High school confidential

I'm over my self-pity at the moment. I don't apologize for it. They were authentic feelings. Feelings that make me human, worth loving and reinforce that I am a deeply caring person. I'd be concerned if I didn't have moments like my last blog. Enough said.

Things are looking up! I may have a new HUGE contract to work on, which would get me through the next four months - especially the two months when I have the summer off as a teacher.

And Mr. Rastafarian came by again today to take a second look at my place. He likes it, and he's going to be my new roommate as of June 1. Yeah! He's a cutie. Not my type sexually, but a sweet guy. He does yoga and swims with the Vancouver gay swim team. I think I'll be totally at home with him.

I got back some evaluations from my last term. It's pretty strange you know, these evaluations. I hate them and think they're unscientific. From my Saturday class, who hardly spoke during the whole term, I got 4.8 and 4.8 out of 5.0 for the course and me as a teacher. But my Thursday night class, who seemed to love me, I only got 3.8/4.1. At the end of my Thursday night class, everyone shook my hand saying how much they learned and enjoyed the class, yet I got the worst evaluation from them. My Saturday class hardly said a word to me as they left, and yet they gave me nearly perfect points. I don't get it.

I teach my class exactly the same way, every time, so I don't know why there would be such a huge division of opinion. One time, I loved teaching a class, had a great time and the students were totally engaged. I got a horrible evaluation from them. Other times I teach classes where no one seems to enjoy themselves, I hate teaching them, and get a brilliant evaluation. I feel like taking action on the college to find a better evaluation method.

One thing I think they should do is evaluate the evaluations according to the grade the student ends up with. What I find is... the students who get the highest grades enjoy the class and my instruction the most. Those who do more poorly evaluate my class and me more poorly. After five years of teaching, this is my experience. There are those less talented, so they don't learn as much and complain more. And then there are those who are talented, learn a lot, and complain much less.

I always have gorgeous, intelligent and brilliant women in my class. It's really a shame I'm not straight. I'd be happily married by now. It's more rare that I find a brilliant sexy guy in my class who I'm attracted to. One woman in my class is so gorgeous, vivacious, smart, sexy and engages me with wonderful conversation, that I nearly want to jump her bones. The tiny straight part of me just wants to cling and jump into her and share my life with her. She's the kind of girl you want to hold while she talks to you, because it's an extension of the way you feel about her. But I'm gay, and it doesn't work that way.

Maybe... just maybe... if she dominated me, forced me into embarrassing situations where I'd have my clothes off with a girl... I wonder. Maybe if she threw me around, said, "Stop being a whoosy, get those clothes off and let me suck your cock, boy. You don't know what you're missing with a pussy," I'd consider being straight. If she fucked me back as I fucked her, hmmm... I like it when a woman says, "I'm going to fuck YOU, boy. Don't think you're dominating me." Maybe I need to hire a dominatrix to have my first straight sexual experience? It would be way more simple being straight. I always meet gorgeous women who are worth having a long term relationship with. I just never meet men like this. If anyone has advice, I'd love it if you e-mailed me. Should I hire a female dominatrix just for the experience?

Nevertheless, I do have three cute guys in my classes. Unfortunately I'm not entirely sexually attracted to them, but I do like their personalities. They look me straight in the face, hang onto my every word, ask questions. They're very cute, but too thin. Maybe I should say four guys. The one guy who is obviously a genius, and looks like Chrisonomicon, is too unimpressed with me for words. He's always two steps ahead of me. I'm unable to make him laugh. I seriously wonder if anyone ever impresses him. It must be hard to be a genius, because you're rarely stimulated. I really don't think I've met any student as bright as him.

But this one guy, who's actually from Iraq, is surprisingly sexy. He makes comments that are very insightful and unique. He's got a very cute boyish face, and handsome masculine forearms. I checked him over more thoroughly in today's class, and he's got something going on, you know? He doesn't make me intimidated, like the other guy in last term. Instead, I feel like squeezing him.

Enough of "High School Confidential," by Rough Trade. (By the way, I loved that song in my teens.)

Here's the lyrics for all of you boys who are too young to remember it:

HIGHSCHOOL CONFIDENTIAL
She's a cool blonde scheming bitch
She makes my body twitch
Walking down the corridor
You can hear her stilettos click
I want her so much I feel sick
The girl can't help it
She really can't help it now
It's like high school high school confidential
High school high school confidential

Teenage Brandos stalk her in the halls
They tease her with cat calls
She's a combination Anita Ekberg Mamie Van Doren
Dagmar high school confidential, high school
High school confidential

What's the principal doing with her
Who's that guy, is he screwing with her
What's her perfume? Tigress by Faberge
It makes me cream my jeans when she comes my way
High school high school confidential
High school high school confidential

She drives a candy pink Cadillac
If I don't get her soon I'll have a heart attack
When she flashes me a look
I wanna burn my books
Give up high school
High school confidential

Missing him

I'm missing BC. I'm sitting here on a Friday night, alone, feeling sad. Crying a little. Wondering if I made a big mistake in letting BC go. It's been four months already. I was really depressed for the first 1.5 months, felt better after, and now this May I'm feeling sad again.

I miss how comfortable I felt with him. We didn't even need to speak at times, because we "knew" each other. Everyone told us we had similar "energy." On one of our first dates, we were having dinner together and a woman at the next table asked if we were brothers, because our "energy" was so similar.

I admit I didn't treat him well all the time. I feel guilty about this now. I was so afraid of becoming attached to him, because he didn't want a monogamous or long term relationship. So I tried to distance myself at times from him. A part of me always was afraid of when he'd end our relationship. So I never felt entirely safe.

Of course I did become attached anyway.

I wonder... if I had treated him consistently better, would he have wanted a long term relationship with me?

To be honest, he wasn't relationship material for me. I'm beginning to remember the things I didn't like. His lack of commitment. Always late. Afraid to show affection in public. Afraid to invite me to straight friend's parties, in case someone realized he was gay. His obsessive worrying over his work, what people thought of him at work. His promiscuity and the dozens of guys all over he could hook up with and have sex with. He wasn't terribly intelligent, either, academically. It was hard for him to meet me on the same level of conversation.

He was a bit of a crazymaker I guess. On the one hand, he treated me like the best lover and friend you can imagine. On the other hand, he didn't. We had so much fun together - camping, staying at b&b's, exploring the islands, hiking, going to Maui, having friends over for dinner, watching movies on his futon, washing our cars, changing our oil, me showing him the computer. He has a beautiful voice, soothing, calming, gentle. He was a great lover. All my friends loved him, his friends liked me.

I've gotten into this horrible fantasy that he'll call me this month.

But he's got a new boyfriend, who's really nice, I've heard. He's moved on.

Why's it so difficult? I wish it was easier to hate him, and realize he's a bad choice. It's too complicated. He's one of the nicest men, one the best relationships I've ever had, and I have too many loving and beautiful memories, and it makes it hard for me to let go.

I'm worried that I won't meet anyone as good ever again.

Wherever you are BC, I love you. And I'm sorry.

****

I know I always feel this way with ex-boyfriends. I go through this process every time. Yet I always meet someone new, someone wonderful, perhaps someone closer to wanting to commit.

I need to get my life in order. Continue to work out, exercise, do things I love like cycling, hiking, traveling. I need to focus on getting more contract work, opening myself to meeting new friends, creating new and interesting experiences, staying healthy, eating healthy, journaling, being the kind of guy I'd like to be with. It's a lot of work. I need to believe it's worth the effort.

I need to remember I'm a good guy.

Mounting a Royal Canadian Police

He picked me up in his Porsche, with leather and wood interior, and drove me over to Richmond at race speeds, causing me to hold onto the ceiling strap. I'd already decided he was an adrenaline junkie: it was confirmed when he parked on a side road, about 100 metres away from a Vancouver International Airport landing strip.

He was as excited as a kid to be showing me his discovery. The sun was setting and the sky was on fire with golds and oranges. He was about 12 years older than me, a handsome Scandanavian man with blue eyes and military short blond hair. Average height with a muscular build.

We only waited a couple minutes before a huge passenger plane passed overhead. Landing wheels, roaring jet engines, flashing landing lights and sprawling wings. It seemed like it was only 10 feet above us before it glided onto the runway. I was impressed by the experience - not so much for the terror factor - but that it was a unique romantic first-date experience.

M. had high energy, was very communicative (loved talking) and intelligent in a masculine way - I felt like I was on a date with an RCMP officer. I was in reality: a special forces RCMP office to boot! He performed special functions, such as acting as a body guard for the Queen of England and President of the US when they visited Canada. I know he spent a lot of time in an office doing investigations on people, using the internet. But it was very hush hush. He couldn't tell me anything.

I didn't realize how much was going on in his mind until we were walking down Granville Street, in the middle of Vancouver, to go to a movie together. He was very edgy and seemed to be picking out every person on the street, occasionally turning to look behind him, beside him and across the street. He apologized and said that he was nervous being so out in the open. Afraid of running into someone he had arrested and could be dangerous. It turned me on, I admit. Later he explained how he was trained to be a dirty fighter. Do whatever you need to do to take someone down and incapacitate them, even if it goes against fighting ethics (if there is such a thing). It felt a little dangerous and thrilling to be dating him. An undercover secret agent.

An overachiever, M. managed to parlay his income and inheritances into investments, making a sh*tload, and buying an expensive condominium in the heart of kits, just across from the beach. He owned not just his condo - the entire building. He had a chic, expensive penthouse, handsomely decorated. In addition, at one point he owned a condom shop - one of the first - and sold it after a few years for more profits.

M. was in control of everything, and of that which he wasn't, he forced the strength of his considerable power over it to make sure it would soon be under his command. But he also had impeccable morals and values. (Except regarding his son.)

I was young, and enjoyed being under the command of this dynamic, charismatic and sexy officer. He felt like a "daddy" I guess. Anyone would, with him. The only problem was... in the bedroom, M. became a bottom boy.

