,

What's the T?

In two words: Totally Tantalizing.

Some say singlehood affords many opportunities. Self-indulgence. Travel. Sex.

Since I've last written, certainly I have engaged in singlehood. More than some. Less than others.

This was the summer of my TLT: Total Life Transformation.

When you're single in NY for some time - correction: when you're single anywhere for some time - you often find yourself cataloging your options, priorities, and desires.

This past May began a new chapter. Like many New Yorkers, the choice of staying put or moving apartments was on my doorstep. New Yorkers love change. New pair of shoes. New hairstyle. New foodie fad. And without exception, new apartment. My choice was clear: do I renew my lease, or do I leave my fabulous Harlem pad with exposed brick, granite countertop, porn-star shower, and stainless steal appliances? Weighing the pros and cons was a process. Roommates who never paid? Con. Roommate who did pay? Pro. Exposed brick? Double pro. Relatively easy parking for an atypical driver in New York? Pro. Loud noise at 4 am on a work night? Double con. Easy access to dates, sex, and the like vis-a-vis sordid trips to bars or maximum ten minutes on Grindr? I suppose that last is all dependent upon your perspective.

After debating for some time and a failed, albeit enjoyably challenging dalliance with he who I shall refer to as the Activist, I elected to get out of Dodge. In typical New York fashion, I needed a change. Two years in one spot was one year too long.

The reality was, I hated what the apartment came to be: a constant reminder of... pain. I had moved in there with an ex who, without my realizing it, I'd tried forcing into someone he just wasn't. With him, as is often the case, the bad memories were louder than the good. That apartment saw sex, drugs, rock and roll, The Ex (gone back to momentarily  like a cigarette smoker dips into a pack for another fag), and, of course, the passing of my best friend.

I needed to get out.

New York City suburbs are a strange sort of area. But, they were exactly what the doctor ordered. I contacted a good friend from a previous life who happened to be a realtor in a prestigious and affluent Westchester suburb not but fifteen minutes from Harlem by car. I told him I was in the market for a flat, that I was broke, my credit was poor, and I didn't currently have a down-payment. He helped.

Within about a month of making an inquiry with him, I found my new place. A quiet suburban flat in need of much homosexualization (the previous renters had a kid, a penchant for horrible furniture, and allowed the place to fall into deplorable disrepair under their stay). Bluejays pranced in the courtyard, crickets twiddled at night, and street light rarely seeped in. After picturing which 'Color Splash' colors would go where and what items (of which I am still acquiring slowly) would adequately suit this art deco 1920's style apartment, I told my realtor friend I wanted the place. And, through the magic of lightening-quick NY-minute financial saving and wee bit of unexpected parental support, I made it happen. I  moved to the burbs. All while working during my very busy time of my year.

Somehow, during this time, my colleagues slash girlfriends and I planned a trip of epic proportions: we were to go to Central and South America during the summer for an adventure, which for me, a poor and humble public servant awaiting love's knock on his door, was only and barely surmounted by Armstrong's trip to the moon. Costa Rica, Peru, concluding for another friend's nuptials in Mexico at an all-inclusive resort were our itinerary.

And time marched on. I moved. I painted. I worked. I dated. And summer suddenly happened. I bowed out of Pride as well as my birthday, which happens each year around the same time as Pride. It didn't seem right to ring in my 30th and celebrate Pride when I wasn't actually proud; I wanted my best friend there, physically, to help in celebration. My girlfriend's Lauren and Arleni wouldn't have it. They gave me my first ever surprise birthday party. It was perfect. Some old friends from work. Some new friends from work. Libation. Cake. Laughter.

And the summer began. It would go by quicker than New Years, it seemed, and I'd barely have a chance to rest. Between bachelorette parties, birthdays, a date sprinkled here and there, and many day trips, it flew by. South America was here before I knew it.

Something changed in me on that trip. I can't quite put my finger on it, but at mile 25 of the Inca Trail in Peru, as I climbed, sweat dripping, over that final crest to see in the valley beneath Machu Picchu, I fell, or rose (or both) into some sort of transcendental plain. Whether from fatigue or adrenaline, desire and want and need, or actual metaphysical metamorphosis, I found myself... somewhere else. I found... myself. Quietly, I absorbed within me something I'd only experienced a few other times in life; as when I found myself arrived in Venice along the canal at the train station for the first time, where I stood amazed that I... me... had come so far as to be standing somewhere I'd never pictured I would ever be before.

And after that long trip, a trip of purification and cleansing, I found myself amid innocent debauchery in Mexico: sun-kissed along white beaches, pina colada in hand, I drifted into ecstasy and relaxation unlike anything I'd experienced for many moons.

After: Reality, here I came.

And I did. Ready, I fought my way into a new year of work, with new priorities and a new sense of self. Summer was over. And I was healthy, ready, energized, lookin' good, and able. My TLT was officially a success! I had transformed. I was finally and fully greeting 30.

Meanwhile, on August 8th, while I was somewhere below the equator, someone I would come to meet was on his way to New York in his relocation. A sort of mini-TLT for himself.

The universe has a funny way of giving signs, some times. I don't know what the sign is, necessarily, but it's there. August 8th was... is... my best friend's birthday.

Tee and I met on a random night at the bar Therapy. You know the story: boy goes out with his gay friend, other boy goes out with his gay friends, boy stares at boy, boy walks away, boy comes back, boy talks to boy, boy flirts with boy, boy goes dancing with boy, boy kisses boy and the rest is history. I think Oprah did a special on it once.

In any event, Tee and I would go out on several dates after meeting; and in meeting the stereotype of a Southern Gentleman, which he is, most certainly, Tee would offer to and actually pay for much of our goings outs, hold doors open, listen to me, ask questions, stare me in the eyes, make me laugh, and treat me with a genuine respect, patience, and understanding, which I appreciate. If I'd write this blog more-so, I'd get into the details. But this isn't Carrie's Sex and the City column.

Most recently, Tee and I went out to see Rocky Horror. Afterward, we went for drinks at a local Chelsea gay bar.

"Tee, do you want to be exclusive?"
After a brief and penchant pause, "Ya know, it's been on my mind. After I brought it up that last time, I respected that you didn't dive right in. I appreciate it. But it's been on my mind."
And as if seconds were minor eternities, a long sigh met me with baited, though concealed, breath, "I do. I really do." Sealed, next, with a kiss.

Sometimes in life, you just gotta grab what you want by the balls. Figuratively speaking, of course.

And I did. We did. It's new. It's different. It's good. At least, it feels good, and right, and true. And he makes me smile. Genuinely. And he makes me feel amazing. And he makes me forget... everything that has gone wrong. We've already had some of the tough conversations. And as he said when I left him, 'there will be good times and bad times... but I'm excited to see where it goes.' And as I said to him, 'Right now, I just want to learn you, and have you learn me.' And it's true. I do. Despite the nervousness... of which, there isn't much. I feel safe, wanted, and respected by him; and he is kind, and studly, and I smart, and talented, and I can only hope he feels the same way I do.

