Changes.

I sat down tonight to erase this blog, as the now dated rants and raves of a guy trying to find his way are embarrassing viewed through the lens of time. But I can't bring myself to. I realize that they are all part of my journey, and deleting them would be like throwing away an old journal, and somehow someday I might want to look back as an old man at the stranger who poured himself shamelessly out into the e-universe, hoping that someone would be able to make sense of it all, not realizing that the only person who ever would is the same older man. (And really, I can count the number of people who've read this on one hand.)

As I near 37, I realize that others see things in me that I don't. Things that frankly feel silly to list: confidence, honesty, reality, charm, attractiveness, funny...Conversely, I see things that others don't see but feel infinitely more real: insecurity, loneliness, arrogance, fat, bald, nearsighted, shy.

For as long as I can remember, I've assumed that I am right, and they are wrong---I've fooled the external world. There you are, arrogance!

Now I challenge myself. What if they are right and I am wrong?

Maybe it is time to give myself the credit I give the world. Assume the best, observe without judgement, and let it be what it is.

Let me be who I am.

A letter to Allison

I was a late bloomer, met my first real love when I was 19. Wooed her with long lunches on the beach, Zima, and Bob Marley records...the first time we kissed, there were fireworks and an almost indescribable sense of relief: I was normal, and had her gum in my mouth to prove it. Five years and a million memories later, it was over. Unpacking a long-forgotten box tonight, I found a handful of photos of our time together.

I hurt her deeply. I wish I could talk to her today...

Dear Allison,

You have been on my mind a lot lately. I hope you are well. As we sneak up on 40, I find myself reminiscing about the good times of misspent youth, and you figure prominently. Rather than list the thousand little moments with you that thread like ribbons through the memories of my early 20s, let me get straight to the point.

I want you to know that I am sincerely sorry to have lied to you. I didn’t mean to, as if it matters---I was a scared kid who really didn’t know what to do. I really truly fell in love with you, and I thought if I tried hard enough, pretended long enough, I wouldn’t be gay anymore. We’d get married, have kids, and live happily ever after. Of course, in retrospect, I should have known better.

Even after all these years, I still love you. I appreciate all that you did for me, how you helped me in ways both obvious and not-so-much. The five years we were together remain among the most formative and fun of my life. You showed me the beauty and joy of real love for the first time outside of my family, and I will never forget it. I wish that I could repay you somehow---that somehow I could will you into the most profound happiness, the most pain-free and joy filled life imaginable.

It was great to hear from you on my answering machine a couple of years ago. You were very brave to call, and sweet to wish me a happy and full life. I wish you would’ve left your number. I understand that you probably didn’t leave your number on purpose---that your message was The End for you, letting go finally and forever. To attempt to reach you would undoubtedly be a selfish act on my part. Still, I feel compelled to write this to you, knowing you will likely never read it. Life has funny ways of surprising us...maybe, someday. Or maybe not.

I just found an old photo on which you wrote, “I love you! You are my best friend.” I don’t remember now if I said it at the time, but either way, I want you to know that I love you too. You were my best friend too. Hurting you is my greatest regret. I’ve been carrying the guilt around for a decade, and am finally ready to let it go.

I am very sorry, and I hope you have the happiest and fullest life ever.

Always yours,

S

Post number fifty-three, Italia.

The LonelyOp just spent a few days in Bologna, Italy. A few highlights:

Day One.

Ridiculous hotel room.

Ornately furnished, complete with four poster bed, stupidly high ceilings, and a bowl of fresh fruit, it looked like it should be in the 18th century castle, only with wireless internet access.

Day Two.

Car trip to Verona.

Six of us took a couple of cars to Verona to have dinner and see the Opera. In the summertime in Verona, they have a series of rotating operas in the Arena di Verona---a two thousand year old Roman amphitheater that seats fifteen thousand. We saw Franco Zeffirelli’s very stylish production of AIDA. It was a transcendent event, the music floating up into the night sky, the wine rushing to the LO’s head, fifteen thousand people sharing a flickering, magical evening…

Day Three.

Lunch in Parma.

Jumped on a train and went to Parma the next day for lunch. It is a cute little town, but the main event was the food. Four pieces of parma ham, each aged for a different length of time, and four pieces of parmasean cheese similarly aged.

A light lunch, to be sure, but just the right amount---besides, the fun was in tasting the sometimes subtle, sometimes dramatic difference in ages.

Day Four.

Va Italia.

A few of us ended up drinking at a pub on a street not far from the Piazza Maggiore as Italy played Germany in the World Cup semifinal. The moment Italy won, people appeared from every possible direction, yelling, singing, waving flags and honking their horns with wild abandon.

We wandered back to the Piazza nearly an hour after the game, and people (who had congregated in the Piazza to watch the game projected on an enormous outdoor screen) still packed the square, celebrating with an intensity I’ve never seen in America for sports.

Day Five.

The Castangia suit.

My native friend Nicola took me to his tailor, after I’d drunkenly mentioned that I really wanted to buy an elegant suit a few nights earlier.