Hanging overtop of his bed, was an artistic black and white photo of himself, nude, muscles gleaming and perfectly sculptured. I was too innocent and niave to understand role playing. But in the bedroom M. became submissive, bending over his massive butt, wanting to be drilled. Not just drilled; he wanted me to talk dirty to him, subjugating him with my manhood and English language. I still believed in love at this time, so I wasn't conversive in the language of domination and sadism. It turned me off, in fact. I'm not verbal in bed. I don't need words to turn me on. So sex with him was creepy for me.

Maybe I wanted him to dominate me?

What ultimately changed my mind about him was his attitude toward his 17 year old son, who lived with him. His son was a non-achiever, a typical teenager who was sensitive, confused and hurt by his life with a father who divorced his mother because his father turned out to be gay. And now his father dated guys closer to his own age, than his father's age. I don't think I heard a nice word from M. to his son. I could see his son cringe inside, everytime. I counselled M. intensely, several times, but M. wouldn't budge from his opinion, and his approach to his son.

I couldn't be with someone that didn't know how to love. Ya know what I mean?

M.'s previous boyfriend was a 22 year old who kept getting into drugs, risking M.'s career. I think he was attracted to the bad guy, in some convoluted way. I'm not a bad guy ultimately, so it didn't work.

But M. was very sweet to me, and I have fond memories of dating and mounting this royal canadian police man.

Chimera

Laying on a futon on the floor, with my sisters sleeping around me on other futons, an elephant standing nearby decided to step over me. I saw it move toward me, it's massive legs lift heavily over my body, barely missing stepping on my legs. My sister was watching this happen, and we exchanged nervous glances. We were afraid the elephant would crush me, and breathed a sigh of relief when it didn't. Then a hippopotamus, on the other side of me, sensing my fear decided to challenge me. It rushed up to me, staring me in the eyes and sticking it's huge grey snout in my face. It waited for me to react. I knew better and stayed still, breathing normally. The hippo opened his mouth, showing me huge teeth, and put both my hands in it's mouth - not quite biting down, but I could feel it's hot breath and rough tongue. It was waiting for me to scream or run away, before it tore me to pieces. But I didn't. Lucidly, I had enough of this dream and woke up.

Pschoanalysis aside, the dream was full of vivid detail. Detail about elephants and hippos I didn't know I realized.

Another night, I watched a stage performance, in Las Vegas, of Lucille Ball and Ethel. They performed an entire comedy routine, complete with singing and dancing, that was fabulous. The costumes, set decoration, lighting and original stage direction were brilliant. I was fully entertained, and embarrassed when Lucille Ball sat next to me, joking with me, making me a part of her routine.

Why? And since when did I become a brilliant choreographer, fashion designer and set artist?

One morning I woke up after listening to a new Whitney Houston song. It was gorgeous, with great lyrics and a haunting melody that moved me deeply, and stayed with me for a couple hours after I got out of bed. She's never sung it, and I didn't have the radio on.

I didn't realize I was a brilliant composer.

I have two different homes and a vacation paradise that I visit regularly in my dreams. Whenever I visit them, they're undeniably familiar and detailed. One is a midwestern home, in the U.S., in the middle of the prairies. Another is a condo with a sumptuous bathroom with a jacuzzi hot tub. It's professionally decorated, has curvilinear hallways, and tasteful furnishings.

I can't interior decorate in my waking life, no matter how hard I try. Why is it that I can in my dreams?

The vacation paradise seems to be in the Hawaiian Islands, but I've never been there. I've wandered all over the city on bus, discovering it's different neighbourhoods, commercial areas and gay bars. My favourite place is the beach, where I like to float down gentle rapids in the warm water in a dingy.

I've read entire manuscripts in my sleep. Met ex-lovers who I haven't talked with since we broke up. Had great sex with guys I've never met. Some are so real, I still remember them and what they look like. One was a pilot. We had sex in his plane and I was crazy about him. I was sure the dream was precognitive, but I still haven't met him.

I've taught myself how to dream lucidly: I watch the dream on some level, and wake myself up when it's done or I've had enough of it. I review it consciously, and try my best to remember it. As a result, I never have a "bad" dream. I watch it happening, knowing it's a dream, and when I wake up, I let it go because I know it was only a dream. It doesn't scare me.

I know I'm not that creative. If I was, in my waking life I'd be a genius. I'd be capable of every art ever conceived, and do it at a level of expertise that few have achieved. So here's my theory.

When I dream, I tune into a Jungian collective unconscious. Where all experiences, thoughts and possibilities are shared among all humans, alive and dead. A plane where every memory and every fantasy ever took place. What I tune into is guided by my personal subconscious, which selects my experiences, but draws on all available data. Data which is beyond my limited self.

Dreams serve to help me deal with, become aware of, or fulfill my waking fears and desires. Tapping into something greater than myself to achieve unconscious goals.

Back to the present... Geekslut's post about seeing a cop, remind me of my own experience of dating a special forces RCMP officer. I'll write about that tomorrow.

Listening to: After All

Fare thee well

I had about 3 hours of sleep last night. Normally I sleep very well, but last night things were on my mind. My Scottish roommate was going back to Scotland; he needed a ride to the airport at 5am; he didn't come home until 3am and brought with him all his friends to stay over night and they were loud; I was feeling sad about him leaving. So I drove him to the airport in the morning, hugged him goodbye. He was a blessing. One of the best roommates I've ever had. Something about us connected really well. It was a wonderful time while he was here. I'll miss him.

I didn't prepare ahead - so I don't have a roommate to replace Faizal. I was too busy to take care of finding a new roommate. Which means I'll have to cover my humongous rent on my own this month. At 9am I had a phone call from a potential renter. He wanted to come over at 3pm to see my place. So I spent the entire day cleaning. Faizal left the place a little dirty. The potential roomy came over - a sweet guy. We talked awkwardly for some reason. He's doing his PhD in Comparative Literature. He's from Nigeria. He's got that Rustafarian thing going on. (I know I spelled that incorrectly.) Anyway, even though we liked one another, I didn't get that thing that made me know we would be roommates.

After he left, I spent five hours doing yard work, after doing five hours of housework. It's my parent's fault - they were perfectionists with their own yard work, and I seem to have inherited this radical gene. I've got a tiny backyard, so there's no reason why it should take so long. After mowing it, I raked all the left over fall leaves and the grass that had grown shin high already. The edges of the lawn - which I'd so carefully "edged" before the winter, leaving a nice 1.5" trough between the lawn and sidewalk - was grown in. So I had to redo it. I even brought out my scissors to cut the grass I didn't get with my lawnmower (I don't have proper clippers). I found a trowel to dig out every dandelion and weed. Then I decided to sweep my drive way out to the alley. It looks awesome now, but I wonder - who am I trying to impress?

I guess Raed is dead. I mean Salam Pax. I think of him as Raed though. Raed is the guy he's in love with. Or was.

Ramblings

Warning: This blog is going to be a mess.

I'm so confused. Is Madonna's new album "American Life" good or not? Someone did a google search for "intertextual blogspot" and I'm obsessing that it's a friend of mine, who found out accidentally about my blog, and is now reading it, and I have to squelch myself. Don't you love the word "squelch?" I also like "sketchy" right now. They've both got that squelchy sketchy sound to it. I'm so happy that geekslut's non-surgical operation went well! Actually, doesn't squelch sound like that other word, the one that has to do with sexual fetishism? I think I've discovered a new literary mechanism, one in which you comment on your writing, while you're writing. Talk about trend-setting! Write this down in the history books. I did it before you, "clumsy twirler," you trend-setter! Actually, I'm so illiterate that I probably don't know it's been done before. Is it possible to describe in writing a person's voice? Take the sexy voice of "cool relax," who's blessed us twice with audio blogs. A slight middle American accent. Almost southern, but not quite. His voice is so "cool and relaxed." I imagine that if he got really angry, he'd sound like he's lounging in a hot tub with a chichi. There's a drawl that happens. The way he drawls out certain words, and de-emphasizes others. It makes me hold onto every word, because it's said so differently than a Canadian. He uses the 3:5 rule. Every third sentence in five contains slang. "Fella's" is a new one on me. I've heard "buddy, mate, bloke, guy," but I think "fella's" is a middle American thang. Talking about the New Mexican outback as a "ghetto" would require linguists to write a 20-page paper - it's so complicated. And don't you think * (a blogger) is so self-congratulatory? He's not typical of Canadians, let me just tell you. What other quippy things can I write about? How many more people can I offend? I'm avoiding talking about myself, because if I told you what's really happening with me, you wouldn't believe it. I'd like to write about it, but I'm paranoid, because someone did a google search for my site. Okay, I'll tell ya "fellas." I picked up this chick and guy on Saturday night. I brought them back to my place. The guy is very sweet - blond and cute in a skateboarder kind of way. Tall. He took off his shirt in my living room and layed on the floor. He was eager to show me his goods. I rubbed his tummy. It was hairy, in an intelligently organized kind of way. The hairs flowed in a creative, circular manner. I found out they are heroin addicts, from wealthy and healthy homes. The girl is named "Trinity," like the actor from Burnaby who's in the Matrix. She's gorgeous, blond, athletic and a heroin addict. The skateboarder guy went into the washroom to shoot up. I was talking with Trinity. He left. Trinity stayed behind. She's still here, sleeping on the couch right now. I have to get her into a detox program. She's taught me not to trust druggie street people. They operate on different morals. Fuck. It's easier to blog than to deal with reality. Here's a new t-shirt phrase for you, clumsy twirler - "Blogging is more real than life." Send me the royalties.

Leaving

Les asked me to move out at the end of the month.

I went to Little Sisters bookstore that has Vancouver’s best gay and lesbian bulletin board. There is a rentals posting section, where I could peruse ads for somewhere to live. I’d only lived with Les for one month, before he asked me to leave. We’d only known each other for three months in total.

In his bedside drawer I had found a sheet of paper, from his grief counselling class. It described the properties of a “rebound relationship.” I fit the bill. Exactly.