We spent two amazing days together. What did we do? Well, a lot of nothing. How great that is. 

I don't know where it'll go... but, sometimes the best moments in life are the most exciting, wrought with the most risk and danger, like a white water rafting trip in Costa Rica, or a night time hike without light through the Peruvian Amazon. Change... real change... isn't always easy. I can't help but wonder if New Yorkers change 'stuff' so much to avoid changing the real stuff. The stuff that matters. The stuff that is only recognized in the deep silence of solitude. Despite the fear brought on by previous, dramatic, ever-so-tragic experiences, I'm pushing forward. Pushing through. After all, I am a New Yorker: tough as nails, so tough that I can move to and make work the suburbs. So tough, I can work my ass off at my job. So tough, I can be alone, but now, can be with someone else and remain me. So tough, my doubts only add fuel to my exploration. So tough, I can change.

However this turns out, it seems a fitting last chapter to my TLT. What's next after my TLT? I dunno, but I am excited to see how the "Tee" works out.

Yours,

Not-so-Single Anymore.

Beautiful Chaotic: Convalescence.

"America was born out of a dream." What is it? Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Happiness? I will return to this momentarily. Indulge my tangled web, if you would.

I haven't written in some time. These past few months have been-- tenuous. Tumultuous. I very nearly almost made what many would have considered a very rash decision on my part. In typical p. fashion, I almost left New York completely. Needless to say, I am not ready to pack up and escape just yet. I elected with much deliberation to confront those challenges and obstacles plaguing me: my job, for one, a constant fatigue, another, a dwindling self-worth, a third, and perhaps, paramount to all, the passing of my best friend. And like any facing any challenge, hermit or omnipresent Facebookian, Mr. Popularity or invalid... life and time, those metaphysical, transcendentally concrete things, were constantly there, being friends and oftentimes, foes.

In short: issues. A barrage of them. Always present. Always lingering, guiding, directing, malevolently motivating... How does one deal?

This so-called Cancerian crab crawled in and out of his shell many o' times. Somehow, I still managed to smile sincerely. Somehow, I was still "hard, not too, too hard" [Des'ree. "You Gotta Be"]. I faced a choice. Crawl inside, and away, or survive. Those hard shells are good for something, I suppose.

I chose survive. I went into a sort of survival mode. Sure, I dated. Sure, I found moments of laughter amid the sadness, which I accepted, confronted, breathed, lived (I will return to this also momentarily, bear with me). What is survival mode? It means different things for different people. You see, as a teacher, I live and accept a very regulated and relegated life. Many people in other industries similarly come to terms with this. And conversely, I know many teachers who somehow find ways to do their jobs, to do their jobs well, and not live in such a fashion (more power to em'!). I, for one, found it very difficult to deal with tragedy and still work. In fact, I chose to go into work the very next day after finding out about my friend's passing. And, as it so happened, I was at work when I found out. A part of me through myself into work to forget, to distract, to consume; another part of me wanted to crawl into myself, sleep, close the shades and lower the blinds and order take-out. I worked. I forced myself to (somehow, miraculously, not that it actually matters -- and I won't delve into the subject here and now -- my kids' [students'] scores improved this year). Because I chose to do that, because I chose to work, I never gave myself time to deal, to feel, and to heal. Grief and coming to terms with the passing of a loved one manifests in many ways; time is both a companion and a mocking, sardonic pest. Hence, I went into survival mode. This meant, for me, survive until you have time. For teachers, you get time when the kids do: summer. 

As the months passed, my writing dwindled, I found myself conflicted, even nerve-racked: Do I move there to that new place? I could do it. This is my last year in NY. Let me run away to a tropical island. Let me scream, 'fuck it all!' and forget everyone and everything I care for. Let me run away from the struggles, the torments, the pains, the reminders, the everything. Somehow, in all of this, whether as a result of certain friends, family, the beautiful kids I taught, or any combination of many elements, I was tricked by life into living. I dealt with challenges. I dealt with obstacles. I worked. I laughed. I grew. I loved (not as often as I would've liked, but ya can't have it all). I lived. I lived hard. Fast. I made what I consider to have been some good choices. And many a bad one. And I concluded: I needed a new scene. I needed peace within my home. 

Home is very important to many. For me, a cancer, an Italian, a gay, a teacher, a ...  keep adding on to the list those labels to which I self-identify and those to which you assign without my permission (or my care), home is of paramount importance. It's my sanctuary. My place of peace. My place of rest. My place of play. My home-base of operations. It's where I keep my shit. And I like it to be beautiful within my own defined parameters of beauty. Living in Harlem was amazing. Harlem was and is alive. Vibrant. Words that spring to mind when I think of it are real, raw, movement, transference, uplift, downtrodden, struggle, beautiful, musical, magical. But - it was time to close the chapter. Instead of leaving New York City altogether, instead of leaving my job at the close of the academic year and irresponsibly running away, instead of etc. etc. etc., I would move elsewhere nearby.

The energy in my apartment in Harlem was confused. Draining. Negative. Perplexed. I needed something more... convex. Whole. Pure. Fresh. Quiet. The apartment was noisy. It has seen a lot happen in the past two years. It witnessed many manifestations of myself; some incarnations I'd say are still me, and some, I am not proud of (who the fuck was I?). I moved to a more sublimely peaceful apartment, all to myself, painted it over time (and still now) what I wanted to. Heard birds in the morning. Crickets or nothing at night. I slept. I dreamt. I had and faced my nightmares. All that. And all before the finale of the academic year. Somehow I managed. 

And then summer. And an approaching wedding. And an approaching milestone birthday. And an amazing forthcoming trip. And I could breathe. And I could process. And I could be healthy. And I was. And I am. And I am still living, proudly, boldly, humbly. And I am exercising, and eating right, and motivated, and sleeping, and being, and organizing, and unpacking boxes from having moved several months ago, and enjoying! It was cathartic. And although it's not perfect, it's what I needed. 

And today. Today is the Fourth of July in the year Two Thousand and Twelve. Wow. 

I began today with a great smoothie, a beautiful run, a decent work out, a dynamite bbq, a fun shopping excursion for an amazing wedding in which I am honored to be the best man... what more can one ask. From my new home and time with the family in the suburbs, I found myself performing a best man duty, and made a trip to Brooklyn. 

