Inevitable

I think that there are only two things the future holds: old age and loneliness. 

I don't say this with anger or even disappointment, but only acceptance.

The Christians in my past life might say that 'Christ will always be with you' and that is a guarantee that you'll never be alone.  But that's just a function of how well you can convince or delude yourself in that moment. 

I have been thinking a lot about old people in retirement homes.  It makes me a little sad about the strangers they are forced to spend their time with.  I wonder if there will be gay retirement homes in the future and whether they will be more like how gay bars are, with more of a sense of community.  Gay people are used to strike up friendships and are more experienced with fending for ourselves.  Will it convivial or am I just fooling myself into thinking that there will be future without crushing loneliness.

I don't know.  If I think about it it makes me understand why stories of old people being swindled by a 'kindly stranger' happen. I wonder if  'swindled' is the right word.  Isn't it a sort of a trade? For attention or companionship? I don't know.

I do hope that a gay retirement home where people sing show tunes, carry on over a cocktail, discuss books and movies or maybe even bust out in the latest dance move, creaky joints and all, exists somewhere.  Somewhere over the rainbow or in a wardrobe or down a rabbit hole.

Sometimes

Sometimes I'm just sad. 

If I Wake Up Paralyzed

If I wake up paralyzed, please learn the following:

One blink means "yes".

Two blinks means "no".

Three blinks means "I love you".

Four blinks means "Please let me die."

Familiarity

It's true what they say: familiarity breeds contempt, or at the very least the kind of easy annoyance one might get with finding socks on the floor or a herpes sore on the night before a hot date.

After years of being together and hoping that you can change somebody, you find that in fact, nobody changes and that quirk that your boyfriend has?  It's no longer quirky but downright annoying.  I mean,  a dutch oven may be funny a couple of times, but seriously, I don't think I need a sheet thrown over me and breathe hot fart when I am watching The Vampire Diaries. 

The funny thing is that you would think that after years of being in a relationship together one may tend to be more forgiving of your partner because you know them better, it seems like it's just the opposite.  You can no longer forgive them for being them.

All the things that I thought were funny about me are no longer funny.  I'm just Gallagher with the same tired watermelon and mallet, hacking away, with no laughs from the audience.

Time Travel

"How To Live Safely in a Science Fiction Universe" by Charles Yu.

Charles' father disappeared many years ago after inventing a time machine. Charles jumps into the time machine in an effort to find out about his own past and look for clues to his father's whereabouts. 

In the science of time travel that his father invented, the manifestation of the time machine exists as the novel in my hands,  ergo, the book is the time machine and Charles Yu is traveling through time in it. I found this concept of book/time machine quite original and intriguing.

It is possible, in principle, to construct a universal time machine from no other components than (i) a piece of paper that is moved in two directions through a recording element, backward and forward, which (ii) performs only two basic operations, narration and the straightforward application of the past tense.

It's a surprisingly easy to follow despite the jargon in it and has a deep emotional and touching core.  The scenes where he interacts with the past versions of his mother and father are quite affecting. 

I don't miss him anymore. most of the time, anyway. I want to. I wish I could but unfortunately, it's true: time does heal. It will do so whether you like it or not, and there's nothing anyone can do about it. If you're not careful, time will take away everything that ever hurt you, everything you have ever lost, and replace it with knowledge. Time is a machine: it will convert your pain into experience.

I quite enjoyed the book. My only wish that some of the longer science was edited because while it sounded elegant and persuasive,  ultimately I was less interested in the "technology" and wanted to just move along to the next scene.

Three Reasons

There are three reasons why I don't enjoy cooking:

1.  I hate touching any kind of raw meat.  Raw meat reminds me of the animal that it used to be: the soft/firmness, the slight give when you cut into it; the non/smell of the thing you're cutting that I equate with death.

I have to cut meat into tiny pieces because large hunks of meat makes me think of the side of cow/pig/donkey that it came from.

Sometimes this bothers me so much that even after I finish with the cutting or slicing and I am way into the pleasure of the cooking and the delicious smell of roasting or frying is in the room, the memory of the raw meat will waft into my brain and lodge itself in there.  It makes me queasy just thinking of it.

2.  I have difficulty following recipes which I think are geared more towards someone who is generally less picky than me,  with my aversion to dairy, organ meat, most vegetables.

3.  I'd rather watch TV.

This is What I Think

This is what I think happens when we die.  There is a moment of great fidgeting about and then the people who loved us grieve for a moment and then get on with their lives. 

There may be some people who thrash about more than others (in the dying and the grieving),  but mostly people just move on.

Even if my friends and family do a scene like the one in the cemetery in Steel Magnolias,  it would all be over in about 20 minutes.

I want to try and think about how I shouldn't obsess about death but ultimately I just think that it just sucks.  The dying.  Worse, that when I die,  I will have wrinkles and uncontrollable nose hair.

For a minute, Brian's mom Linda came to my mind.  One minute she was watching tv, some mediocre 80s movie probably, like Short Circuit or Halloween 3, and the next she's gasping for air.

I remember the first time I met her.  I was some stranger her son brought to a family holiday,  July 4th,  I think.  She probably didn't think I would be still in her life 10 years later.  I certainly didn't. 

When Linda died, it was the first time I had been so close to death.

The only other time was when I was 10 or so, my great grandmother died and my mom made me go to the casket and look at her.  I had bad dreams later that night.

In my mind,  I can see Linda puffing away on her cigarette while making thanksgiving dinner, jabbering away with her gravelly Elaine Stritch voice. But that's just a lie my head tells me.  She doesn't really exist anymore, anywhere. Just like when I die, I may flit into someone's mind for a minute and then disappear when they start making dinner, spill their coffee or dab ointment on their herpes sore.

Why Do I Even

Why do I even blog anymore? Perhaps because it is the only space where nobody (I know) ever sees me.

My Twitter merges to my Facebook feed. Every photo I take with Instagram flows into Tumblr and Google+.

Here nobody hears my thoughts. I can talk to myself, in my head, here. It comforts me to know I can still think like this.

Is it weird that sometimes I don't think that I exist as myself unless I write my thoughts down?

I feel that the meat of me and the thought of me and the personality of me are three different things. The thought of me is what's here.

When I am gone, only this me will remain.

You'll Remember

I told him as he looked at me in disgust, "One day when I'm dead,  you'll remember me every time you smell somebody fart. "

Style Icon

Improbable as this sounds, one of my style icons is Woody Allen.  The thick black frames,  the corduroy pants, the white shirts.  It evokes in me the image of intellectual sophistication.  Urbane yet accessible.  Condescending but amiable in a way that makes you feel grateful for being looked down on.

You don't think that there's a look to this but there is.  Among others:

White oxford shirts
Glen-plaid jackets
Herringbone overcoats
Black turtlenecks
Loafers
Cableknit sweaters
The aforementioned corduroy pants

All of these I love and cultivate to shore up my crushing insecurity and doubt.

If I had more confidence, maybe I could happy in lowbrow sweatpants or plain old unintellectual Henleys. I wish I could be that carefree guy-next-door who doesn't care what he wears.  So beautiful in his carelessness. I wish I could be that guy. I really do.