Drowning in my own loss, I found a shared home as close as possible to Les so I could be near him. My potential landlord interviewed me. He seemed to be a good choice - after all, he was a border patrol officer - so I signed the month-to-month lease.

I told Les that I was moving, and where. It was in the afternoon, after Les came home from work. We were in Max’s bedroom, now my room - the room Max lived in while he was dying of AIDS.

“I found a new place to live,” I said. I was actually very angry at Les, because he hadn't offered to help me find a place to live. I had to spend hours on the bus by myself, looking. And my finances were limited, having just moved into his house after he persuaded me to, the month before. I packed my own belongings and hired a man with a van to help me move, all alone.

"I’m living at 3230 Rupert Street. Number 32," I told him.

Les turned white. He walked silently, in shock, over to the desk in Max's room, unlocked it, and after looking through a few papers pulled out an old brochure. The brochure was for the same condo complex I was moving into. Les and Max had lived in the same building that I was about to move into, and had considered buying their suite at one point, which explained why he had a brochure on the property.

They even lived in the suite next to the one I was moving into.

After having sensed Max's spirit in the house; awakening in the middle of the night to see Max's ghost get out of the bed; the coincidence that we looked nearly alike; the flying of his picture onto the coffee table without a gust of wind; and now the statistical improbability of me finding an apartment next door to the same place Les had lived with Max - I was convinced that Les and I were supposed to be together. It was as if all the events and coincidences were pointing to the fact that Max wanted me to be with Les, to take care of him since he was gone, and these synchronicities were his attempt to communicate this to us, from the spiritual realm.

I tried to explain this to Les, but he couldn't see it this way. After all, he didn't even believe in an afterlife. Either I was delusional - seeing spirits, portents and signs that didn't exist - or Les was too overwhelmed by grief and a lack of faith that he couldn't believe in it.

I left the next morning ensuring that I didn't leave any trace of myself behind. I not only walked away from the man I loved, but also my faith in God...and in Love.

Ghost

"If only I could hold you one last time," says a grieving Molly, played by Demi Moore in Ghost. Her husband Sam, played by Patrick Swayze, was murdered in a botched theft the week before. Unknown to Molly, his spirit is sitting next to her, holding her with love. Sharing her suffering. But Molly can't see him. She's left alone to deal with her emptiness and loss.

With a sudden intake of breath that gets caught in his throat, Les bursts into uncontrollable crying. It chokes out of him, as though he’s vomiting his soul. Bent over, embracing himself, tears stream down his contorted face.

I have to repress my own sudden desire to cry. The man I love is in pain, and I’m helpless, unable to take it from him. Instead I draw him into me, my arms around him, burying his face in my neck. I don’t say anything: there’s nothing to say. I caress his back, listening until his sobbing quiets and there’s nothing left in him. This tall, confident man leans into me like a defenceless baby, for whom there’s no more reason, no more meaning, no more words, no more feeling. Just the warmth of my arms.

When we’d arrived on the island earlier in the day, Les’s eyes sparkled with playfulness and excitement. We were on holidays - his favourite thing. He entertained me as I drove us through lushly treed and impenetrable mountains, past transluscent lakes and gushing waterfalls of melting glaciers. We were visiting Tom's new home (his gay brother) who had just finished building it, on a few acres of private rainforest.

After a tour of Tom’s open beamed, cedar and stone country home; a walk through his sprawling acreage artfully landscaped with a reflecting pool; a meal of barbequed salmon and wild lettuce salad; we cozied up on the couches around the open wood fireplace to watch a movie, while night settled in around us.

It was Les who chose Ghost.

Later in bed together, my body pressed up against his lanky body, I drew my fingertips across his soft skin, trying to give him goosebumps. I knew all the right places - on the side of his torso, just under his arm, and down to the swell of his hip. The underside of his arm on the tricep. The inside of his thigh. Les would make a sound, from pleasure, that sounded like... well, purring. But tonight he was quiet.

I remember the moonlight coming through the window, casting an other-worldly glow on us. I knew he’d had a rough night from watching the movie. I wondered what he was feeling, but I didn’t ask. It’s important to allow him the space he needs, I thought.

“Why did it have to happen?” Les asked me, in the quiet. “Why did Max have to die?” He turned his head to face me, and ended up
rotating his body so our chests now touched.

His question was asked nakedly, with no anger. He was open to the truth. He just needed to know why.

I loved this man like crazy. I wanted to make it all better. I searched my database of knowledge and experience; tried to remember what my father the minister told me about death and God’s will; I remembered all the ways I rationalized suffering in the world: yet still, I was at a loss. I wish I could tell you that I said something profound. Instead, all I said was, “Maybe it happened because that’s how we learn to love.”

****

“I don’t believe in aetheists” I said to Les, teasing him. Provoking him.

We were in the “Green Room.” It’s his television and library room on the second floor, that’s painted a forest green. It has a comfortable black leather couch, book cases filled with travel books, chachkas, photos - and it leads to an outdoor balcony that we drink coffee together in the mornings in our matching white terrycloth bathrobes.

“I wish I did believe. I just don’t feel it,” Les said sadly. “I want to believe that Max is happy and still alive, on some level.” His hazel eyes were blue.

I cannot imagine anyone living without faith in the hereafter. Yes, I did grow up in a Christian home. Topics of spirituality, life after death, and a God were commonplace. But that’s not why I believed. In fact, I never took to Christianity as practiced through ritual in my father’s church. I took catechism, I did communion, but these things never made sense to me. I remember as a child, simply knowing and feeling that life was more than it appeared. I remembered coming from somewhere else - somewhere better - where love and joy were the true reality, before entering the illusion of earth. It was as as natural to me as being gay.

“I have been praying, though,” Les admitted to me, vulnerably.

I’d suggested previously to Les that he try praying, asking a higher power to show him that there's life after death. I really wanted him to be at peace knowing that Max, his ex-lover of 20 years, still existed, and lives in peace.

We were cuddling on the couch, lazily watching television on a Saturday afternoon. The door to the outdoor balcony was closed. There was no air moving, no sudden gusts of wind.

A commercial for the movie “Ghost” appears. It shows that moment where Demi Moore longs to touch Patrick Swayze one more time. The most poignant moment of the movie. It triggers Les.

I can feel his sadness.

Suddenly, we both hear a “flick.” Then, landing on the coffee table in front of us, is a picture of Max, that Les had sitting on one of his book shelves. There’s no wind in the room. We heard the “flick.” We saw Max’s photo twirl through the air, and land face up on the coffee table in front of us. It’s at least 15 feet.

Chills run through us. I start to cry, quietly. To me it’s obvious...Max wants Les to know he lives on.

Karma

I awake, unsure of what stirs me. Maybe it’s the sunlight streaming through the window. Then I think: “He’s gone…” But I get up. I kick aside the sheets and stand, squinting at the Vancouver skyline.

The mountains are visible today. A Phthalo blue, giving them an ethereal substance. The forest of cedars and evergreens blend their hues into the slopes. It’s one of those first spring days when I remember why I live in Vancouver. After a monochromatic winter, the sun suddenly appears and paints the city with vivid hues. Crimson tulips stretch eagerly toward the sky; the Pacific glitters like the scales of a trout; and I stare, awestruck by the beauty of a robin’s orange breast as it skips along veridian grass.

This year, the panorama feels invasive. It’s too full of joy.

I throw the comforter onto the floor, and whip the covering sheet with an impatient snap so it blankets the bed. With my hand in the shape of a trowel, I shove the sheet between the mattresses. I pull the edges tight and fold precisely. I check the clock and notice it’s 6:15 am: I have to get ready for the gym, work out, and be at the art studio by 9:30. I walk - I should say march - into the standard, formica two-piece bathroom with full bath that gleams with scouring powder and bleach. I keep it military-clean.

In the landscape mirror, I examine myself. Critically. My skin stretches taut over my muscles from weight loss, making them look cut. Attempting humor, I tell friends I’m on, “The Grief Diet.” Or maybe it’s the workouts I began since living on my own. Every morning at 6:45am, I catch the bus to Fitness World. I begin with stair climbing, because I like the way it makes my hamstrings burn. Then I push some other muscles to exhaustion with weights for an hour, until advanced step class begins.

Sometimes in the middle of class I excuse myself and exit to the washroom. I use the one reserved for “Handicapped Use Only.” It’s the jumping up and down that triggers it, or a well-turned phrase in the music the aerobic teacher uses. Whatever the reason, I cry, heaving; the fan on so no one hears me; dry my eyes and runny nose dry with single-ply toilet paper, and bravely return to step class.

The Greek Ideal

Fortunately the night passed with no riots, just a lot of car beeping and hollering. I have a difficult time understanding not only the behaviour of the "group mind" of crowds, but also team sports. I always excelled at individual sports such as gymnastics, diving, track and field and wrestling, but was lousy at all the team sports. My father loved hockey, baseball and football, and I used to tease him mercilessly over it. Even at 12 years old.

I pointed out to my dad (a minister) the violence of group sports; its parallel associations to war strategy; and how dull it is to look at. I asked him, "How could you be a minister and watch it, and profess to teach peacefulness, love and cooperation? Where's the brotherly love in it?" He didn't have an answer for me.

Wouldn't you rather watch the artistry of gymnastics and diving (and amazing bodies), or the sexual suggestiveness of wrestling (crotch grabbing, body-to-body action); or the sweaty heroic determination of track and field? There's no violence in it. Instead it's the individual against himself, attempting to achieve his best, through physical and mental discipline. Sometimes in gymnastics there was a guy on my team who attempted to intimidate and berate me as not being as good as him. I hated that. I wasn't out to prove that I was better than someone. I was out to see how I could beat my own limitations. I wasn't competing against others. I was competing against myself. I usually was better than him; maybe that made him jealous.


My hero was Nadia Comaneci. Her intense focus on her craft, her disregard for the crowd and other team mates and her fierce determination to do her work perfectly was inspiring. She got not only the first perfect score - she had 7 of them. She was a machine. When the crowd went wild for her, she didn't respond, or even smile in reaction. She wasn't doing it for the crowd, her team mates, her coach, or anyone but herself. When she was interviewed by gushing reporters, she appeared sullen and disinterested. Of course she became very screwed up later in life from suppressing her emotions and being a perfectionist. Nevertheless, she seemed to me to represent the Greek athletic ideal of sport.