I am one to believe in signs... metaphors written in the fabric of our lives. I choose to see connections, whether real or imagined, because, why the fuck not? Life would be rather dull and bland if one didn't indulge one's own spirituality, deeper critical thinking, imagination, our human core... I made a stop at a local coffee spot. I haven't drank coffee in over a week. I didn't really need one but for some reason, something told me to stop. I did. When I stood there, on line, a mother and her daughter were in front of me. The daughter, who had to be four or five, picked up a glass bottle of an iced coffee drink, and brought it to her mother, excitedly exclaiming, "I want this! I want this!" The mother calmly told her to put it back... It wasn't so much a premonition, or even a wish, as it was a certainty: this will happen... now! Splat! Coffee and glass everywhere. The little girl's face was priceless. Almost as priceless as the barista who would have to clean it up. My inner p. scolded the child, though more-so the mother, with a wagging finger. All I could do was smile and wipe the glass from off my bare sandaled feet. The barista  gritted her teeth and politely said as I approached the counter (mom was whisking little girl to the bathroom to clean her up), "I'll just be a moment." Mop in hand, she hopped up and down in a ballet of frustrated rage over the puddle. Finally, she exclaimed, "Order your drink, it's totally on us today!" I smiled, thanked her, ordered my free drink, and left. 

So why tell this anecdote? Out of chaos, even painful chaos, can and does result order... the pleasant surprise... the necessary unexpected. Chaos is as much a friend as order is. We need both. I choose to live in one more than the other, though, but I recognize the value in the spontaneous... the anarchy. Too much "order" ain't fun anyway. What would a roller coaster be like if you knew every single twist, turn, and loop?

This year has been chaotic, to say the least. I am thankful for this. I am thankful for the time I was given with my best friend. I want him physically back with me every single moment of every single day and I do not expect that to change. But I know that he would want me to be happy in this life. He would want me to celebrate. Although I didn't celebrate my birthday as I would've were he here, I still lived it. 

I drove to Brooklyn and found myself on a barb-wired rooftop with new friends and loved ones, surrounded three hundred and sixty degrees by fireworks, buildings with clapping onlookers on roofs, lightening, floating lanterns, and a foreboding blood orange moon. 

There was something both magical, and somehow sad about the entire thing. As I said, I believe in signs. I've lived long enough, read enough, seen enough, experienced enough to know that coincidences can be and are more than that. Several thousand years ago, the Mayans made predictions about astronomical phenomena without the aid of known modern technological instruments. They predicted that in 2012, a new era within their calendar would happen with a momentous celestial occurrence. They did not call it an apocalypse in the Biblical sense of the word, as the popular media continue to portray it. It's more of a... change in seasons. Winter becomes Spring.  

Everything seems like it has been leading up to (like it was meant to!) some shift. Mayans, like many cultures, even ours until recently (I won't delve into the wayward effects of materialism and the like here and now in changing our connections, interconnectivity, our ability to really see...) saw the connections between things that many in their own ignorance choose not to see, invalidate, see as disparate, allow ignorance to overtake them, remain either by choice, by victimization, or by larger circumstance to be uneducated... miseducated. All of the chaos within the past several decades... hell, within the past several millennia, for as long as history has been recorded, seems in some grand scheme, in some grand designer, to have led to this moment, to this here and now, purposefully. And that's the key - there is a purpose. Without the process... without the experience of chaos... the resulting peace, pace, change, transformation, all of it, will not be accepted, indulged, manifested accordingly. Simply, the broken bottle will yield the free drink. 

As I stood there, surrounded by all of these images, taking it all in... celebrating life, being reminded of war, recognizing centuries of continued and perpetuated oppression and hypocrisy, and then viewing a firey moon that almost plainly predicted, this could very likely be the last 4th of July in celebration of the United States, as we know it, I wondered, like my own experience in life, would the process, would the chaos, whatever that looks like, be so bad? Would it be painful? Would it be worth it? Will it even happen? Is it happening now? And what will the aftermath... the result... the change look like? Will I... be... to see and experience it? Will I survive it? 

Acclaimed author Toni Morrison said recently when asked in an interview what she would change about the American Dream that she would first, change the notion that it is a "dream," and secondly, and more intriguing to me, that she would change this ingrained notion that we as Americans have the right to "Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Happiness" to "Life, Liberty and the Pursuit of [something like] Integrity." I thought this was very interesting, and for me, more preferable. Still, integrity, like happiness, has variable and subjective definitions. But more than that was this notion that she seemed to ensconce, this idea that, Americans used to be citizens (American citizens), and now we are much more primarily considered as consumers (the American consumer[ism]). 

We are afraid of the unknown in America. Of change. As a society, as a culture, the statistics support this idea (and no, I'm not going to include an MLA Works Cited page to prove this; it's only a blog and not a dissertation). Rather than feel sadness, confront it, this idea of the Pursuit of Happiness has been twisted and warped into some right to be happy... that we have to and must feel happiness all of the time. We must not fill the void (or vessel perhaps is a better word) of our selves with anything remotely perceived as contrary to positivity and radiant happiness. Sadness must be avoided, never confronted. We can easily pop a pill now to assure that right to pursue happiness in accordance with the American Dream, as though it were an opiate to the masses (and I use this phrase purposefully). And what is this dream, now? According to the facts, it is wholly consumerism. It's buying things. More and more things. Filling our lives with stuff. Convincing ourselves that we need certain belongings in order to be happy, in order to validate our worth, our success, and hell, even our own very existence. We are told we need property of some sort, like a nice new car or a big fancy house (and I beg to make the argument that property, as it was defined in the original authorship of Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Property, which was both land ownership as well as slave ownership, is not all too dissimilar from many Americans' contemporary, vexing notions of relationships, education, and even sex [see 50 Shades of Grey]).  Or is it not seeing or dealing with the beggar at your car window on the GW onramp. Avoiding that which makes our lives the slightest bit uncomfortable. In short: avoiding any ounce of chaos in preference of comfort. 

Maybe whoever we are, wherever we are, whatever we are experiencing... whether it's a breakup, a catastrophe, a tragedy... even the end of a country or the world as we know it as prophesized by an ancient society... maybe we need to remember that no matter what, we still have ourselves... our right to live however we choose... and our right to exist. And so long as we are mindful of every species' right to the same, to coexist, we can embrace the chaos... confront it... at least, within ourselves, knowing that moving through it, surviving it, transgressing it, evolving within it, reflecting on our states of being, will lead to peace, rest, a smile, a laugh, love, prosperity, connection, ultimately true harmony... and maybe even, a free drink. 

Mr. Lonely Heart Seeks...

If you were to go on-line right now and login to any number of gay "chat" sites, you would find a variety of types of men: "raw dawg seeks to get it poppin' right now;" "older guy seeks younger Asian for nsa bb pnp fun;" "mr. right seeks one ltr;" "couple seeks third for no drama, safe sex;" and so on and so on. There would be photographs of guys' torsos with their heads cut off, full nudes, in the mirror pictures with guys attempting to appear super masculine, pictures of guys' asses, pictures of guys flexing their abs, pictures of guys' 10 inch ... remote controls... and so forth. Whether its an app on one's phone, or website, each and every guy is looking for something: it may be sex... it may be more than sex. Gay men have spent years... decades... in this country fighting for equality of freedom of sexual expression. Whether it's a result of that fight or simply the male libido, or something deeper than that, many gay men find a niche (bears, jocks, partyers, pigs, twinks, whatever) and allow themselves to conform to a preconceived prescription of an image in order to ... to find whatever it is they seek. Really, gay or straight, who isn't looking for... something?

