Saturday, March 15, 2008


May, 1983, graduated college, drove up from Alabama back home to Chicago with the parents, packed my bags and within a couple of days, moved to NYC. Had a job lined up, an apartment sublet from a college buddy who had graduated the year before. Was very exciting, needless to say, to be here at age 22, late nights at The Bar, Boy Bar. Also, I lived in what turned out to be a very gay building on east 15th street. And I loved hanging out on the front stoop, even with grumpy old man chastising us for blocking his way into the building; but the nonstop views of all sorts of people walking by..... i used to keep notebooks. I'd sit on the stoop, or in a corner of The Bar, or over in the West Village leaning against a building, and write. Often letters to friends, and family; often just to myself. I think the thing that grabs me most when I occasionally have the courage to look back into those notebooks, is despite the excitement of the big new city, and all the interesting people, and foods, and smells, and the rest, was the overwhelming sense of loneliness.

And the good thing about keeping those notebooks, or even simply remembering what's in them, is to realize its just part of life; more importantly, my life. Loneliness just is. You have it when you're alone, and when you are with a bunch of friends, and even when you have a loving and wonderful boyfriend. Sometimes you just want to cry, and be sad, and it just is. But you've been through it before, you'll go through it again, and you know that (so far) you'll always get through it. But sometimes it's deeper, and scarier, and its not just winter blues, or job stress, or arguing constantly with the one you love, but you have this sense that things just ain't right, and you are clueless, and seemingly helpless, to do anything about it. You flip through channels, surf websites and look at naughty stuff as distraction, but... it's procrastination.

Nearing 50, and just now having a "real job" and health insurance (OK, I've had them before, but this blog started during the unemployed years period, continued thru the underemployed period, and well, you get the idea), someone who wants to plan a future together, and yet.... I'm lonely and lazy and lethargic, and aimless, and..... it's not self-pity, this writing it all out - it's been too long where I've tried this space for sorting thru things, so skip on to the dirty pics if you must, this is for me. I have to get to that point, that point where I am not stuck on "what is the point of all this" but the point where "all this" doesn't matter, where I'm not stuck on analyzing, but to a place that sometimes comes back, a place where I am both OK with just running out the door and enjoying the sun shining and a walk in the park, and have also done a bit of planning for the future - not scary retirement fund stuff (although that might be wise to do soon), but something in terms of a trip, something in the near future to look forward to... because lately, and for too long, it's all been about dread. Dreading the next day of work, and all its stoopid silly problems and crisises, and the dread of the next argument with the boyfriend where you worry who is going to say something that just can't be taken back.

perhaps i need to get back to notebook-me; off the computer, and the aches and pains of my body contorting to it, here and at work, and more mobile-me with a notebook, getting out of this apartment, and into the world, and maybe that will help with some movement forward. I've got plenty of neglected friends who I need to get in touch with, and NYC has plenty of places to sit and park, and as much as I think I am in a financial crisis, i'm not, really. income is coming in, rent is paid, and I can work out the debt slowly and surely as I have been, I just need some patience and perspective, which i am not getting, here, at this desk, in this room, this room i spend most of my days in for the past 14ish years.

So, um, that's lovely Ray Medina (AKA R.W. Stone) above. I love the hairy forearms, but I suspected the lovely hard but smooth chest may not be real; a bit of research - well, plugging in one of my favorite movies, Steve Scott's Wanted, the opening scene with AL Parker and jailcellmate Will Seagers are watching poor sweet Ray being forced at gunpoint to give warden Jack Wrangler head. And there he is, on his knees, Jack's schlong out of his fly, hanging in front of his hairy body - yup, there's the proof, hairystud Ray.

The sun is shining, the birds are chirping, and it's time to get up, turn this off, and get out.