Greg Louganis was another incredible inspiration. I've never seen such artistry in diving since. His entire body expressed something beautiful as he stretched, rotated, pointed. I remember him hitting his head on the high board during the Olympics (doing an inward dive of course), and seeing the blood in the water. I was horrified. And then he got up on the high board and did his next dive of three, and did it perfectly, without fear. He was heroic and entirely focussed on nothing but doing his art. Little did we know until later that he was HIV+ and abused as a child.

In my humble opinion, hockey, baseball, football and soccer players can't measure up, unless you measure them by qualities other than artistry, grace and Greek ideals. They seem more Roman in comparison. In one of my past life regressions I was a young Roman who studied Greek athletics.

A flashback: I was in gymnastics practice, talking with the girls. They were always more friendly and non-competitive than the men, so I enjoyed hanging out with them. I was nervous about my upcoming competition and told them. One hot babe told me, "All you've got to do is... when you go up to the judges, raise your hand in salutation to them, give them a huge smile, and then do your event." I tried it. I was at the event. It was my turn for the pommel horse (the event I won), and sitting in front of me were some non-impressed, non-smiling, non-friendly and jaded adult people, ready to find fault with me. I felt so intimidated. The last thing I felt like doing was smiling at them. But I raised my hand, in that gymnastic way, and flashed them a huge smile, full of joy. They didn't respond or smile back. I freaked out and felt like an idiot. Embarrassed, I looked away quickly and then pommelled that horse with all the fear and idiocy I felt by following the girls advice. When it was over I didn't even remember what happened. When the numbers came up I was floored. And I won! I'm not sure if it was the confidence I exuded in my smile, or if it was the intensely awkward energy I threw into the event that helped me to win it - my worst event. But when I saw her (the advice-giver) during our next practice, I told her what happened, and she threw her long arms around me (she was very tall), picked me up and spinned me around with glee.

I got my haircut today! It's nice and short, with a messy look. Admission: I colour my hair. I have since I was 20. I had dark brown hair as a child, and now it's a #7, dark blond. My stylist brought out her hair swatches and matched it. I think I look so washed out with such a light hair colour, so I always colour my hair and eyebrows a dark brown. It gives me a much more dramatic look, and looks better with brown eyes. Maybe I'm more Danish than I think.

And tomorrow morning I have a tanning appointment. I'm working toward feeling like going out and socializing! And maybe meeting my Greek ideal.

Riot

Vancouver is a riot of testosterone right now. Every car is beeping, dumb 20 year old guys are shouting, jumping around with their fist in the air, all because some major playoff, and I guess we won. I think it's the NHL. I don't know and don't care. It's loud. It seriously sounds like a riot. It sounds like it's all over the city. It's been going on for over an hour. We had an ugly riot here the last time we hosted a playoff.

I was on the outreaches of it as it was happening. People were breaking store windows, looting, beating each other up, throwing over cop cars. It was ugly. I managed to stay just ahead of the mayhem.

I went out to get a piece of pizza just a minute ago, and every car that drove by is beeping incessantly, even more so than a multiple wedding of a hundred people. I saw idiot straight guys shouting, saying, "whoo" or "yaah" or "whoa" or whatever the fuck they're saying. They look like Neanderthals.

As I walked out to get my pizza, I prepared myself to shoot an open fist in the first asshole guy that jumped in my face and yelled. I was ready to shove his nose bone up his brain. I cannot stand or understand riots.

I guess Vancouver would be no different than Iraq. Under the same, or even less circumstances, we'd have looting and insane testosterone behaviour performed over a stupid hockey game. (Now I heard a gun shot.)

Sometimes I hate men. What's their problem? I've heard that straight masculinity requires men to prove it, at every given turn. (Now I hear ugly nasty barking dogs, like they're tearing someone up.) Straight masculinity isn't a given - it's something you must earn, unlike female sexuality. I really wonder if we're all that different from apes. Another reason to hate men. Was BC all that different from an ape? The main reason he broke up with me is that he wanted multiple sex partners with other guys. He could talk all that sweet new age guy stuff to me, but he really wanted to stick his dick into another mouth or hole, to prove that he could make another conquest. If I had a machine gun, I'd walk outside, and rid our world of every one of those assholes outside screaming and hollering.

Except, if I had a machine gun, I'd be afraid of wrecking my nails. (Now I hear a group of guys fighting outside.)

Good night.

Penis Survey Comes Up Short

Recent Studies Revise Average Length of the Male Organ
A "must read"
http://www.abcnews.go.com/sections/us/WolfFiles/wolffiles155.html

Shy

I'm feeling a little disappointed with myself at the moment. I had a very productive day work-wise, but on the friendship side, I could be doing better. I have four fascinating, potentially wonderful guys wanting to get together with me (who I just met), but I'm feeling apathetic about it. I've enjoyed talking with them, but when it comes to making concrete plans in getting together, I just don't feel like it.

I forced myself to call them a few minutes ago, and said, "Hi, how are you doing, I'm still interested in getting together, but maybe by the end of the week when I get my 'head out of the water,' hope you're doing well. They weren't home so I left messages, thank goodness.

I haven't written about it much, but having to let go of BC, on New Year's, was really hard on me. He was my best friend, who I spent all my time with, we talked daily, and I also had to let go of all our common friendships. It's hard for me to let go of people. I'm not good at it. When I bond I'm terribly committed.

So right now I'm still a little shy of meeting new people, creating new bonds, risking having to get hurt again. I also feel too much pressure from a few of them - I just want to make new friends. I'm not into developing relationships. I just need a little more time before I'm healed. And I also don't want to regret not getting to know these guys. They're very nice.

Maybe I'll get my haircut and tan, so I'll be in the meeting mood by the weekend. Right now, I just want to huddle up here in my home, marking assignments, listening the radio, and being alone. It's safer that way.

Update

I went out last night. Had a great time. I talked with a ton of guys and danced my ass off. Didn't go home with anyone. You know, all you need to do is smile, and you meet someone. That's my advice. Smile. Even when you're standing there by yourself. The older I get, the less inhibited I am. I used to be afraid to say hello to someone. Now all I do is smile. It helps to be wearing sleeveless tight t-shirts though.

I can still smell the cologne on my hands, of some guy I was all over on the dance floor. He had a great smile. He was sweaty, about 25, and had nice chest hair.

I e-mailed "Guy of the Day" to tell him I wrote about him on my blog. I got an e-mail back from him:

Hi intertextual..;))
Thanks for the flattering words about me and my appearance. Enjoyed to read your interpretation of my character. Yes, I have a lot of humour...at least my friends say...but screwing around with young bottoms all the time isn´t close to the truth. OK, it has happened.....but I do like long lasting relationships.....I am not the good picupman at bars.....I am quite social when it is more of a relaxed atmosphere..and I love to make love not only with the body but with the eyes and soul at the same time.
Any how...thanks....and welcome to write back..;)
Per

Analysis: I suddenly felt bad that I wrote about him so superficially. He's a real guy, not just some internet digital picture. I think I would have been real pissed if someone posted my picture and said all that shit about me! But in typical Scandinavian good temper, he responded back, very sweetly. I've heard the Swedes and Danes and Dutch are very "easy-going." People from the UK exclaim how kind and laid back they are. My grandparents from Denmark weren't very nice. But I think they're the exception.

I love all the ellipses in his writing. It's so suggestive. He's telling me to read between the lines. The smiley face was pretty weird though. .;)) It's got a droopy eye on one side, and double lips. I like double lips, unless they're on a woman.

Don't you love the fact that these European men speak at least three languages? And write and speak English so well? Their education is excellent - in fact, in some countries, it's FREE to go to university.

"and I love to make love not only with the body but with the eyes and soul at the same time." Wow, what a sexy comment! I'd love to be made love to with his eyes and body and soul. I'd love someone to tell me that to my face. In Canada, people don't say those types of things. I guess in Sweden, you do. I'm on the wrong continent I guess.

Don't you love his name? Per. I've never heard that before. Purr. My parents nearly named me Kaj. But Per sounds way more cool.

Let's do it baby!

Should I or shouldn't I? Should I go out to a club tonight, or should I stay in? It's so complicated. Should I met a hot sexy guy and have sex, or should I get good and stay in, reading blogs? I've called my friends. They're all busy with boyfriends. They all tell me to go out. Okay, I'll go out. See what kind of trouble I can get into. I'll report later. I'm off to the shower.

Guy of the day

After my hostel experiences and meeting sexy guys from around the world, I did some cruising on the net for Scandinavian men. That's my background. I'm Danish. All my sisters are blond and blue/green eyed, but I take after my mom. I have brown hair and eyes, and dark skin. But my facial structure is classically Danish - big jaw, small nose (some hairdresser accused me of getting a nose job) nice eyes, high cheek bones.

I came across this handsome guy who you see pictured here. He's a doctor. Doesn't he have the sweetest grin? I like his unkept curling hair - mine gets like that if I don't get it cut. I like his unshaved look, and occasional white eyebrow hairs. I think he's nearly 50 if I remember correctly, and tall with a big dick. There's something kind of "Sting"-like about him too.

His headline is "Let's do it baby." He had other pictures of himself, sitting in his hospital office, grinning. Another one naked, lying on his stomach, smiling up at you. You can just tell this guy likes to tease you. He's got a great sense of humour and is playful. He's probably all wrong for me. I bet he's incapable of a long term relationship. He's too flirtatious and social, and loves having sex with cute younger guys who are bottoms. He's always on the "take."

I do like blonds with blue eyes or green eyes - but only if they have an intensity. Bland blonds are boring. My two ex bfs - Stu and the Stone Angel were classic blonds and had a brown-haired intensity. Blond pubic hair is sexy. Their eyes tended to change colour, like mood rings. I was always interpreting their eye colour. I'm Canadian, so I spell colour this way. Did you notice the cleft in his chin?