As empowering as all of these labels are, as empowering as it is to call one's self gay, sometimes we gay men forget that before we are gay, with being gay, we are also human beings. And sometimes, while we conform to whatever preconceptions we have, in our quest to find whatever it is we think we want or need, somewhere along the way, we get lost. We lose sight of what is fundamentally important. We lose ourselves. 

Recently, I've been depressed. Many gay men usually experience this at some point in their lives. I don't mean the, "Why do I have to be gay?" depression, or the "My loved ones do not accept me!" depression, or the "I'm not cute enough to find someone!" depression (although the last most definitely relates to what I am speaking about). I am talking about that lack of fulfillment... when the hookups aren't doing it for you anymore, your job isn't bringing satisfaction, and even going to the gym isn't relieving a growing, latent anxiety. 

When my best friend died, I fell into a deep depression and despite concerted efforts to pull myself out of it, the grey skies of the winter months, the humdrum routine of a thankless job, and that all too dreaded approaching holiday, Valentine's Day, all assisted in moving a depression induced by a loss to a depression in which I was lost. 

Two weekends ago, after a sordid Saturday evening out with friends, my best friend and cousin called me. She had been in a severe car accident. My Sunday of planned relaxation quickly turned into a Sunday of unplanned duress. I quickly sped to her aid, fearful of what might have been another loved Leo having been lost in my life. After some time spent, I left grateful that she was fine. Something did not sit right with me, though. I returned home, empty... and lonely. 

The next day, I made plans with the Dancer for later in the week. We were to go on a date. We hadn't seen each other since before Thanksgiving when I revealed some very personal information over a text messaging exchange. We would meet on Wednesday and go out for dinner. Wednesday came, and I sent him a text to confirm dinner was still on for that evening. He said he was unable to have dinner that evening: he was waiting on a check, as often happens in the entertainment industry. He suggested Friday as an alternative and then jokingly commented, 'unless you want to pay.' I said sure. 

I picked him up that evening in the Upper West Side. Whether it was not having seen him in so long, or a general chemical exuberance, we were both all smiles. Our eyes were locked. We kissed. I expressed my happiness that I was able to see him. And we were off to dinner. While driving, I asked him if I had scared him off. He said at first I did, but then he had become very busy. He had moved into a new place and taken on several other jobs during December. After catching up, he told me he was venturing into a new area: space redesign. Think of it like interior decorating. With all of his connections, with his ability to see spaces and organize them to be effective spaces for entertainment, it seemed like a natural next step for him to pursue. He said he was redesigning the downstairs lounge of a famous Harlem restaurant. He said the name of the restaurant. My jaw dropped. He was renovating the downstairs to my ex... the Ex's... restaurant. He must've noticed my expression. "Oh, that's right... your ex works there doesn't he?" He and I had previously discussed the Ex in minor detail. "Yep," was all I could manage to say. Small gay world. What a small gay world it is. 

He comforted any trepidation I was feeling. "Don't worry. He'd be beneath me. I will be his boss." This, and a smile, relieved me. 

We arrived at our destination: the Meatball Shop in the Lower East Side. Over dinner, we talked... and it was in a word, nice. The conversation seemed to flow. There were few awkward pauses. Lot's of flirtation, as initiated by myself, and good food. I paid the check and I drove him home. We kissed goodnight. And I left. The next day I sent him a text thanking him for a great evening and asking if we could do it again sometime. There was no reply immediately and it was then that I realized, during dinner, he did not ask me a single question about my life. Everything I discussed was volunteered. There hadn't been a give and take. I was asking all of the questions, trying to maintain the conversation. Dinner only "flowed" because I forced it to. 

It was something of a disappointment and I found myself on-line looking for... love... My dinner with the Dancer, as nice as it was, turned out to be just what it was: dinner. Later on that week, we had made plans to have brunch on Sunday. Cancelled. The next week, and several flirty text messages later (all sent by me), I received a, "Give me a second..." That second turned into the rest of the week. My friend Lauren suggested I was not playing the game... I was making myself too available... she asked what he had to look forward to if I wasn't letting him chase me. I suppose she was right... but, then, I was never one for 'playing the game.' And, on top of it, the question burning in the back of my mind was: what if he didn't chase me?

On Facebook, in store windows, and on television, inklings of Valentine's Day started to sprout. The weekend after the Dancer and I had dinner, and right before our planned Sunday brunch, the unexpected happened: the most recent ex contacted me. I was in Brooklyn with my cousin. I was surprised... it had been months since any real communication. He said he found out about my best friend's passing and expressed his sympathies (finding out brought to you by Facebook). I was taken aback. After about an hour of back and forth over text, he suggested we get together sometime. I replied in the affirmative. He asked when I could be over. I was surprised... I did not realize he meant that same evening. I decided to go with it. Despite a tumultuous break-up, an unhealthy relationship in many ways, I still went with it. 

On my way over to his place, I found myself confused. Why was I going? What was I hoping would result? Was it a way to satisfy my loneliness? Was it a way for him to satisfy his? 

I arrived and sat in his room. It was as I remembered it, like nothing had changed. We talked. He asked if  I missed him. I answered in the affirmative. He told me about his past year, the guys he had dated... most of them, he said, weren't ready for a relationship for one reason or another. Finally, I asked him, "Why now? Why contact me after all of this time?" "Even with all the fights..." he said, "Sometimes you just want to fight with one person, just so you can be with them..." There was something strangely romantic and sadomasochistic about what he said. 

A few hours and some sexy time later, we were laying together. The room was quiet and still. He asked me if I still loved him. In one night, he had proven to be more open, more sensitive, more vulnerable than much of the time we were together. He said he loved me, still. I replied... I do. But did I? Did I really? Had I said it to spare his feelings? Had I said it to spare my own? Was I unsure? I knew when I said it some part of it was wrong; although I still loved him, so much had happened since "us" that I felt saying it was not the best thing. If anything were to ever happen again between he and I, it would have to be open, honest, and slow-going. 

He asked me to stay the night. We'd sleep in each other's arms and it would be amazing. It would be, in essence, everything I was wishing for in my life. Except, something stopped me. I had bought groceries which sat in the trunk of my car. I knew it was cold out, but I did not want to risk all the food I'd just bought spoiling. I explained this and he escorted me outside. 

Outside, it was snowing. It was the first real snowfall in New York since October's freak, unanticipated snow debacle. The night was serene and, as a person who finds signs in almost everything, I nearly spun around and told him I'd stay. But I didn't. I still left. And as I drove slowly home from Brooklyn, the snow gently cascading around me, I felt more lost than ever. What was wrong with me?

