Sharing a narrative about how I will fool my parents this Christmas

The plan is simple, but let's go back a year.

A year ago, I called my mother to tell her I had enough time and money to visit home for Christmas. She was Very excited, but I told her to can it, because I was going to surprise the family. So, to her dismay, she lied to my aunt and uncle, my cousins, and her own father, saying I couldn't make it and that I would be completely alone for Christmas. Well, I did make it, and my parents picked me up on the way to Ft. Collins via DIA. I waited at the bottom of a mountain until all had settled, the walked up to the front door, and, SURPRISE!, was the best Christmas gift anyone had gotten that year. Then this happened:

No, those are not shiny things on her sweatshirt, her tits really are that big. Really!

Anyway, I'm not that fat this year (although I could be by Christmas), but I can still surprise a bitch. My biggest (forgive the pun) regret was not having a white elephant gift. This year, I have the PERFECT one! For my house-warming, I promised a fireplace, but netflix didn't deliver as promised, so I had to PURCHASE a DVD full of nothing but continuous video of fires. As a matter of consequence, it was perfect for the party, but it is nothing I would like to own. RE-GIFT! The funny thing about this particular gift is that I'm pretty sure every member of my family, I being the only exception, has a real fireplace. However, I'm probably the only member who doesn't have a TV in multiple rooms, unless you factor in how I could roll my AV cart into a doorway for the technicality.

I booked a flight today to arrive the morning of Christmas eve, told my sister (and as a consequence, her husband), and plan to be the surprisorist again! I have a perfect funny gift and will even shop around for a bad sweater. I have dropped this bad ensemble:

FOR which, I will add, I won a bad sweater contest. I'll do it again, chest hair and all. I had the very best bad Christmas sweater of all for a couple of years, but never used it in a contest:

It's small, but basically it's mice carrying christmas packages across an ugly red sweatshirt. Embroidered. I should never have given it away! Blast!

Well, anyway, Je and I devised a plan to "spend Christmas together in Levenworth." Levenworth, besides seeming like a nice place to spend a life sentence, is Washington's North Pole, a veritable winter playground that takes Germanic Christmas fables very seriously. Christmas is to Levenworth as Wine is to Walla Walla: street cred. So anyway, we are making "plans" to stay there for Christmas, but "something" will happen which will leave us "mad at each other" or "displaced without a way out" or "stranded." We'll share this tale on Thanksgiving, when we video chat with the family. If we're not contingent on the plan, it will all go down hill. My sister needs to know right away.

Sharing a lack of mystery, also, I hope I don't die.

The lack of mystery is startling. I hosted a party and basically blacked out for the latter portion of the evening, and yet there is a lack of mystery.

I've blacked out and found more cash than I started with, blacked out and woken up naked in a Costa Rican hotel room, a little wet and bruised, woken up with some person whose name I had to find out, but this has never happened. First of all, I somehow knew this guy's name, like I had been repeating it over and over. Also, I knew how the cheap furniture had been broken (I fell on it). I asked around and I had recollected the whole night. Perhaps it wasn't the best party ever.

Also, I hope I don't die. I drank some meed which (as all meed these days is) had been homemade. Hopefully, as all things alcoholic tend to do, the death in it had been killed, although it doesn't taste alcoholic to me, which make me wonder if it isn't a cesspool of germs and bacteria that are waiting for some unsuspecting host to deliver their spawn unto the world. I could be patient zero for the apocalypse. I had hoped very much that I would be one of the last survivors, eeking out a meager existence on found fall-out shelters, vending machines and dog flesh. If I act like a zombie by next week, please remove my head from my body. It isn't going to turn out well if you don't.

Sharing some thoughts on the eve of the first annual party I've held for two years

We have a lot to celebrate. Of course there is our health, the fact that we are alive, the love that we share, the great wines we enjoy a little too much, also we have the beauty of our youth, too. We can make up any reason to celebrate. It helps us justify the wine and the whiskey and the beers and the what-have-you. "Cheers to not having to make up an excuse to drink on a Monday morning! Cheers to this crumby yet abundant cup of coffee! Cheers to this floppy burger with shredded, bagged, pre-washed lettuce!"