The most classic female blond was Catherine Deneuve. In terms of men it's Dolph Lundgren. Or perhaps it's a young version of Robert Redford. Stone Angel was as good looking as Robert Redford. Apparently there was some guy who looked exactly like the Stone Angel that was on the cover of Playgirl one year. Everyone teased him about having posed nude for it. I clipped the Stone Angel's body hair with my clippers. All that long blond leg hair, that began to get curly. And his balls too. Stu looked more like Dolph. Stu had no hair on his body.

Actually, I think Stu may be bald and chunky now. I saw his website for his photography business. There's a shot of some photographer guy, setting up a shoot with the backdrop, and he is fat, bald and blond. Maybe he ended up looking like his father. Wouldn't that be awful? To be so gorgeous and perfect, and end up like that? I prefer to believe he looks the same.

All my boyfriends have always been older than me. It's not that I like older men, per se. It just happened that way. Les was 13 years older than me. BC is now 41. I wonder what it would be like to be with a cute younger guy?

Anyway, I'm conflicted. Do I go for the Scandinavian blonds, or the Italian, Middle Eastern type guys? Maybe I could go for both, by dating Addaboy, who is Italian, and blond with blue/green eyes. Or how about the Irish? Or the French, the Brazilians and the tall Japanese men with big dicks?

It's raining men.

A bimbo mistake, gymnastics and diving

Oops. I just realized I made a mistake. In my post of "Friday, April 11, 2003" where I make a rude comment about "dogpoet," I discovered I got him mixed up with someone else who I was really thinking of. The person I was really meaning to make a comment about... I won't mention his name. I'm doing this out of consideration for "dogpoet," who very nicely told me was a bit hurt by my comment. I don't like to hurt people. What a bimbo, eh? (I found out that "eh" isn't totally Canadian. UK people also say "eh.")

I love dogpoet's blog, and his writing is excellent. Check out his recent story about his experience of diving.

After doing competitive gymnastics at York University and the Springer's gymnastics club in Toronto, when I moved to Saskatoon there wasn't any top notch gyms for me to work out at. So I took diving. Within a month I was competing for them. Diving is way easier than gymnastics, and I already knew how to do the somersaults and flips. I trusted my coach. You have to trust your coach, no matter what discipline you're in. He was studying physics at university, so I would make him explain to me why I wouldn't hit my head if I did an inward pike somersault - that's standing facing the board, jumping, and flipping inward toward the board. He'd explain to me in detail the physical principles that make it possible. So, I did a few successfully. Then after making him explain to me for the fourth time, in detail why I wouldn't hit my head, I did the dive, and hit my head.

Boing. I was dazed in the pool. I didn't really know what happened. The coach dived in to get me, but I was able to swim to the edge and get out. Then the fucker made me get up on the board and do the dive again! He didn't want me to get scared. I did it, after protesting majorly. I lost confidence in him though. I no longer believed in him. I'm still scared to do those dives!

At York University, when I was a teenager, the locker rooms were HOT. One of the coaches, who was short with a muscular bod, used to walk around naked after taking a shower. His dick was HUGE. It hung down to his knees practically. I was always fascinated by it. Unfortunately he didn't coach me though. I always wondered how he managed to keep it from popping out under such short shorts.

I had a crush on my gymnastics coach in Lethbridge. He was one sweet dude. Ripped to the nth. He had a great sense of humour and talked non-stop. I was in my early 20s. He too liked to change in front of me, or coach me with his shirt off. I loved it when he touched me, all over, while describing how to do a move. My diaries are full of sexual fantasies about him. I wish I'd made a move on him because I think he wanted it. He took me out to night clubs in his race car, we'd meet for coffee, he took me to his house. But he had a girlfriend, so I think that's why I didn't come on to him. I saw him a few years ago in Lethbridge, while shopping over Christmas. He's now married with two children.

He always used to say, "You're one fucking huge guy." I'm 5'9", but for a gymnast, that is huge. Most of those guys you see on tv are like 5'5". I used to volunteer at gymnastics competitions, and all of those hot guys you see are tiny. With big muscles, that are ripped, yes, but they're tiny. And they weigh like 135 lbs. Man, are they cute. Have you ever noticed they never have any body hair? There's an unwritten rule in gymnastics that you should shave your chest. No one had to told me to do it - I've shaved mine since I was 12.

Is having sex with a gymnast better? Probably.

Another sexexperience

Here's what happened about two months ago. I was on gaydar.co.uk. These two guys, who were partners, were looking for a third. We exchanged pics and stuff.

One guy is a school teacher. The other - I don't remember what he did. Both were tall, athletic, nice bods, attractive faces. I don't think they could've gained body fat if they tried. We talked on the phone, then I drove over in the early evening.

I knocked on their door. They buzzed me up, into their beautiful apartment. Both were about six feet tall, handsome, they looked alike. We talked in their living room, about teaching experiences, for about 30 minutes before the non-teacher said, "Let's move to the bedroom."

We all threw off our clothing. They had a king sized bed. There was enough room for us to do an amazing array of things, without running out of room. I sucked lots of cock. I think we sucked cock in every position possible. Then non-teacher wanted to fuck me. He put on a condom and entered me.

He had a very sexy manner - he looked me in the eyes while fucking me and whispered flirtatious things in my ear. Then his partner fucked him, while he was fucking me. I've never been in a sandwich position before. I was getting fucked, while the guy fucking me got fucked. It's the idea that gets you off.

When the teacher was done with his partner, I ended up fucking the school teacher, while he was on his hands and knees. He came, and that's when I found out it was his second time that evening.

The two guys were using poppers throughout, and I used them a few times. But I found they made me feel emotionally detached throughout, and I found it difficult to form sentences.

It was enjoyable though, and entirely unexpected.

My most weird referral google search:

mac+fart+female+mpg
The description under Intertextual says: When I have a boyfriend, we both like to do this together - and fart. It's so much fun. 53. ... I use a Mac - that's why. ... I dreamt I had sex with a female student. ...
Comment: Actually, I heard on the radio yesterday that there's a new website where you can send friends a fart. You can choose aspects of the fart - basically tailor the fart that you want to send a friend. Perhaps that's what the google searcher was looking for. Instead, they got my big fart of a site.

Here's another funny one:
Search query: parents perspectives on Christina Aguilera and piercings
Comment: Can you imagine the parent's shock after coming to my site? Piercings no longer seem to be the worst thing your child could get into. Nor Christina Aguilera.

First Love

We were 15. A sleepover. In my basement bedroom. Stu and I were doing sit-ups on the grey carpeted floor. A Saturday night.

We worked out together. Were best friends. We jogged an hour daily, sometimes in minus 20 degree celsius weather, and lifted weights at the school gym. And shot basketballs in the church gymnasium.

He was always changing his clothes in front of me. Peeling off his t-shirt to put a different one on. Or tossing off his jeans to put on jogging pants. At the church gym after basketball, he'd strip to the nines and take a shower. He liked standing close to me while naked. Making me feel uncomfortable and unsure.

His bedroom with the water bed, always smelled of something sexy, like cum. Like 6'2", blond, crystal blue-eyed, masculine, muscular, German, jock cum. Like he ate hearty meals of perogies and milk. He looked like Dolph Lundgren.

When I first met him, I thought he was a geek. He wore checkered shirts made of cotton. He had thick glasses. He came across as uncultured and thick. We were forced together by our families: my father, a minister, moved to Saskatoon and Stu's father was an elder or something in the church. We were expected to be friends, but I found him to be a "goof."

He got contacts a month later. I've never seen such icy blue intense eyes since.

I came from Forest Hills in Toronto - a rich Jewish area, where sophistication and intelligence were prized. But in Saskatoon, the dumber you were, the less sophisticated you were, the better. Stu taught me how to down-style, wear the right clothing, before I started high school in the fall. He knew I would be in for a beating if I didn't dress according to Saskabush style.

In my basement bedroom, with the shaggy brown comforter my mother sewed for me, Stu showed me a new way of doing situps. You interlock your legs, and do them together. You press upwards together.

I was horned up. I accidentally let my leg brush against his crotch, and felt his cock stirring. I didn't know I was gay at this point. I thought I was into his sister.

He liked it when I let my calf slide across his groin. I remember his full lips and perfect teeth, smiling devilishly at me. I had no idea what was going on.

At 15, Stu was 6'2", had a mature, muscular perfect body. No hair on his chest. Wheat blond hair. Steely blue eyes. You should have seen his butt and his big thighs. Fuck. I haven't seen any as hot since. I remember seeing him the first time in shorts, playing basketball at the gym. I nearly swooned when I saw his legs - a flush of pure puberty testosterone ran through my blood. I was so in denial. I didn't know what was going on with my hormones.

We were lying in my double-sized bed after the situps, under the furry brown bedspread, talking about what we'd like to do with girls. He told me he'd like to do it doggy style. I was so innocent, I didn't know what that meant. I think he asked me to suck his cock. I did, eagerly. I sucked his cock like I had done it before. He blew a sweet, perogie load down my throat. I can still smell it.

The next morning we went to church. We both sang in the choir. He made jokes, subtle ones, about us having sex, in front of the other members of the choir. We felt so close and connected. I was the one who felt scared and uncomfortable. It was as though Stu wanted to tell everyone about us.

Other things happened in high school, that showed he cared for me.

Some guy at school decided he didn't like me. He made my life hell. His name is Cal. I found out I looked like Cal's gay brother who used to beat him up. Long story short: we had a fight. We beat the shit out of each other. He never bothered me again after our fight. But after the fight I was shaken up and had a black eye.

Stu took me to his cabin with his parents, to take care of me. We had to sleep together in the same room, in a bunkbed. I didn't realize it consciously at the time, but Stu tried to get physically intimate with me. I didn't respond. He was hurt. I didn't at this point realize I was gay, somehow. He said the most beautiful words to me at his cabin, and I didn't respond. I remember him being very romantic and suggestive, such as raising the round end of the fire-poker to his lips and sucking on it. Being so inexperienced, I didn't respond. I regret this.