That next week, he texted me every single day. It was the first time ever he'd ever been so attentive. He asked me what I had thought about what happened. I hadn't mentioned it whatsoever to him and he wanted to know my thoughts on it. I explained that I didn't regret the night at all and I wanted to see where things were going. I was and am very cautious about it all and despite several warnings from friends, continued to text him back. 

And as the Dancer said he'd 'hold on a second,' and as this ex, G, said he sweet nothings, and as every guy on-line who contacted me only wanted to get off, and as Valentine's Day seemed to appear more and more and more, I felt the most incomplete, unfulfilled, dissatisfied, and alone I had felt in quite some time. 

It was mid-week. That night I had a dream. My mother, still alive, who I haven't seen in over six years, appeared to me. She was luminescent and angelic. She was young. She was vibrant. She warned me of something. Only when I was driving to my job that next day did my dream suddenly occur to me. I felt nervous: Had something happened to her? Was she okay? What had she warned me about?

That day at work, two fights occurred and, as the school day closed, members of a street gang descended on my students right outside of my school. They were in ski masks. Without getting into particulars, they were essentially responding to Facebook interactions between one of our students and another one of our students. The incident was over as quickly as it happened. It was said one of the men had a gun. Several of my students were involved and frightened. Thankfully, no one was hurt. I will not comment further on the matter.

I left school that day feeling a sense of fright, hopelessness, and loss. A year ago this past December, a former student of mine committed suicide. This image was immediately evoked in my mind and I felt more dissatisfied than ever with the world, my job, my effect in my position, and myself. The next day, it was spoken about but it did not seem anything had really changed. I now genuinely fear to go to my job. I fear for my safety and my kids' safety. I wonder if the virtual nonsense that caused this, that has been translating into physical altercations in my school, will cease. I wonder if the kids who are routinely disrespectful under a guise of machismo will learn. I wonder...

I left work that day quickly. I fell into a deep sleep as soon as I arrived home. When I woke, the day had turned to night and I found myself wishing desperately for a partner. I needed someone to comfort me, to listen to me, to spend Friday night with me. A fast hookup would not solve that. 

I explained some of my anxiousness to my good friend Sophia. She suggested that I come to Connecticut for a party the next night to take my mind off of everything. She'd treat me to dinner, I'd get a good night's sleep, and meet some new people. I agreed. In the meantime, I decided I needed to unwind. So, I went to my gym.

The gym I attend has many locations around New York. It offers a variety of services. Some of their locations include steam rooms and saunas. I have sat in their steam room many a time, especially when coming down with a cold. I went to the gym to do just that: sit in the steam room and relax. Of course, we gays know that what oftentimes happens in the steam rooms and saunas of gyms isn't always PG but more NC-17. 

When I went into the sauna that evening, two men were sitting there relaxing, in their own thoughts. Two guys exited as I entered, and directly in front of the door to the sauna, one of these guys performed fellatio on the other for a few seconds. Through the glass of the sauna door, I heard the one who did the performing ask the other if he'd like to get out of here. Love was in the air, as it were. 

The two men in the sauna left one by one and I found myself alone, ridding the toxins my body accumulated over the past several weeks. I closed my eyes. The door opened. When I opened my eyes, I found myself looking at a man in his mid-thirties sitting five feet away from me on the other side of the sauna. 

He eye-fucked me, and upon seeing this, I smiled internally and shut my eyes once more. I was not in the mood for anything to happen. I wanted to enjoy the peace and tranquility of the sauna. I wanted to decompress, sans orgasm. This desire quickly changed: every time I opened my eyes, there he was, staring at me, fully erect. Five minutes later, as I crouched as close to the opposite wall as possible, the door slammed open. A staff member called to me and the living erection five feet away from me, "Get out." I immediately exited, feeling a sense of nervousness. I showered and, while entering the locker room, was called a "Pato!" by the same staff member who'd opened the door. Pato, in case you're wondering, is Spanish for duck... and faggot. Half-naked, I immediately dressed. I hadn't felt so vulnerable in so long. 

I exited the locker room to find the same staff member waiting for me. He asked for my barcode, which permits entry into the club. I refused. He escorted me downstairs to the front desk and accused me of inappropriate activity in front of the desk staff member. He, in turn, asked me for my barcode as well. I refused. I asked the staff member who so rudely accused me what evidence he had. He had none. It didn't occur to me then, but how could something be happening when both myself and the other guy in the sauna had been several feet apart! After some back and forth, the desk man finally threatened me with calling the cops, who would conduct a full investigation. I asked why and on what basis. The desk man said I was trespassing. "How was I trespassing?" I calmly asked. He said the sauna closed down at 7pm. I asked where it was posted on the website that that was the case. He pointed to a small sign next to the elevator. It didn't occur to me to say it then, but no sign was posted on the door to or by the sauna. In addition, the unit was on and two men were in there. He said that they'd been having problems with these kinds of incidences and since the staff member saw us, I needed to give my bar code. I responded, exclaiming that the staff member was accusing me of something! Why is it you always think of the better thing to say after the fact? It did not occur to me to say that the guy had also made a homophobic remark and that this may be indicative of why he "tossed us out" and made such accusations; that he, based on some preconceptions, did something synonymous to the Salem Witch Trials of the 1600s. This all would probably have gone over his head. In any event, after more back and forth, I finally acquiesced and reluctantly submitted my bar code. I asked what would happen next, to which I was told I'd receive a call from one of the managers. He had said if I just admitted it there would be no investigation and I'd have my membership cancelled for only two weeks. What a deal! Except, there's nothing to admit. 

I still haven't received a call from the manager. 

Saturday, I was anxious to leave New York. I needed to get the hell out of dodge. I needed to forget about my life, love, the discriminations of a sexually conservative society, and work. So, I got on a train and made my way to Connecticut. Sophia picked me up. We caught up over drinks in Hartford, during which time a gentleman revealed the meanings of what a Monroe Transfer and a Filthy Ramirez are (the latter is his own coining, a variation on a Dirty Sanchez). If you are not easily offended, I suggest you look these up on urbandictionary.com. 

We ended up at a gay man's house party. He was hosting a gathering for Sophia's friend, who was going to shave her head that night for some specific and interesting purpose. Two by two, gay couples arrived. Sophia and I seemed we were the only single folk there. Having lived in Hartford some time back, I recognized some of the guys who entered. And finally, an old fling arrived with his now current boyfriend. Amused and bitter, I began downing drink after drink until finally, I found myself being told to enter into the next room. Everyone was gathering there. 

And like a burp, it spontaneously happened.

The woman who was shaving her head found herself, hair still unshaven, surrounded by a cohort of gay men who gawked in awe at her boyfriend bending down on one knee to propose to her. My jaw dropped and I clutched the invisible pearls which hung from my neck. I had escaped the constant reminder of being single in New York to find myself surrounded by gay couples staring at an event whose very definition is the ending of singlehood and the beginning of marriage. I wanted to vomit. I turned to Sophia. She understood my sentiments. I wanted to go. 