But that's not what I'm getting at. That is guilt finger-scratching at the corner of my vision. It's my mom's gentle disapproval. Perhaps when we doubt the seriousness of the process of living we would be better off dead. Even the frivolous is sustenance, such as this glass of wine, my body gets just as many calories from three glasses as it would get from an average meal. It fuels my brain just as well, and I dare say is filled with fewer frightening chemicals than most manufactured foods.

Celebration is a necessary practice similar, I think, to laughter. I'm not proposing a theory as to exactly how it is necessary (you know I'm cooking one up), but we don't want to imagine a life without laughter, its ability to cut through nervous, awkward, obscene, terrible, fantastic or profound experience. I propose that celebration is a vacation from sorrow. Christmases have taken place as they would any other year in the face of deaths and diseases, like the year I was four and my grandmother had just died from ovarian cancer. It was a celebration with her, knowing we had to act as she would, with a supreme love for family and an abundant warmth.

Then again, there is this party I am to host in a few hours.

My major concern is the flow of drink and presence of food. I baked a pie but have nothing really to offer other than some cornichons, olives, and a dwindling pile of pumpkin seeds. In the beverage department, I have no intention of offering more than two bottles of wine and a little beer and gin. The rest is up to these crazy people who have agreed for some reason to attend this party. I'm not concerned yet with celebration. I guess we either will or we won't. I'll write a speech just in case:

"Beloved guests and other guests: Welcome to my home. If you have not already poured yourself a glass of something, please do, because I will offer a toast after this unnecessarily long-winded speech. As such, pour a fuller cup than you might be accustomed. Hell, grab the bottle. Also, there is at least a pound of butter in the pie. I thought it would be a good way to guarantee that Jessica would arrive. The topic of this party is Thanks But No Thanks Giving, which is just a clever arrangement of words, but I really to have an intention here, or at least I have made one up in time for this party. Next week we will probably all get together with family and friends to give thanks, mostly as a sort of abstraction, for as much as we give thanks for Grandma, it's hard not to yell at her when she makes racist remarks. We give thanks for the food, too, but the turkey is always dry and your brother's girlfriend doesn't eat anything, and you might want to throw something by the end of it all, if you weren't too drunk to stand. We give thanks.

"It's nothing against Grandma, but I'd rather be here. I'd rather choose the company I keep and keep it well as a practice of living rather than as an ablution. I'd rather care for my pie than have it from a can because that is what everyone expects. I'll say no to dry turkey and gloopy cranberry jell from a can. I will no longer pretend to be interested in cousin Alisa's second baby with that dirt bag she's married to. We are pioneers, making new friends in old lands, making family with strangers. We appreciate finer common denominators. We'll enjoy a pound of butter in our pie, thank you very much, and we're not apologizing for it. Thanksgiving? Thanks, but no thanks.

"Please remember to behave yourself this holiday season. Also, don't spend beyond your means. Also, I have love in my heart for each and every one of you with no more than two or three exceptions. My toast this evening is to you, my friends."

Sharing an apology...

I'm not very good at this, because I have a sort of stubborn rigidity that keeps me looking forward, sometimes at the expense of those left in my wake. I do however have a lot to be sorry for. I'm sorry that I missed my 17th birthday party because I was secretly making out with some boy from another school. I'm sorry about not blogging. Mostly, though, I have learned to write information with integrity and compassion. Upon publishing one's thoughts in a public format, one is responsible for the content of those thoughts. So I am sorry that I have shared details which could have caused certain pain. It was not my place.

Sharing an open letter to my favorite bar tenders, servers, convenience store clerks and friends:

I'm sorry.

I know you never depended on me, but it was always a pleasure, wasn't it? We had lots of great times, especially after my third or fourth Manhattan and got a little louder, when I tipped 100%, when I stumbled out the door. You were always happy to see me, and you saw me often. You were always good to me. The drinks you poured me were always strong, my wine glass was never empty, and you never looked at me like I was crazy when I ordered the third pitcher. With you, I was always at least okay.

I'm sorry, but we have to separate. It's not you, it's my weak body and poor judgement, it's my bleeding stomach and my having tired of being constantly hungover or working on my next hangover. You'll say I just need to cut back for a while. You'll advise moderation. I have never known moderation. I always lose at the "betcha can't have just one" challenge.

I still love you, but I no longer want to need you. Maybe we can be friends, one day, but you won't see me for a while.

Sharing the street with Kimi, Walla Walla's Next Top Model final showdown

A blog in pictures.