Stu went a little crazy after our time at his cabin. He became a thief and a drunk. He began stealing CB antennaes and drinking lemon gin. He showed me his closet stuffed full of stolen antennaes which he procured during late night jaunts. I was disturbed, to say the least. My father was a minister, and even though I had sucked his cock, I thought what he was doing was wrong. I told his parents when they asked me if I knew what was going on.

I don't remember what happened after that.

I saw him in Saskatoon, about 3 years later. I was in Eaton's looking at clothes. He came up to me. I could smell his sweet, masculine scent. His hair was as wheat blond as ever, his tall perfect body still muscular, and his eyes as blue as sapphires. He stood too close to me, leaning into my personal space. "Hello," he said.

I said, "Hi." Every moment we'd ever spent together flashed through my mind. He walked away.

My father went back to Saskatoon many years ago. He heard that Stu got married, and had children. When I searched the internet for information about him recently, I discovered quite a bit of information about his family and career. And I also saw a few pictures of him. Time hadn't been kind to him. This once perfect specimen of a man, who looked like Dolph Lundgren in his prime, now looked like Stu's father - balding and fat. He was nearly unrecognizeable. His beautiful blue eyes that used to have a passionate intensity to them, now had a cold, mean look to them.

But I'll always remember them, in my mind, looking at me with love and longing.

One more post before I actually get to work. Faizal told me about a reality tv show in the UK that sounds hilarious. The producers selected people who had opposite lifestyles (for lack of a better word), and made them live together for a week. In one instance, they found the most effiminate, young gay guys, totally into clubbing, hair, fashion and techno music, and made them live with two soccer playing, masculine, muscular, dumb jock blokes who were extremely homophobic.

Not only did they have to live together, but they had to do each other's favourite things. So the gay guys took the two homophobes to a gay club that had male strippers, sex in the back rooms, guys groping each other. I can only imagine how hilarious the bloke's reactions were. I think Faizal told me that the gay guys had to go to a soccer game or something, or maybe it was a straight pub, full of rough, rowdy men. At times the household got very intense, and you'd see the two gay guys sitting on their bed, crying on each other's shoulders because the blokes were so mean to them. Or you'd see the blokes grossing out over different gay things.

In another situation, a middle-aged housewife had to live with the lead singer of a punk band. He'd have parties with other punks, they're all drinking, doing drugs and going crazy. He had a crazy punk hairstyle and clothes, and the housewife is totally bland, shocked, and trying to clean up after him. She has to go to one of his concerts. Can you imagine? Perhaps he had to go have dinner at her home with her husband and children.

What I love about this idea is it asks the question, "How do we get along when we have different values and lifestyles? How do we negotiate our interactions, and how do we influence one another, find common grounds, while maintaining our own preferred identity?" I wish this show was available on DVD.

The sexuality of travelling, a spaghetti recipe, and more

I'm home! What an amazing trip. I met so many people and experienced so many things. That's the great thing about travelling, I've realized. Every day is a new experience. It's so different than my daily grind and schedule at home. A single day felt like three days. Faizal and I couldn't remember what day it was while we were away, and we had to go through the list of things we did every day to try to figure out what we did when. I never knew what's going to happen from moment to moment. We had no real schedule or plans. We made decisions on the spur of the moment, and according to who we met. I met dozens of fascinating people from all over the world and learned so much about their experiences and traveling. I love Aussies, Dutch, UK. It was interesting how much we all had in common.

Last night (the 15th), I felt inspired to cook dinner. I decided to try to replicate the amazing spaghetti I had while in Victoria at this trendy restaurant. Spaghetti tends to be a bland, ordinary meal, but I wanted to do a gourmet version. Here's my recipe:

Use spaghettini (the very thin stuff)
I bought one red pepper, one red onion, 10 giant mushrooms, 5 Roma tomatoes, an elephant garlic, a pesto and sun dried tomato paste (concentrated), fresh basil and oregano and a large amount of hamburger (I haven't bought hamburger in at least five years).

I chopped the tomatoes, red onion, red pepper, basil and oregano into tiny pieces. The mushrooms I sliced thin. Then I minced an entire elephant garlic clove (very important to use the whole thing).

I fried the hamburger, making sure it was chopped into the tiniest pieces possible and well done. I took it off the heat, and put the hamburger aside.

I used the fat from the hamburger to begin frying the veggies. First I put in the garlic, and sizzled it until I started to smell an intense garlic scent. Before it browned, (don't let your garlic get brown ever because you take out the flavour) I added the red onion and mushrooms. These I fried until they began to get soggy.

Then I added the tomatoes and red pepper, stirring, and after a while I added the oregano and basil. I didn't want to get the last ingredients overly sauteed - keep their freshness.

I also added some garlic salt, five to six tablespoons of the pesto/sundried tomato paste, a generous shake of salt and pepper. Plus... I added several shakes of hot red pepper, just to give it that slight "bite." I tasted it and it was awesome. I was afraid to add the hamburger, because the vegetarian sauce was amazing.

Guests in the hostel came into the kitchen asking me what I was making - the garlic smell was intense. I added the hamburger, put in a big more hot red pepper to taste, and voila! It was even better than the spaghetti I had in Victoria. Faizal and I ate loads of it, exclaiming all the way through how good it was. The final spaghetti sauce should look more meaty than saucy. So use lots of hamburger.

Make sure you do the pasta al dente (I think that's the word). And the main key to it is - TONS of garlic, not overcooked or sauteed. We stunk and still stink of it, even today.

By the way, the above recipe makes about six servings. Use a whole box of spaghettini.

After dinner we went to the livingroom and digested, talked with fascinating people, then headed to the main pub in Tofino. It was busy! It was $1-for-a-half-pint-of-beer-night. Everyone in Tofino was there. It was such a weird combination of people. There were only two gay guys there, out of the dozens of straight men and women. I like going to a straight bar once in a while. It's an anthropological study for me, on the behaviour of straight men and women. How do they interact and try to get mated? What is their manner of dress and language?

The styles of the women were pretty horrible. Both Faizal and I tried to find an attractive woman there. Although they were all young, their hair was unkept, they wore no make-up, and made very bad clothing decisions that were unflattering. It's almost as though they dress to look anti-glamour. These west coast girls who go camping probably had hairy underarms.

About 50% of the guys though were sexy. They all wore the baggy jeans, the silly t-shirts, the tight head caps, had hairy eyebrows and sexy eyes, macho behaviour, etc. They used this silly slang and language to communicate. It's as though the more uncultured you sound, the better. It's uncultured, but friendly, in a masculine kind of way.

I flirted with both the men and women in this trashy, outback, westcoast town of visitors. Even the straightest of guys were responsive.

I think there's something addictive about traveling, staying in hostels - you get to meet someone, talk with them for a while, spend fun time with them, then you're onto the next city, the next experience. It's like one night stands, but times ten. You never get really close. Relationships are quite superficial, and there's no commitment. You're on the go, you make some intimate connection... even if it's for a moment. It's a moment of fantasy, imagining their life, being a part of their life and culture, getting to have sex with them and their sexy UK, Aussie or Dutch bodies, and then they're off, you're off, and you're onto the next one. You get to see these hot guys in the hostel washroom, shirtless, in their undies, shaving, taking showers, fixing their hair. You sleep with them next to you, hear them snore, hope to get glimpses of them in the morning putting on their skivies with a hard-on, still fresh from the night's sleep.

Faizal confessed to me that there is a heightened sexual tension among people in hostels. He's had lots of experience. I've never stayed in one until now. I've always done the packaged vacations. Private hotel rooms, four stars, no one talks to each other, except politely. But in hostels, veryone wants to have sex. I experienced this. It's like being at a gay bath house, that is mostly straight, but has bisexuals also.

An aside: I learned from Victoria locals that it's known as the "bisexual capital of Canada."

I think I'll plan a trip to Italy and Spain this summer, and stay in hostels. I've heard it's quite affordable (in terms of traveling and accommodation). I've missed a whole part of my life, going to school for ten years, being poor, and now being a working slave to keep my home.

A whole new life of superficiality and distraction has opened up to me. Yeah!

This post was actually supposed to be for the 15th, but I wasn't able to post it on the machine I was working on.

Well, I made it to Tofino after a long six hour drive. Faizal and I were entertained by a lovely Aussie woman to whom we gave a ride to Nanaimo, where she would catch the ferry. She was going to Whistler. She had us laughing all the way with her idioms and stories about the "bush," and how Aussies tend to take words and shorten them to no more than one or two syllables. "Umbrella" becomes "brelly."


The hostel here in Tofino is gorgeous (www.tofinohostel.com). Faizal said he's never seen one so great, even in Europe. It's very west coast architecture, made of cedar, right on the ocean. There's only four people per room, a large living room with fireplace overlooking the ocean, a game room, internet, tv room (I watched Married by Americans last night - yuck), sauna, and enormous kitchen.

Today we took a floater plane to Hotsprings Cove after a little air tour, and it was spectacular. At Hotsprings Cove I said hello to Sean of the InnChanter (see :: Wednesday, April 09, 2003 :: ). He was shocked to see me, but happy. I left Faizel at Hotsprings so he could go enjoy them. I wanted time along so I went back on the plane.

I woke up this morning and looked in the mirror and thought I looked terrible - bags, wrinkling around the eyes. I've only had about 10 hours of sleep in the last few days. I went to the pub with Faizal last night too which doesn't help. I kept looking in mirrors all day to see what was happening with my face. I started doing that gay thing, obsessing about my growing older. Now that I'm 38, I'm getting worried about wrinkles and bags. Dumb eh?

Then I just came from the store where I bought some vodka for later tonight, and the woman serving me asked for I.D! What? I was stupefied and said, "I'm nearly 40." She said, "Well, you sure don't look it."