I found myself having one more drink in the kitchen before I left (free wine... eh, ya can't go wrong). I then realized in front of me were two single gay men who asked me who I knew and how I knew them. I told them who I knew, mentioning the name of the old fling. They asked how I knew him. Whether it was because he hadn't looked at me once that night (did I have the plague?) or because the alcohol, in combination with the irrevocable display of horror to which I had been witnessed, I simply said, "We fucked." The paused, and one finally said, "Wow, that's awkward." I replied, "Not really." After the past two weeks, and my previous evening, they only knew the beginnings of awkward. I was a pro. 

We left and enjoyed an evening of good food and dancing at the local gay bar, where I had previously worked. We journeyed to her home in the rural Connecticut where I slept to the sounds of the ringing in my ears. 

The next morning, instead of sirens, stereo bass, and obnoxious passers-by speaking louder than was necessary for a Sunday morning, I heard nothing. Absolutely nothing. I opened peeked behind the shade to see the morning light on frosted grass and tall trees. The room I slept in was home to countless works of created and collected pieces of art. It was surreal. It felt like a dream. So uncommon was all of this for me, I actually felt dizzy. I had to lay in bed for several minutes to gather my bearings. 

Waiting for the train to arrive later that morning, the bright light streaming into the arched windows of the New Haven train station seemed to me an old friend I hadn't spoken to in quite some time. It was serene. On the train back to reality, I began thinking about what was important to me. The closer I got to New York, the more lost I felt. 

My apartment seemed both familiar and alien. How did my life get me here? Wasn't this everything I wanted? I moved to New York after a tumultuous period in my life. I had worked so hard to get here. I moved her to get work, which I did, and fall in love, which I did, only to lose that love for one reason or another. Here I was in a place I did not want to be. I felt sick. My dark apartment, which barely allowed light into it, felt suppressive and lonely. 

And as I sat on my bed, listening to the medley of sounds of the outside world, I began to read. I spent time alone, reading, something I rarely find time to do. The last few pages of the book read, in so many words, as: 'sometimes you have to travel far to find what's right in front of you.'

It was like a light bulb had suddenly been turned on. For all the espousing I have done lately about being okay with me, I felt lost because the reality is, I am not okay with me. When we seek love so aggressively, it is doubtful that we will ever truly find it. At least, that's the case with me. Like every profile touting "man seeks this" or "man seeking that," I am seeking something... love... to compensate for some incompletion within myself. Not every moment needs to be read into, and not every thing has a symbolic significance or is a sign, but of this I am certain: everything about my life now is where it is now as the result of a series of events and experiences; I can only control my reaction to my life now and if I am dissatisfied with some part of it, I have the power to change that and to affect change. I will never find true love and happiness unless I find it within myself first, which means facing myself, in the mirror, alone, and seeing me for who I really am: a flawed and imperfect human being. And like the words in the book, my journey may take me far in my quest to find what is right in front of me... although, an evening in Connecticut seems to have done some of the trick at least.

Being single is not the end of the world. Love will come and go but throughout it, I can love myself. This may mean I need to spend more time saying I love you in the mirror and a lot less time saying "Man seeks love." 

The Good, the Bad, the Ugly... and the Comedy

Sometimes in life, you have to take two steps back to go three steps forward. In my case, it was more like falling down a mountain to face an exhaustive climb back to the top.

After my merry weekend with friends, I decided to face the music: work. Recently, work had become rather cumbersome to handle. In fact, life became difficult. My best friend’s premature death affected me more greatly than I realized. No amount of time alone, time with friends, shopping, listening to music, sex, drinking, or the like, or anything else lulled me into a sense of having completely processed his passing. I’m not sure anything ever will. I had gone through random moments of feeling “up,” and many intense, almost spasmodic sensations of hopelessness, despair, and grief. Work was the quite honestly the last thing on my mind and what with the holidays, time to process was replaced with time to give gifts and enjoy snow, so to speak.

Ever since it all began several months ago, I had fallen quickly into this lump. Life took over. I stopped going to the gym. I stopped caring about my appearance. I had more sleepless nights than I had decent night’s sleeps. I suppose all of that was normal. And so, at one point, during all of this, just after Alonzo passed, I texted my ex… the Ex. I asked him to come over. I didn’t tell him about what was going on. Whether it was a moment of weakness (we did not end on good terms, to say the least), or just wanting someone familiar (even though this familiar person never did satisfy my emotional needs), I irrationally asked him to come over… to cuddle. I needed the warmth. It wasn’t about sex. It was about feeling… less empty. He said he would come over. In typical fashion, he never did. No text. No call. Nothing. What did I expect? He had sent a text that next day, claiming he passed out, asking if we could get a drink or dinner. I didn’t respond. As usual, when I really needed him, he wasn’t there (I’m sure he’d say the same thing about me).

This past weekend, while looking for a bar with my newfound cohort, I texted him again. Only this time, it wasn’t for him to come over. In addition to bartending at a reputable restaurant in Harlem, as well as bartending at a few other places, the ex managed a bar on Friday and Saturday nights in a quaint French bistro-by-day space on Park Avenue in Midtown. I know this because I’d been there when he first began it in the fall. The ex and I had seen each other more this past autumn than in all of the years since we had not-so-officially broken up. He had even come to my house. There is a Fiona Apple song, Fast As You Can, that seems apropos for this: “I let the beast in too soon and then I even tried forgiving him, but it’s too soon, so I’ll fight again, again, again, again, again…” When he visited me, I served him tea. We chatted. I did not anticipate nor desire sex. Unexpectedly, this baby was most certainly and quite surprisingly thrown out with the bath water. At that time, he agreed to have dinner with me (don’t ask me why I wanted to, I still struggle with understanding that weird desire to return to the familiar, no matter how bad it was… and cue Rihanna’s We Fell in Love in a Hopeless Place). Needless to say, dinner never happened. Now, I hadn’t seen him before this visit to my place for quite some time. Fate, that old dog, has a sly sense of humor: I bumped into him later that same week (post our recent “hook up”). Even when I bumped into him quite unexpectedly at the local Starbucks very early in the morning while on my way to work, he said he wanted to take me on a date (his words, almost verbatim). Perhaps it was said out of nervousness, though. He whispered this to me while on an early-morning date; the date glanced me over and went back to his Grande-something-or-other. Oh, what a tangled web.