Sharing movies, ideas, and an apartment.

I would like to share some sordid items from the week.

- I'm not exactly pissed at my mom, like I should be, for wanting to see my grandmother peacefully at rest. After some thinking, I realized that the truth is that I agree with her. It isn't that I want her to die, but that she might be better off, and perhaps it was this subtlety that I missed when my mother repeatedly conveyed her opinion. And, after all, my mother is one of the only two people who are constantly at my grandmother's side. It is not for lack of love or care or compassion or anything else. It may be for an abundance.

- I picked up a new roommate, which couldn't be more ideal. I don't see that much of her (which is only ideal in terms of privacy and maintaining the status quo), and she's clean and respectful. Best of all, we've enjoyed living together before. Now we just need to start kicking each others' asses about getting to the gym.

- Speaking of the gym, I was on a two week hiatus when at first I rediscovered my love of running, then became injured, and then briefly sedentary. I left weight training behind but plan to ease back into it. Today I tried cycling, but I wasn't comfortable with the motion at the reps needed to get to my target heart rate. I'll get on the elliptical again tomorrow, and while I think it may be equally lame (go ahead, read into that use), It might be better than the bike while I continue to be injured. My fitness goals are currently simple: I want to drop some pounds, work on my shoulders, chest, arms and abs. I'm not worried about chicken legs: I already have somewhat well-developed below-the-waist musculature (please, read into this, too), and I can become more comprehensive when the upper half is all caught up. Weigh-in today has me down to 176.5lbs, hoping for 169.

- I'm totally absorbed in a work of fiction which I find strange but totally acceptable. I'm reading Waugh's Brideshead Revisited. I became interested in it after I fell asleep through the 2008 film adapted from the book. The movie was immediately intriguing but then got really boring (and it was late), which made me think it might be a beautifully written book, which make the most seriously boring movies (i.e. Brokeback Mountain, The Hours). I'm rediscovering my independent desire to pay attention to and analyze imagery and thematic elements. Also, it is a perfect novel for a queer reading. I'm worried that Waugh has an agenda with which I will soon take exception, but until then, I'm getting ideas for my own work and a renewed desire for more fiction. It is very likely that I will pick up Anna Karenina again.

Brideshead is about the love affair between a young middle class man and a young aristocrat who meet at Oxford during the inter-war period. The novel has taken a turn in the second third to very deftly describe the effects and causes of alcoholism. Waugh would have been very aware of the clinicization of alcohol abuse (i.e. the emergence of the alcoholic, the diagnosis), but seems to be somewhat careful to address the topic in its context, which is very appropriate for the novel - we see into the reasons the character is drawn to drink, and alcohol itself is an important thematic element. It has become very horrifying, and I'm sort of drawn away from drinking for a while.

- Finally, I discovered this weekend that I don't know what to do with time off. I got a little bored this weekend with three days off in a row. I was able to pack a lot in on the 4th, but I only used about half the day on Sunday, and yesterday I did almost nothing at all (but read and watch movies, alone). The next time I anticipate some time off, I'll do meticulous planning. It isn't that enjoying time alone is a waste of time, it's just that I could feel more accomplished and well rested now, on the other side of this lot of time.

Sharing life, over-sharing about death

Pictured above is me with the woman who repeatedly expressed in a round-about way that her mother-in-law, my grandmother, would be better off dead.

But this is only the beginning of my journey, which started on Saturday.

I arrived at DIA around 11:30, hoping for a quick shuttle ride to the hotel which turned into an hour's ride. At the Brown Palace, a colorful historic hotel in downtown Denver, I found an extremely charming hotel with great room service. They brought me a burger and a bottle of wine promptly, and I was very happy. I decided that, since I was alone it wouldn't hurt to have a cigarette, but after a half hour of searching, there was none to be found, and I'm still on-track. I slept well, took a nice long bath, posted a blog at a coffee shop, and then Richard arrived.

Richard and I had lunch, and after beer two I noticed the altitude. We continued onto a very charming wine bar, where we had a flight of sparklers and a (very generously poured) glass of pinot noir. We rushed to the wedding, which was lovely, perfect, and very very fun. We ditched early and went to JR's, on the eve on Denver's gay pride festival. Suffice it to say, it was a scene, thus crowded, thus boring.

