In the Park Again

18 July 98 ~9:10 pm Friday

In the park again, wondering why I don’t get out more often. I picked up a little trash tonight, but there really wasn’t much to pick up. Now I sit listening to Kiss 107.5, Planet Soul doing “Set You Free,” backed up by a solid, droning chorus of cicadas and crickets.

I wonder again about the soul of gay Memphis. I wonder who I really am — am I just treading water here? I feel like I’m in an edgy place of transition at Wild Oats. Do I really want to stay there? Do I really have a choice, without changing my profession? Does my money really allow me any choice?

Remember: I always have a choice. As long as I have free will, I have a choice — I can write my destiny. At rock bottom — following Thoreau — one can either suck out the marrow of life or one can pick the meat off its bones. One can either kick around in the shallows of the river or wade out into the main current and sink feet down into the mud until one hits bedrock. So says one person.


Right now, I’m asking myself what I’m doing here. I have groceries in the car that are getting warm and yet still I sit in this car, unable to relax. I have the radio on, though I’m unable to concentrate on it. I’m much more interested in a couple of cute guys caught in the cruising loop, seemingly not paying me any attention. I want to join in, but I’m still not sure how or if I should. (Note — interesting slip of the pen here: “want to join in.” So perhaps I just crave attention, friendship, companionship, contact and though I hope to find it here, on some level I still doubt it is here.)

The only interest so far comes from a man who probably is mostly curious why I am sitting here.

If I were to see me from the outside, I might wonder who I am, whether I’m an undercover, why I persist in sitting here but refuse to join. I might think, in fact, that I’m an asshole. I might.

Age Is No Barrier To Connection

28 June 98 Sunday ~12:57 am

I touched a raw nerve (in me) when I was talking on the phone to R. tonight.  I was telling him about going to Overton to pick up trash because I have had anxiety attacks, and I said that such activities helped cool my mind and quiet my thoughts. Then I told him that I’d reconsidered what I’d said on Thursday night about this 18-year-old he might be interested in.

What I’d said the other night was that this guy could be too young and immature to deal with the intensity that is R. What I chose to say tonight was that I really didn’t think that age should make any difference, based on my relationship with Greg, who was 19 when I was 24. I said that all that really matters is that he makes you happy and that you find him interesting. I said, in short, that age was basically irrelevant to other concerns.

Then as R. was saying, “Yes, yes – but of course,” I felt my face flush. I felt the sting of pent-up grief and sadness in my eyes, and I thought I was going to become unglued. I don’t know why — nor do I know how I suppressed my feelings or how to reach them again. I think I need a good cry, among other things. I closed my eyes while R. was talking and felt grief well up from within. I pulled up G.’s picture in my mind, and the grief receded. Did I suppress genuine grief by trying to put it on a person who wasn’t any longer worthy of that focus?

Later in the conversation I told R. about my brief dating relationship with S. (who, ironically enough, later became R.’s live-in beau) and how we ultimately proved incompatible because he made me feel like he didn’t want me in his life, just in his bed. I realized just then, I think, that I do very much crave romantic friendship, though I frequently deny that I do, both to myself and to others.

Orange is the color of the root chakra, natch!

Sitting here, reading Shirley MacLaine’s Out on a Limb, I see from behind what looks like a sexy man.  I think at first that it is Steven, but now I think “too tall, too thin” to be him.

It was him.  He’s very lean — lost a lot of bulk, I think.  I wanted to see if it was him, so I walked up and said hello.  I don’t have a fierce crush on him anymore, which is a very good thing.

Another intriguing man just walked in.  He was at least part Asian and very androgynous.  He wore tight orange flares and a white shirt and I think he had on eyeliner.  Very hot.  He was here with a buddy and two pretty girls and all spoke another language — perhaps Japanese.  His buddy has a cute smile and shaggy main of dark hair.

I wonder if the orange pants  are his most striking feature.

Orange is such a root chakra color!  I see him walk and think about fucking.  Even his buddy — dressed in jeans and a casual T-shirt — makes me want to fuck.  Oddly enough, I think they’re tourists.  The more I look at his face — I can’t see his pants now from where I’m sitting — the less attractive he becomes.  I guess it really was the pants.

3 Aug 00  Thurs ~3:30 pm


Had my second rebirthing session last night, and again, it was powerful.  Our discussion about familiar relationship issues and birth events left me with a raft load of questions for Mom.

During our discussion, D. became perhaps the first person I’ve ever told anything close to the full truth about what happened between William S. and I.  I’ve slowly come to recognize our relationship as death affirming and William’s relationship to me as abusive and manipulative.  I don’t think I have ever told anyone else precisely that.  We began to explore the relationship between that abusive interaction and my more recent intimacy issues.

During my breathing session, there came a moment where I pulled the sheet over my head and began to breathe faster and more frantically.  Eventually, D. pulled the sheet down gently and asked what was going on.  (This was during a song called, “Deeper Peace.”)  When he pulled the sheet down, I was in a place where I felt ever so much like crying, and I told him so.

D. said, “It’s okay to cry — it’s okay to feel — to feel what you’re feeling.”

Then I started to cry, hard wracking sobs I couldn’t control.

D. asked me what was going on, and I said that I felt like hiding.

He asked why, and I said, “because I want to die,” which was what came to my lips unbidden.

D. asked why I wanted to die, and I choked out the words, in a voice so anguished and tiny he had to ask me to repeat them: “because I’m no good,” an admission he termed the “death urge.”  While I cried, the music continued in the background, the woman now singing something like, “you’re a joy and a miracle.”

Later, we talked about my long-running, deep-seated sadness that somehow I”deserve” to get AIDS and die because I’m gay — which in retrospect is utterly untrue and unnecessary — a true death urge.

According to D., death is a thought like any other.  If we weren’t “programmed” (socially) to expect death, we wouldn’t have to experience it, in D.’s estimation.  I brought in Dean’s conviction that “every unloving thought is toxic.”  D. contended that those who convince themselves that they will die at 54 “just like their parents did” will often find themselves doing just that, where as those who expect to live longer often do as well.

3 July 2000 Monday ~8:15 am