Maybe I've got some really f*cked up thing with me - It's like anorexia, but instead of thinking I'm never thin enough, I'm never young enough. Maybe I'll end up like Cher in my 50s. Personally I think drinking vodka regularly has put me in a state of preservation.

Anyway, I'm feeling much better after she asked me for ID.

This internet terminal is not very private. I keep looking over my shoulder to see if anyone's reading this. At the Victoria hostel, I had my blog page up when I left the terminal to get some change to fill the machine. I was only gone for a minute, and when I got back a guy was sitting at my terminal, reading my blog page with fascination. When I came up he said, "Oh, weren't you done?" He and I both looked akward. I was too embarrassed to return to the computer after he had been reading my blog so I said, "Ah, yes, go ahead."

"I'll just close everything down before I start then," he said, meaning the blog page.

Q & A

Why is it that when I started blogging my life is so much more interesting? It's morning here on Monday, only 10am, and after a crazy night I can't believe I'm awake. Faizal and I will have breakfast then drive six hours to Tofino.

Here's an e-mail from "Dogpoet":

I came across your site from my referral logs. Thanks for the link, but I have to say I was a little disappointed that you would judge me in a public forum without trying to write me personally. In terms of what I am looking for in an "art world", you had me completely misread. What I am looking for in terms of the art and literary "worlds", (for lack of a better word), is stimulation. I love learning, for the sake of learning. I love being exposed to new artists/writers, hearing them read their work or seeing their work. I love it, it gives me energy and enthusiasm for my own work. This may not have come across in that one particular entry, but I've written plenty about it before.

It's a free world, you are more than free to write whatever you want on your blog, but your judgements, based on no personal exchange between us, irritated me. Don't think you know what I want out of life, or that you know what goes on in my head or heart, through a couple of paragraphs on the internet. I wouldn't write about you on my site that way.

Thanks,
aka dogpoet

My answer:
Dogpoet is totally right, and I wish to apologize publicly. Doesn't he sound like a sweetheart? I feel really awful. I was using him to project my sh*t onto, and it wasn't fair. Because that's all my rant was - shit projection. I'm sorry "Dogpoet," and the only person who looks bad is me.

Have a great day guys. By the way, staying at a hostel is incredibly fun. There's lots of young males, from all over the world, who are horny, and out to enjoy themselves, and you all sleep together in dormitories. What more can a guy ask for?

What happened to me you wouldn't believe.
So I won't bother to blog about it. Off to Tofino tomorrow.

Hello.
I'm in Victoria. Me and my Scottish roommate, I'll call him Faizal, arrived here late last night. We took the ferry to Nanaimo, then drove 2 hours to Victoria. When we got here, we had a beer at the hostel we're staying at (a very cool place that had live music being mixed) then took a cab to a club. Then we went to a house party. All the guys were straight. VERY STRAIGHT. I somehow fit in. It was fun. It's now 10am. I woke up when the Russian beauty who was sharing our room got up and left. I'm still drunk. I'm sitting here, blogging, in the lobby. I paid $2 for internet access for 30 minutes. My cool roommate slept on the top bunk. He was naked with blue hair. He's very skinny. I love his personality.

Faizal told me I'm very gay. But somehow, I'm a "very gay" guy who's natural. Yet somehow I'm like a guy who is gay, but is natural? I didn't know how to work that one out. Anyway, he was telling me a compliment. I had to listen to straight guy jokes about pussy while I was at the straight guy party last night.

I'm hanging out with a 21 year old. I must admit he's a very cool, intelligent and profound 21 year old. Nevetheless. What am I doing?

Yesterday at school, I went to the staff room. I pressed in the door's keycodes. It didn't work. There was a sign that said I needed to find out what the new door's key codes were. Anyway, I knocked on the door, some guy let me in, but he wouldn't tell me the new door keys. He said, "You look like a student, so I don't feel comfortable telling you the new codes." I told him I'm nearly 40. He said, "Then consider yourself lucky." Hmm... When I got to the hostel, the registrar asked me if I had a student card. Fuck. Do I look that young? Faizal told me I look 25. Holy shit.

Hello people. I'm almost forty. Only short two years. You're treating me like a youngster. I love it. thank you. But I want the respect you get when you're 40. Anyway, Faizal and me are here until Monday morning, here in Victoria. We'll be off to Tofino after that. He's still sleeping, I think, in the room. We've got lots to do today. I'll tell you about it. But I think I may be running out of time...

I hate San Francisco

I taught my Saturday morning class this morning. Only 11 people, which is nice. I decided that next class I'll walk in, get on top of the circle of computer tables and walk to the teaching station. They'll look at my shoes. And then not mention it, and just start teaching. People need to break out of the mold.

Another point, unrelated: I don't like San Francisco. In fact, I don't know why anyone would. I went down there with a friend a couple years ago, because I was thinking of living in San Diego. We spent five days in SF. Five LONG fucking days. First of all, every time I've seen it on TV or a movie, they make it look like a natural paradise. Instead, no matter where I looked, I saw concrete over every inch of hill, land, flat surface. For miles. It goes beyond the horizon. The only exception is that one view on the waterfront, where they've managed to stop building surburbs. Homes in the downtown area have no backyards. The homes may as well be townhouses - there's no space in between them. Their parks are ugly. There's too much graffitti. We took a tour of graffittied, ugly neighbourhoods that the brochure tried to pass off as culture. I went to the Castro area and was entirely unimpressed. It's full of ugly, poorly dressed gay men. We went to a couple gay bars. Bad music. Boring men. I did go to a coffee shop I liked. Cafe Flore. I liked it because... it was full of gay men having fun, talking, and feeling normal. Here, in Vancouver, we've got gay coffee shops and ugly poorly dressed men as well, but there's an intense feeling of homophobia. That's one thing I never felt in San Francisco, is that sickly, dreaded energy of fear that emanates here. If you walk into a gay coffee shop here, in the West End, you feel like you need to take a cold shower, to wash that creepy, ugly energy off of you.

I spent 75% of my time driving on quadruple decked freeways. With nasty, bad drivers. Having to pay expensive tolls. But we listened to a very cool new age radio station while we drove. I did like that.

My gosh, Americans, hello, wake up. Vancouver is everything times ten that San Francisco is. Here, nature overwhelms culture. No matter where you look, you see HUGE mountains dominating our landscape. There's no real estate on them. Our ocean and beaches line every shore, and they all have public access. Here in Canada, you can't own oceanfront. It belongs to the people. You can swim in our oceans without getting a dreaded disease. Our air is fresh - we've got a major air control policy here. Our cars need to be checked for emissions every one or two years. It takes me 45 minutes to go skiing on top of a mountain that is 9,000 feet above sea level. Or, five minutes to go into an ancient cedar forest. Our parks would blow your mind. We have Stanley Park. An ancient cedar forest with moss, ferns, and it's acres, and it's in the middle of our downtown. Our parks tend not to be "artificial." I can bicycle to the University of BC grounds, and mountain bike through the forest of cedars. I can travel 30 minutes to nearly untouched wilderness, and hang my feet into glacier fed waters, while sitting on boulders.

Fuck Castro. What an ugly area. Try the West End. It's a gay community, with more community, than Castro. Yes, people aren't as friendly as in SF, but the West End is beautiful. We have an amazing bay with a gorgeous, unpolluted, non-graffittied beach in the middle of it. And when you look across our bay, there's no concrete. All you see is endless ocean. On a clear day, you can see our beautiful Gulf Islands.

I thought SF might have more culture than Vancouver. I went to the art gallery and museum in SF. Wrong. I saw some half-assed exhibition at both. I've seen better art in Lethbridge, Alberta. More cutting edge, more contemporary, more significant. I went for dinner in SF, expecting better food. Wrong. I can get better food 10 feet away from where I live.

My friend that I went to SF with loved SF. Until I went with her. After our visit together, she agreed with me. There's some kind of marketing scheme going on with SF, that makes people blind to its reality. SF is an ugly, homely city, too much real estate. It's really very sad. I'm sorry that all of you SF-lovers have bought into the marketing. I guess you've never been to Vancouver, so you don't know what beauty is.

San Diego is another topic. It is beautiful. It's almost Vancouver, but with better weather. I loved San Diego. Want to challenge me on this? e-mail me.

PS: I dislike the phrase, "buddy/buddies." It's okay in print (it sounds cute), but trying to say "buddy" verbally, to a real human being feels ridiculous for me. The only endearment I was allowed to say to BC was "You're my buddy." It very nearly made this masculine, bi-sexual man blush, and become silly putty when I said it to him. Forget telling him he is "hot," or "sexy," or "handsome." If I called him a buddy, he got an instant hard on. (10" plus, thick.) What's that about? I like listening to 20 year old girls call one another buddies, or talk about their boyfriends as buddies. I find that cute. But what about nearly 40 year olds calling one another buddies? I think it sounds incredibly immature and non-sexual. It sounds to me like – "you need to grow up, bud."

Statistics and Spirituality

I signed up to one of those site statistic things. Wow, is it interesting. I get to see how many visitors I have, who they are, and where they're referred from. Also how many pages the visitor has viewed and how long they've been at my site. It's a little nerve-racking. Now I realize every blog I've been to knows how long I was at their site and how many pages I've read. I somehow feel like I've lost my privacy.

Through the referrals, I also discovered a brilliant blogger called "http://www.clumsytwirler.com/." Gorgeous essays. When I read his site name, I thought he was a drag-queen performer, so I was surprised to discover he wasn't, and also very thoughtful and fascinating writing.

Something I haven't discussed before is my spiritual side. I'm not just a slut and rude person, as I've portrayed myself so far. I'm just going through a phase. Before I met BC, I was living in the suburbs. I was in Burnaby for three years. I moved to Burnaby to get away from the gay lifestyle and circuit-boys. I meditated daily. I kept a web site on new age writings and experiences. I've read every new age book out there (my new age book collection exceeds even my art book collection). Some are very esoteric and flaky. My all time favourite are the Seth channelings.