The next morning we got room service (paid the bill, OMG, I know how to spend!), took our time, and caught a bit of the parade, then drove to the Springs, and that's where things began to be interesting.

My mom greeted me at the house. It was great to see the dogs, the house was beautiful, and the weather was perfect. Everything was shaping up to be perfect. We went to lunch and shared sandwiches, and I began to realize what my mother was needing, namely an uninvolved party to which she could vent.

You see, my grandmother had open-heart surgery three weeks ago, after which she suffered a stroke. Before the surgery, she was on oxygen therapy but was otherwise okay - she could talk, sit upright, talk and go about her business - doing the things she always does like watching TV, sitting and complaining. The events that unfolded leading up to and after the surgery (originally scheduled for early May) produced an invalid, unable to speak or precisely communicate. Over lunch, on the eve of my reunion with Grandma, my mother laid out the profundity of her injuries and the severity of the whole situation. Before I'd seen the ailing woman, my mother said in not-so-many words that my grandmother should never have had the surgery, and basically that she should be dead now, not half way there. I had to see for myself. Having to on account of curiosity, yes, but a real necessity. Deathbed shit.

At the care unit I did not recognize the woman. Perhaps I did not want to recognize her, a tuft of grey hair, one half of her body dead and swollen, eyes barely open. A hole in her throat allowed her to breath. When she did look, it was with terror, a muted cry for help. She squeezed my hand and nodded, but I could not understand her. I never could, Grandma and I never connected over anything save onions which, as it is now, she cannot even eat. I kissed her forehead, an action foreign to me, and I talked as much as I could. What do you say? "You look like shit my mother thinks you're better off dead"?

Back at the house, we are welcomed by the news that my father is stranded hundreds of miles away, too stubborn to have refilled the oil in the car. I decide to go for a run. I run over 6 miles, get rained on, and when I return home, my dad has reportedly run into some relatives who are bringing him back. One more tragedy, averted. I help my mom with her computer, then we head to dinner.

The original location for dinner is blocked by some biker festival, and we quickly relocate. I'm pissed, but stay cool.

Dinner, which would have originally been for 6 becomes 13, me, my sister and her husband, Mom and Dad, Grandpa and his "girlfriend" Becky (who never sees him unless we bring them together, he doesn't really care for her anymore), Tio Chito, his son and daughter-in-law, and their three children. Grandma becomes lost in the pursuit of reconnection, and we finish out the evening with dominos. I didn't think I'd had enough to drink.

The next morning, I go for breakfast with my mom, and again over a meal, she drops an insensitive bomb. "By the time all this is over it will cost more than she ever made in her life!" I wonder, out loud, if people who can afford care should receive it based on that merit alone. Of course, she agrees, but then her point becomes clear. Two-thirds of US healthcare costs go to end-of-life care. Damn, Mom, you're right. I guess my grandmother is better off dead. Unfortunately, that is not the right thing to say.

She's up, then sleeping, seeing out of half of her face. I saw her again in the morning, and I really thought she was doing better, but maybe I was just being helpful. I told her to behave. She nodded. I said "this isn't fun, is it?" and she shook her head. My mom is right and wrong. This situation should never have come to pass, but when it's my damn grandma, I won't quite consent to pulling the plug. My own mother, on the other hand - as we rode the elevator to the ground floor where we took the above picture says, "if I ever get that way, I want you to smother me with a pillow" - I'll know what to do.

Sharing dirt with a city

Perhaps it is me. The city looks like anger and dispair. Freaks look me in the eye and faggots avoid me. The air smells like cigarette smoke, farts, and unrequited threesomes. There is no sense of hope, just a vague suggestion of the lack of salvation.

Denver will save me, unlike any other city. There is no room for regret. Love, taste, divinity, these are my modus, I have yet to find my operandi.

Sharing the street in Denver or, what to do in Denver when you're alone [dead]

The tourists here are extremely distinguishable. Denver types are so healthy and go dashing about in running gear or hiking books, with gym bags for brief cases. Or maybe it's just Saturday. The tourists, on the other hand, look like the people who trapped me on the connecting flight from Spokane yesterday: overweight, impatient, stressed-out, red-in-the-face, slightly angry.