In October, just around Halloween, I bumped into him once again by chance in Chelsea. This was after or before having seen him at his bar, when, at one point, I waited until 5 in the morning to drive him home, thinking we’d chat and perhaps snuggle (I waited in vain!). As I walked down 8^th Avenue to run an errand, he was walking up it… with another lad… and they were clearly together, on a date. Now, life has its ironic twists. For example, when I moved unknowingly two blocks away from where the Ex now lives (with his now ex). Or when my Ex slept (multiple times) with a boy I introduced him to (in addition to many other “dalliances” while we were together). But none of these twists compared to the twist that this chance encounter would provide. I hadn’t even recognized the Ex. He stopped me first. He asked if I were going to the parade, to which I said no (I’d had a long night, I told him in an effort to illicit some less-than-warm and fuzzy-response). Whether out of surprise, revulsion, or sheer and utter disgust that this man, my Ex, who claimed (a nice way of saying lied, omitted, side-stepped) he had been too busy the one or two times I asked him about dinner, was now on a date. I left them, ran my errands, and found myself looking for food. With all of the restaurants in all of New York City, I happened to crave sushi. As it turned out, so did they. At the same sushi restaurant I had meandered into.

Fast forward back now to my cohort searching for a bar. When I texted him asking where exactly his bar was located, in the hopes I’d go there with my friends and get free cocktails, I didn’t realize two things: 1. Without realizing it, and without him having told me, his attempt to manage this sophisticated gay night at a French bistro on Park Avenue had seemingly failed, and 2. He had been out of the country when I sent this text.

I went to work, again, reluctantly, after this weekend of frivolity, and found myself in dire straits: for the first time in several years, I had a severe asthma attack. You see, this weekend had been usual. It had been unseasonably warm one day and freezing the next. I had been out both days, which, in combination with libation, and the polluted air surrounding my school, produced a violent asthma attack. Unbeknownst to me, my inhaler was expired (by nearly five years). I left work early that day, went to my doctor and received a new prescription.

That night, while struggling to regain my breath, I decided I needed to take the next day off from work. This turned out to be a very necessary course of action. Almost immediately, I received a text from him. He said he was deboarding his plane as we spoke and asked when I had sent the text (about where his bar was). I lied and said around New Years. He replied saying he had been out of the country (in France, as it turned out) for the past two and some odd weeks. I asked him what was going on to which he strangely suggested we grab a drink. I said we could do that at some point and inquired again as to what was going on. He said he didn’t want to tell me like this, over text.

And then the bomb was dropped. That moment I mentioned… that ironic twist was set forth upon me as a pestilence upon a people. Over a text message, my Ex, the Ex, the one who I had previously proposed to, the one who had cheated on me dozens of times (although he’d say I was exaggerating), the one who changed my life in more ways than I care to discuss here at present, informed me: he had gotten married. The Ex had married the guy with whom I saw him walking up 8^th Avenue. He had married “Frenchie.”

My mouth rarely gapes (no comments from the peanut gallery, please). I believe I heard it hit my polished wood floors when I read and reread this text message. I sat down and immediately informed Lauren and then Jason, whose logic and rationality weren’t the remedies I was seeking at that moment, despite their necessity. I quickly hung up both calls to let myself process the sensation of finding out the person you had convinced yourself you had fallen deeply in love with was getting married. Evidently, it had all happened rather suddenly. I found out that the Ex had proposed to Frenchie within days of meeting him. ‘It was some past-life shit’ he had later explained. It was love. I felt immediately comfortable with him (the implication in the tone with which he said this was one which insinuated that I had put on airs and did not feel or cause comfort).

Our texting went on back and forth and into the next day. As I attempted to rest and recuperate, he and I argued over text and finally over the phone. He said he had forgiven himself for everything that happened with us. Appalled, I replied wondering where the hell I was in that conversation. He said he had tried… once… I blurted, ‘Bullshit! You should have tried harder!’ He recounted several examples of experiences we had which were clearly fabrications – did he think that if he said it, I would forget? Had he come to a place where his own lies had turned into self-reinforcing delusions? Somehow, we hung up the phone and parted ways.

The week went by at work, rather uneventfully. Somehow, I managed to find humor in the entire thing. I even went to Bikrham Yoga to sweat out my angst. And then, Friday came.

A resolution I made to myself. Essentially, I see so many gay men do regularly… Hell… what I see so many do regularly: put others’ needs before their own in a way that is unhealthy and resulting in pain for one or both parties. This process comes from a place, not out of altruism or selflessness, but out of insecurity, pain, low self-worth. I have been guilty of this, and these past few months, having fallen into a rut, had become vulnerable to this in a way that was reminiscent of me circa 25 years old. Had I not grown? Had I not grown out of that ‘prematurity’ and moved into a new phase of growth and personal evolution? I resolved, in this New Year, to promote my personal wellbeing and growth… to take care of me. In doing so, I’d invariably bring light and love into the lives of everyone around me. This was something Alonzo did, and tried to help everyone he loved to do as well.

Friday afternoon, while preparing to leave work to attend a birthday gathering of friends, I received a text from the Ex. He asked what I was doing that night and if I would like to attend, with him, a gathering. His friend was starting his new job at a restaurant in Pelham, a town in Westchester County. He said we could take the train, though it was far. For some reason, I said sure. I asked him where exactly it was, and he explained. I asked if he was asking me to go because he knew I’d want to drive and thus, he’d in turn get a ride. He didn’t respond right away. About an hour later, I was home. I texted him again to confirm the night's plan. He actually called. He said there would be many of his friends from our neighborhood there and it would be great for me to meet people. His words, verbatim: “You’re a catch; you shouldn’t be alone.” I almost burst into laugher at the irony! My Ex… the Ex… who only days before told me about his recent marriage… was attempting to play matchmaker? Where are the Golden Girls when you need a friend?

He acknowledged that he felt as though he were making a case. I explained I had no idea why that was; I had already agreed to attend. We hung up. I could have predicted this next: he informed me that his friend would be riding with us. One friend seemed to turn into two. Finally, a few hours later, after resting, I was dressed and driving the two blocks to pick him up. Incidentally, he informed me that it was just us. The cold dissuaded his friends from coming out. He then proceeded to tell me about a friend, a guy, who happened to be giving him attitude because he was upset I was going. I asked if they had slept together. His answer was they hadn’t. His tone suggested they had. Aye, me. He then went on to discuss the kid’s ass, his husband’s ass, his husband’s family, his trip to France, etc. etc. etc. I sat, at first jealous, then annoyed, then bored, then listless.

We arrived at his friend’s little Asian Fusion restaurant in Pelham, oddly very close to my hometown. While looking for parking, the Ex commented that he might be looking to get a place up there… he’d like his own apartment and would like to live outside the city. I commented that this was very unlike him, considering my experience in constantly needing to entertain (and pay for) him while I was living as a student in Connecticut. Long story. He said simply, “I’ve changed.” I began to wonder, had he? Had he truly changed? Had I truly changed? Can anyone that’s been so viscerally affected by another person as we both seemed to have been ever change in the eyes of the other person… or for that matter, in our own eyes? He had acknowledged that we had been toxic for each other while together…

I had met his friend before at No Parking, a gay bar in Washington Heights, and had bumped into him here and there in the neighborhood. The Ex had seemed to have forgotten this (so much for my making an impression on him!). We decided to drink and eat at the bar since the restaurant was small and crowded. I ordered a cosmo. The bartender suggested I instead have a pear martini. When he poured me the drink, he warned, “Be careful, this drink will top you quickly,” to which I was forced to retort, “Don’t worry… I’m used to being topped.” I smiled at the thought of the brazen flirtation, unusual for the Ex to see ever, which he had just then observed.