I used to enjoy meditating. After doing it so regularly, I started to open up to the subtle energies. At the time I was focussing on love. I began to get very psychic. I got in touch with my inner guidance. It really is an amazing experience, one that is difficult to express and explain. I felt the amazing light of my higher self, the I AM, and the greater entity of who I am would guide me. I also talked to my helper guides, who would initiate action on my behalf when I visualized what I needed.

I started to do spontaneous psychic readings with friends. For example, one friend had a reoccurring prostate infection. When he came over for dinner one night, we were talking about it, and this insight came over me. It was like a different, parallel reality. I began talking, not really knowing what I was saying. I saw these silver flickers of light in my mind's eye, and I told him to take Colloidal Silver. I described how it would be more effective than the prescriptions he was taking, it would manage to get through his minor and major colons, and kill the infection in his prostate.

I was a little embarrassed by it at the time. But a month later he told me he followed my advice, took Colloidal Silver, and hasn't had a prostate infection since. He'd had the problem for like three years. He's still free of prostate problems.

Other things happened. I'd meet someone, they'd be talking to me, and I'd be seeing/hearing/feeling things on a different level about them. I'd know their issues, their blocks, their thinkings. It was like what they were talking about was so secondary. It became difficult for me to socialize and relate to other people, because I could see right through them. Most people don't want to be confronted with the knowledge I had, so I had to somehow ignore what I knew.

My landlord decided to sell the house I was in. Again, I had a vision that there was a beautiful apartment one block away. I went on the internet, found the apartment one block away (exactly one block away) and got it. I lived there for two years.

I got into this place where life is the illusion. There are many levels to existence, some more real than this world. Sometimes, when I'd procrastinated and needed more time to prepare for a class, I'd slow down time. I managed to get reams of work done in an hour.

I learned to be very grounded, to stop freaking out, to breathe into anxiety. I learned to trust that what I asked for would come. And it would/did.

There were many synchronicities, on a daily basis. More than I can explain. But then, at the height of this spiritual opening, I also began to experience my dark side.

My dark side is the side that most of you have heard about so far. My sexual promiscuity. My nastiness. I recently met an incredible woman, very spiritual, a spiritual counsellor actually, who told me that the more you open up to the spiritual side, the more your karma and negative habits surface. This is what I'm going through at the moment. I'm having to come to terms with myself, my karma, my negative aspects of self. She told me that there are spiritual techniques to deal with this - to burn off your karma - so that you're able to maintain a grounded spirituality.

I know she is speaking the truth. And I'm afraid.

I didn't tell you about her before. I'll call her Anna. I met Anna through another friend. I did some work for her. And seriously, all we'd do is talk about work together, and meet for an hour together. But at the end of the hour, after being with her, I'd feel joyous, for absolutely no reason. I wanted to burst into song, like a musical, like the Sound of Music, once she left. It was her energy. Her spiritual energy of love and joy streams off her, even when she's talking about mundane things. The thing is, when you've been around her for an hour, you engage in her energy, and she empowers you. You feel positively joyous.

She has offered me spiritual counselling, in return for the work I did for her. I know I need to take it, to get back to the lovely place I was a few years ago. But I'm scared. There's safety in this dark place I'm in. I'm afraid of living so spiritually. Where I get to hear people's unconscious thoughts. Where I feel a greater responsibility to help others.

100 Things About Me

I removed this post for editing...it had too much information!

Deep Stuff

It's nearly 1am here in Vancouver when I'm posting my blog for Friday. I know I'll have a busy day Friday and won't get a chance to write later in the day, once I wake up.

I started a new semester with my evening students tonight. I really had fun with them. I enjoy my adult evening students more than my day students. They tend to be more enthusiastic, and most of them are already working in their profession, so they bring a lot more knowledge and experience to the class. After several years teaching, I've learned what students most want:
1. To be entertained. Tell alot of jokes. Be dramatic. Say things that are on the edge of being inappropriate and risky.
2. Challenge them to do better, but also let them know they're doing well. Treat them respectfully and with confidence.
3. Share personal experience with them, and encourage them to share their experience.
4. Return their assignments back within a week. You'll be their hero.
I got them to interview another student and report back to me about them. They also had to tell me the student's astrological sign, and then I gave them a positive and negative aspect about their sign. They loved it, and everyone shared a lot of laughs (So you're Taurus....well, they are sturdy and dependable, but...very stubborn). They find it hilarious in an academic setting.

I always have a lot of brilliant students in my evening classes. Most of them already have degrees in everything including linguistics, philosophy, sociology and psychology. Since I did a liberal arts degree(s), I can draw them in to share their perspectives from their disciplines.

I have three cute guys in my class. One is an iron-man competitor with very messy blond hair (you know that messy hair look). He's Gemini, so an excellent communicator but can't be trusted. At break I checked over his bod, and it's very skinny. I don't think he has any bodyfat at all. Then there's the very open, cute and sexy 39 year old (I found out his birthdate when he had to log into his computer) who's also very bright, has his own business and is involved in finances. He really engages people when he talks to you. He's probably married. He is Scorpio, so is very passionate, but if you betray him he knows how to extract his claws and sting you. Then there's the 21 year old, obviously gay but highly creative guy. He looks like a caucasian version of that gorgeous (shoot, just a second, I need to look up his name again...) Chrisonomicon. I can tell he's extremely bright, because he has no patience, and is capable of listening to me while I lecture and cruise the internet at the same time. He's a Capricorn. So am I. We're supposed to be very success driven and also like taking control over every situation.

When I was driving to work tonight, I passed by some very unfortunate people, who looked like they were struggling in life. It made me pause and think, "Maybe I shouldn't have so much attitude about my work. Maybe I could be greatful for the work I have, with my clients and my daytime students. Maybe I made a mistake quitting my day time teaching job for the fall. Maybe I'm going to be a failure now, because I have a bad attitude." It does scare me. But there's a part of me that says, "Fuck that." I refuse to do something I don't enjoy any more because I need money. Yes, I do love teaching the evening students, but I don't enjoy the day students. Even though teaching the day students pays a lot of money, more than evening, I don't care. I'll find a way to make even MORE money, doing something I enjoy more. I'm not willing to sell my soul for money. So that's my commitment to myself. I will not go back in the fall to teach those daytime brats, AND I will find a way to make even MORE money doing something I enjoy more, and is more fulfilling to me. AND, I refuse to give up my beautiful house. I will find a way to make the payments (even though they're high). Even if I have to stop eating out every day, travelling or whatever for while until I achieve this. I really believe that the more I think I deserve, the more I get.

I realized I have a bit of an ego. I'm really not more talented or intelligent than many people. I think the difference is, is that I stubbornly put my foot down (I learned how to do that from my two ex-boyfriends who are Taurus), refuse to budge and have doubts that it's possible to achieve what I want, and just do it and get what I want. I keep saying "no" to what I don't want, until I get what I do want. It's risky, yes, but it seems to work for me. Many of my friends are too afraid to take these risks. They're always amazed that I trade security for self-actualization. But is life worth living if you only do things because they bring financial security? Not for me.

Something that is very pressing on me is that I must return to painting. This is a big issue for me. I did art for 10 years, obsessively, winning awards, gallery exhibitions, the highest accolades, and then quit. I realized I hated the art world: it's pretentiousness. I had no sense of community. It was a bunch of phonies, with poor self-esteem, running around trying to prove themselves as being better than everyone else. The people who are successful are not necessarily the most talented - they're the ones who play the game the best. They know how to sell themselves. Make themselves look as exotic and unattainable as Gucci purses. They know how to be with the "in crowd." I sold my soul to be with this crowd. I learned how to market myself, both as a person, and an artist. I did the press releases when I had an exhibition. I schmoozed with the right people (who I detested). I professionally documented my work and exhibitions so that I could get that next grant. I experienced the politics of powerful people in control, who had no talent, did shitty artwork, and yet could control my career. I worked with curators and galleries who's main interest in life was maintaining their reputation among their peers. I kept in touch with all the latest art developments, the magazines, the art criticism, theory. And now, having had an eight year hiatus, I don't give a fuck about all this. I just want to paint and do my work.

I ended up doing work for "them." The establishment. I no longer did art to please myself. Now that I've extricated myself from this cult of art, I'm ready to return. I'm ready to do art that pleases ME. I don't care if it's up to contemporary art practices or theory. I don't care if they like me as a person. I simply want to do painting, that pleases me. And I have this nervous feeling that it will be a hit.

I'm scared, because I spent tens of thousands of dollars on my painting and multi-media installations, and other than scholarships and awards and bursaries, didn't see any profit. I promised myself never to do another piece without the potential of profitting from it. Maybe I'm deluding myself, but I feel like any work I do at this point, will be financially and artistically successful. And I can feel this tremendous thrust in me to start doing my work again. It's even deeper than when I was younger.

So I've got a direction in mind. I've got the space (I can convert my garage into a painting studio). I've got the drive. I just need to do it, and I'm scared. I'm scared of not making money, even if I enjoy the process. I refuse to do art for art's sake any more. I expect to receive financial compensation that's equal to what I deserve. Which, I believe, is a lot. Stay tuned for what happens...

Wow, I didn't mean to go here tonight. I'm sorry I'm not entertaining you with sex-capades. Actually, I did call Ahmed today. He was in the middle of a social worker emergency, so he'll call me tomorrow. He sounds sweet. I'm only interested in friendship at this time. I have way too much to deal with, so I don't want a boyfriend at this time. Thanks for listening to my rant. My truth.

Also, I don't know if "dogpoet" reads my blogs, but he reminds me of myself, from the past eight years ago. He's got a much better bod than me, but in terms of being enamoured by the artworld, I think he's being blinded by it. The artworld is not "god." It's not even worth keeping in touch with, except for a few times a year. Do what you feel. Do what you want. Do what you're driven to do. Even if it's not in keeping with the contemporary art theorists: do it. Extricate yourself from the reviewers and theorists and media regarding art. I've been where you are, done that, and am committed to going beyond it. Because, if you look at the artists you admire, they all ignore that bullshit. They do work that comes from their soul. Not from popular drivel. But from within oneself.