I'm trying to strike a balance. I brought every piece of requisite health-nut three piece suit, running shoes, shorts, and a thin, ratty t-shirt, iPod instead of cufflinks and sweat band instead of tie. Not appropriate unless I should be spotted actually running. I couldn't look unhealthy if I tried, owing to the beginnings of a summer tan and my general cardiovascular well-being. Perhaps if I had the money for it I could carry an arm-full or two of shopping bags signaling an unhealthy addiction to credit or poor taste.

Whatever I would have to do to blend in here, I'm not willing to do it: it serves as further evidence that I do not belong in Colorado. I deserve the choice to blend in or stand out. I'm willing to claim this as a right.

[In a somewhat related note which needs less than a full blog-post of exploration, a friend with whom I am often spotted out decided that we need great disguises. We are far too popular to have a relaxed, uninterrupted evening.]

Sharing good-byes

Farewell, James Guzman.

You were undoubtedly the proudest Indian I ever met. You always had something to say, which was neither wise nor made sense, but was usually miraculously uplifting. Whenever I though I had a hard row to hoe, James, you came in and talked about drug addiction and shitty people and disappointment with a sort of cheery tone that made me forget that I was upset in the first place.

I also realize that you never complained. Ever. Things happen. People disappoint. Shit happens. It is the relentless flow of life that keeps coming, and there are two major choices: the bank or the swim upstream. James, you have chosen the swim, and I have extreme admiration for you.

With you gone, I'll have to learn to complain less, love more, and just learn from my frustration, otherwise your absence will be hard felt.

Sharing disappointment

"Michael was fun - until he stopped drinking!"

Laughter.

And that's how I feel. Except I didn't stop drinking, and no one said that.

But the first Saturday night out without occasional smoke breaks was a nightmare. Everything was otherwise the same. We sang the same songs, drank the same drinks, were surprised, saw all types, table sang - even Rex was there, perhaps the most fun person ever.

Something was missing, like I had otherwise been taking a bubble bath that this week was drained.

The whole day was like this, really. I got plenty of sleep, came to orgasm with a man in my bed around 10:30, and was not hungover or dehydrated or malnourished. Well, I take it back. I could have been dehydrated.

I really need to find someone that enjoys having me around without smoke breaks. As it is, my friends don't notice, probably because they were so used to me before. This struggle is inside. Maybe I need another stupid haircut.

Kimberly said, "You can have one."

I was better at fitting in when I smoked. I was sexier. I was happy then.

Sharing technology

This week, as a preemptive award for smoking cessation, I treated myself to a much needed new Macbook. This is my first Mac with a built in camera, which at first I thought would be a useless accessory.

That was until I got the idea to video chat with my family. My mom has a similar laptop, and it is the natural destination of our technological journey. In the school year of '02-'03, I relied heavily on a calling card, a series of 20 some numbers, then the phone number, every time I wanted to call anywhere out of the county. Two years later, I had my own cell phone, but lacked texting capability. In July of '08, we all got iPhones and I recieved the first text from my dad and shortly after, from my mom.

Today, at 8:50am, my computer indicated that DonnieEspinoza (the AIM username I had created for them) had requested an audio chat. (I had to quickly get off the toilet to respond). My dad had figured out how to use audio chat from their iMac. After I told him to try the his laptop (the one with the camera), I waited ten minutes and I was suddenly speaking face-to-face with my dad. I had always assumed that video chat would be a mere novelty, but it turned out that speaking to my father after all these months was a little emotional. I took the laptop around the apartment for a quick tour, and when I sat back down at the kitchen table my dad was sitting with my grandmother, Tortilla Grandma.

I was aware that she had just been recovering from surgery, but did not anticipate that she would be using oxygen (strangely, a not uncommon sight for that side of the family). Grandma was thrilled. I imagine that in her impoverished, hard-working life, she could never have dreampt that she would talk to her grandson hundreds of miles away, looking at his face, on a device with no wires that weighs no more than 4lbs. We waved as though it was from a distance, but that felt awkward. The experience was intimate enough to evoke the impulse to hug.

I can't wait to talk to my mom and everyone else in the family, especially Grandpa. They'll love it.

Sharing the fight

I made a commitment to myself today to quit smoking. So far so good. I was able to overcome the craving, with the aid of gum, when I had a beer. I'm a little worried, but the fear will soon subside.

Sharing a bed

I'm 25 and I can probably, if I think hard enough, remember each and every instance in which I've shared a bed in my adult life. These situations are memorable for a specific series of reasons: a) the beds were usually shared after sex, b) I have never lived with a partner, c) the instance inevitably causes an interruption in my sleep cycle, and d) ergo sharing a bed is not consistent with my comfort level.