We sat and talked. I told him agreed that we were toxic for each other. When I felt ready, when it felt sincere, I told him I was happy he was happy. And I was. And I am. Everyone deserves happiness. Everyone deserves second chances… third chances… and to a certain extent, past the bitterness… I am glad that he was able to forgive himself, although only he can truly know if that is truth or not. We showed each other pictures on our phones. He bragged in his own way about having gone to a Cyndi Lauper True Colors event and having sat in on Madonna’s back-up dancer selection event (the Ex had friends in high places). I showed him pictures on my phone, including those of cute boys, on which I paused at length, smiling (I smile now thinking about what I bitch I was purposely being).

Several libations later, the check came. The Ex suggested that I get this bill and that the next day, I accompany him to a Brownstone party, where he would just before then, buy me dinner. I told him I might flake on him and suggested we split that evening’s check. We had a little quibble about my newfound ability to flake to which he finally said he didn’t have money in his account and was waiting for his check to come in, which would be in the next day. I nearly heard my mouth hit the floor once again. I wanted to say, “Are you serious?” but instead, offered my card to the barman and told him to put it all on my card. Inside, I shook my head. If I were chatting on-line, I would have written, “omg, smh.”

We left. His friend accompanied us on our ride back into the City. And, as usual, the Ex in his own way, which once seemed tactful and manipulative, but now seems painfully obvious and pathetic, commented on the agreement he and his husband made about being apart from one another… how desires don’t cease… saying, in so many words, that he and his husband, like so many gay male couples, had an understanding. I pretended not to hear this and continued driving under a guise of drunken focus.

We dropped off his friend. I asked him what he wanted to do and he suggested we go back to his place, watch a movie and have a drink. I agreed. His apartment looked very different from the first and last time I’d seen it a year earlier, when I helped him move in with his now ex. We went into his room (he pointed out his new bed). I noticed his bank account up on his laptop, which listed an account as having a negative balance (again, see “smh”). He offered me Bourbon, a drink, which, in two sips, had me three-sheets. We undressed and changed into shorts and lay down to watch The Grudge. I was spooning him. Whether he felt uncomfortable, or was tired of waiting for me to make a move, or wanted to entice me, he asked to switch places so he could spoon me. Was he sympathetic now? Did he feel bad for having neglected me several weeks prior when I asked him to come over to hold me? After all, over dinner earlier that night I had explained in so many words what had recently happened. Whatever the case was, he held me for a moment. Finally, knowing he would probably not make a move (so he wouldn’t have to feel as guilty, since I initiated), I, in a drunken haze, turned over and kissed him. He kissed back. He kissed back hard.

A few hours and two times later, the sun was rising and he was getting ready to go to an early-morning shift. I lay in his bed. I stared at nothing and thought of nothing. I didn’t feel sadness. I didn’t feel happiness or euphoria. I wondered if the agreement the Ex had made with his husband included sleeping with ex’s or not. Then again, maybe it was just further justification to my long-held argument: the Ex never really did love me and very little could convince me that what we had, on his end, was truly love. Maybe not on my end, either. The Ex had returned from a shower. I gazed blankly at his naked body, looking at how it had changed and stayed the same. I found myself still physically attracted to him in some ways, but on a whole, something was very different.

He said he’d call me later on that day. I would come by his restaurant, pick him up, we’d get food, and go to this Brownstone party. I said sure. Something felt different, though. I had said it before. I had said it before to friends… I felt that this would be the last time I’d ever see him again.

We parted ways in front of my car. I did not offer a ride. I drove home and went immediately to my bed to take a nap. While resting in my own bed, old and weathered as it was in comparison to his brand-new bed, the sex we’d had wasn’t nearly as fulfilling or as satisfying as it been in the past. Was I different? Was my body changed? Was he? Was it because I was drunk? He certainly didn’t let me top him, though I tried (was that his way of remaining faithful to his husband?). The sex we had was just… okay. I realized then that the power and control he once had over me… the illusion of his sincerity, wonderment, beauty, humanity, and loveliness, as in relation to me, had disappeared and faded. He was just a hookup. Even if he had fulfilled some last-ditch attempt to feel like he still had it… like he could still ‘get’ me… unlike every single other time… I didn’t, in my heart of hearts, feel like I gave anything up or lost my dignity. Every other time, something inside me died. This time… I felt stronger. I felt better. I felt like I had said a goodbye that was a long time in the making.

I woke up from my nap and met my friend Sophia at Grand Central. We enjoyed a wonderful day of brunch, the MoMa, coffee, Chelsea Market, eyebrow threading, drinks, and dinner at Catch in Meatpacking. And when I went home that night, I fell into a peaceful slumber. The next day, I ran errands, went to the gym, spent some time with my cousin, and met my friend Natasha out for drinks. We chatted. I met her friends. I laughed. And after all was said and done, I decided it was high time I have a drink, by myself, at what it more and more becoming a stomping ground: G-Lounge in Chelsea. I arrived there on Sunday night and ordered myself a cosmo. I chatted with some guys (who made strange sounds in the bathroom while I was urinating in an attempt to make me ‘pee-shy.’ (It didn’t work, just FYI). And after one delicious drink, left, by myself,

On route home, I decided to take the West Side Highway. I pulled up to a light. While idling, I realized the man in the next car was staring at me. The light turned green and I sped off. At the next red light, the man was again next to me. I nodded to acknowledge him. He nodded back. I turned to face forward and smiled. I had to see what this was about. I faced his direction again and rolled down my window. “What’s up?” I asked. His response? “Horny as fuck. What’s good?” For a third time in a week, I nearly heard my mouth hit the floor. I nearly blurted out laughing. “Oh yeah,” I commented. “Yeah! Let’s get it in. Follow me.” The light turned green. I rolled up my window. As he pulled off to the right, to have an anonymous rendezvous alongside the West Side Highway, I glanced his way, and sped off, smiling. Sometimes things are sexy and hot. Sometimes things are corny. This was one of those times when for me, the line he used fell in the latter category.

I drove home along the West Side, admiring the water, enjoying the music on the radio. And that night, I went to bed, alone, and content. It was the perfect end to what had been an interesting weekend. Sometimes… when you least expect it, fate forces you to grow up. Sometimes, you have to fall down to the bottom of the mountain in order to see the great view you actually have.