I have shared a bed with two people in the last two weeks. Jessica, with whom I've shared a spare few beds, napped with me briefly on Wednesday afternoon. She talks in her sleep, wants to be close, and is hot - preferring lots of blankets. The next night I shared a bed with my new fuckbuddy. He's little. The action is very intense. We started curled up together, naked, without blankets. After a while, we pulled some blankets up. I didn't sleep well because my arms kept falling asleep, either because I was folded up on them, or he was. Luckily, I had to hit the gym at 6:30, so we didn't share the bed for too long. The second night we shared a bed, last night, he fell asleep sort of under me, and I was able to turn over and find my own sleepspace. It turns out he sleeps very hard, and I can rub my morning boner all over him and he won't budge. It turned out to be ideal, although he preferred to sleep for a long time, and I had time to feed the cat, fix a huge breakfast, eat the breakfast, smoke, blog, read blogs, and finish a lot of coffee before I went into the bedroom and woke him up (in a very kind way). I did this both times: I left the bed, did my own thing, my new morning thing, then went back to bed to help him get up.

I can't imagine a life like this. The life where a man is in my bed. He might wake me up, of I might wake him up, but he's always there. I understand it to be realistic: if I wanted to live in San Francisco or New York and have a great partner (both life goals, in the works), there's no way we could have separate beds without infidelity. I once often stated that I desire a man that gets down to business then retreats to the other side of the bed, but I'm coming to understand that that man is more likely to retreat into fond memories of a certain night spent. The man that wants the other side of the bed is the man that wants to be alone. This man, he's like me, except I don't want to be this man. Perhaps I'm not not better off alone.

Sharing sordid details about men like me

None of this was true one year ago, just as I graduated from college:

Men like me wake up early.

Men like me go to the gym more than three times a week, religiously.

Men like me are perfectly happy alone, single.

Men like me don't get involved in other peoples' relationships.

Men like me eat responsibly.

Men like me make it to the farmer's market every Saturday morning.

Men like me are able to keep a plant alive.

Men like me drink lots and lots of water.

Men like me save money.

Although, some things will always be true:

Men like me drink rosé as long as it's crisp and dry.

Men like me set the table and light candles for certain dinners alone.

Men like me cut and arrange beautiful flowers and put them on the kitchen table.

Men like me spend money on impulse.

Men like me try to star in karaoke night.

Men like me become dangerously self-absorbed.

Men like me don't feel right until they look right.

Men like me choose very strange people to love.

Anyway, I feel like a lot has changed, and I'm not sure if this feeling is obvious to anyone but me. I'll ask around.

Sharing a building: Part 2

Shirtless, in short shorts and my Reebok pump-up sneakers, I strode around the building quickly to unload some garbage. Either fortunately or unfortunately, I ran into some older or otherwise out-of-shape neighbors moving a large buffet up one story. They had a very daft plan to lift the heavy wooden piece straight up, nearly six feet, to the front landing. I agreed share my ability to move large furniture, for otherwise there might have been injury, certain death, and a loud noise. Once moved, the furniture's owner showed me her new and old apartments, and I learned about what the kids like to do in BFE Ohio. I like being friendly with the neighbors, but I will continue to ask, "how much is too much?"

Sharing good-byes

Farewell to Ben Kegan.

On September 15, 2007, I had the pleasure of sharing a position with Ben, a volunteer hosting gig for a dinner party at Bob Tobin's house. We were helping Bob host a charity dinner. Right before the guests arrived, we were asked to take our shirts off so we wouldn't dirty them while we were moving chairs and tables. Bob: brilliant! It was awkward, really. Ben was shy. He was nice and such, but shy or reserved or some such thing. We worked together well; this happened before I had been a server (I was working for Starbucks at the time), and we had the same level of service experience. I took to mixing strong drinks, and Ben took coats and seated guests. Eventually, we were sitting, eating, and drinking with the guests. We volunteered to stay behind to clean up a few things, but all we really did was pack up some bottles of vodka, and walk over to the event wrap-up, at the art center. During the walk, we knew each other, in the moment, drinking from the same bottle, in love. There, we ran into some other donors, lots of professors, and a few friends. I had a conversation with my economics professor, met her husband, and came off as wildly drunk. Bob took the picture above, and in that flash it was over. He was no longer a lovely person I had just met, he turned out to be brilliant and confusing, to be beautiful and distant. The night ended, I was alone again, and it was never the same. He made me nervous. I couldn't talk to him without being something outside myself, a something-I-am-not.

I ran into Ben two times in the last two weeks, the first to welcome Bob back for his recent visit. I couldn't help but mutter that it was awkward, mostly because it was, but also because I had nothing else to say. I can't figure out how to tell someone I love them without reason. Our last meeting happened this evening when he came into eat. Apparently this was his last night in Walla Walla. I said good luck, but I wanted to tell him to carry my love with him. I can't carry it with me much longer, and I think I'll let it loose in a stream or channel somewhere nearby. It could find him, but it probably won't.

Sharing a building

In the fall of 2005, I was enrolled in college, purportedly to graduate after the next semester. Unfortunately I was falling behind. It took me three semesters to finish the two-semester intro to liberal arts class on the western cannon. I failed math classes, english classes, and philosophy classes. I was pretty much a loser, especially since I had no real limitations to my performance: I was interested and capable, I had very stable living situations, and all the support I could ever ask for (financially and otherwise) from my family. I was probably just selfish and lazy with a sense of entitlement, but I sold myself on the idea that I wasn't presented with enough challenge, that school politics were an impediment, and that I had all the time and money to do as I chose.

But that semester, I took a seminar on the late Foucault, an underrepresented chapter in the theory of the philosopher around whom I had built my world view. This presented a real challenge: the readings were long and dense, the class discussions were narrowly focused and intense, and the scholarship that was demanded of us was very advanced. The other students were mostly philosophy majors, and with my focus on gender studies (however relevant), I had the formal instruction for rather simple social criticism and minimal deconstruction. Foucault, the "saint" of queer theory, demands as a basic requirement, the ability to place oneself squarely in the middle of ones words, as the subject of the topic of subjectivity. Worried I would have to be too honest, I began to fail.

The professor, Julia Davis, gave me every opportunity to succeed. She even extended the deadline of my final paper until three months after the semester had ended. I failed even then to produce anything. Well, something. It was something weak, saying, really, nothing:

Communities of Thought: Anti-Universalizing Discourses of the Late Foucault

Throughout my studies in identity politics, Michel Foucault comes up again and again, acting as the “Saint” of queer theory (Halperin), and generally the bastian of postmodern identity. I am suspicious as much as I am inspired by this move. I wonder: is there something universal, an all-encompasing clue to how one might think of one’s self in relation to themself? Certainly, no such prescription exists, and even if it does exist, Foucault himself was the first to deny it (interview). So then, there must be something that brings us back to Foucault, some proclamation to which we can attach ourselves, which makes his interest in Greek and Roman culture urgent to us today.

In my reading, I was able to attach myself to the idea of the community of thought, the plural world views that according to Foucault “flourished” in the late Greek and Hellenist Epoch. Without unified or centralized philosophical structures, these communities of thought determined for themselves the mode, scope, source and nature of the subject of ethics. Each thought community had its own method for philosophical training, its own standard for philosophical excellence, even its own style of habit. 

So bad that it is embarrassing. I can't get into the head of the mind that wrote this, although I suspect he was doing his best to bullshit under duress: this is indeed the worst circumstance under which to bullshit.

I am interested in a project of sharing that which I have previously kept silent. I had too much pride to admit my failures, although they were many. Foucault may respond that this is an act of confession, a feeble rationalization, a substantiation of the normalization of transgression. This, however, is a project that will help me catch up with myself, a process not towards liberation but towards self care. I intend to give great attention great and terrible accomplishments and failures, overcome guilt, and achieve the power of self knowledge. 

This former professor, and in retrospect, champion for my potential, lives upstairs now, sharing a deck with my best friend, looking beautiful, and addressing me with a startling openness. She called down to me this morning from her patio, and the sun shone upon her, and I smelled of sweat, smoking a cigarette, carrying garbage. I have the degree, no one can take it away from me, and it certainly doesn't matter that I failed a class and disappointed myself. Now, she's just a person with an interesting life, still a champion for my success.

Sharing is caring.

Don't hate me because I share. If you read this blog, you will be shareorized repeatedly. It might make you sore.