I was a sweaty mess, sloppily dressed, and a little embarrassed to be standing in my underwear in the chic shop (modern, white marble, everyone dressed in impossibly well fitting clothes).

I tried on Gucci.

I tried on Prada.

Then, sensing I was either finally comfortable or ready for the kill, the two tailors that were helping me---it is good to be a friend of Nicola---suggested I try a handmade Castangia suit. A little more expensive, but worth it.

I put on the jacket first. I sort of shrugged, it was a little too boxy, a little too boring. I begrudgingly put on the pants. A pin cushion appeared from nowhere, and two pairs of hands quickly started pinning here, tucking there, and almost immediately the suit was transformed into the best fitting piece of clothing I’ve ever worn.

Ocean’s 11 meets la costa nostra.

Slim in the most flattering places, forgiving in less flattering places.

I had to buy it, of course.

Nervous about the price, I sheepishy handed over my credit card…and they gave me a fifty percent discount. Relieved, I almost immediately wished I’d bought two.

Rhapsodizing about opera, Italian suits and the subtleties of aged ham…

Who.

Am.

I?

Oh, I forgot to mention I was there officially for work.

Sometimes my job is tough.

Post number fifty-two, Move It or Lose It?

I love New York City. I have loved it for many years, in an almost unattainable, idealistic way. I’ve visited many times over the years. I’ve never tired of it, and still get the same electric kick being there, like a thousand first kisses.

For a long time, I played the idealistic tourist. But the more I’ve visited, the more familiar I've become with the city's realities, more comfortable, more sure that I could actually survive in the city as a resident.

The big question before me now is, could I really move there? Opportunity knocks. Suddenly the vague fantasy has become an actual possibility. I realize that a few years ago, I would have not even had to think about it---I would have jumped on the next flight. Now I don’t know.

I’ve lived in Los Angeles for fifteen years. I have a great job working with great people doing interesting work. More importantly, I have made a family here---various groups of close friends knitted together into a security blanket that I don’t know if I can leave. As I rode in a cab home from LAX last night, I looked out the window at the passing urban sprawl and felt like I was home.

I surprise myself sometimes.

On the other hand, if I don’t ever move to New York City, I’m fairly sure I’ll regret it in my old age. My window to be young living in New York City is rapidly closing, and the situation feels suspiciously like now or never.

I’ve made big decisions before with less strum and drang. Last night, my oldest and best friend reminded me that when I moved to Los Angeles, I’d never been here before. I came to USC sight unseen.

I had a gut feeling it would work out, and I made sure it did.

I have the same feeling about NYC now. But I’m fifteen years older, and don’t listen to impulsive instincts quite as closely as I used to.

The first seventeen years of my life were ruled by my gut. No fear, no doubt, just action. A still small artistic voice rang in my ears and guided my every action.

The fifteen years that followed have been all about the systematic repression of that voice. Make a life. Make friends. Make money. Distract yourself. Be cautious. Don’t leap. Always look.

Maybe instinct (for lack of a better word ) is just like any other sense, deteriorating over time with age.

Maybe my instinctive voice is as acute as ever, just more difficult to hear through the din of influences and experiences that pile up in a person over the years.

Maybe I’ve just been ignoring it.

Maybe this is what makes me so listless.

So, should I move to New York City?

Post number fifty-one, Reset Button.

Back in Los Angeles, I need to reboot. Reset. Refresh. Resomething. I need to take a step back, to take a deep breath.

Put aside insecurities. Stop sweating it. Just be.

From Common’s song “It’s Your World”:

Be here.
Be there.
Be that.
Be this.
Be grateful for life.
Be grateful to life.
Be gleeful everyday, for bein’ the best swimmer among 500,000.
Be high when you low.
Be on time but know when to go.
Be....eternal.

Whatever happens or doesn’t happen with L-Train---and I am hopeful things will work out---I’m good. No more second guessing did I come on too strong. No more worrying that I was some sort of contest prize. Just me. Same as always. A work in progress. Looking in the mirror, trying to figure out who it is I see.

After New York, I was in Toronto for a few days. Cool city, I’d like to spend more time there some day. This is their futuristic city hall. Neat, huh?





















On the airplane back, I read a great book, THE HISTORY OF LOVE. I'm a sucker for an intelligent romance---even if such a thing can only exist in fiction, away from the untidiness of reality. Anyway, if you’re looking for a summer beach book, it’s a good one.

Post number fifty, Game Over, Man?

In NYC. It is 75 degrees and has been drizzling on and off since I’ve been here.

The smells of rain, piss and sweat make an acrid mix and make me wonder why I haven’t moved here yet.

The hole in my chest where my heart used to be makes me long for the sunshine and friendship of life in LA.

This might be my last stop on the L-Train.

3000 miles and 7 years apart, we face relationship challenges that are likely impossible to overcome. But stony limits cannot hold love out, and what love can do that dares love attempt. Ever the optimist, I remember my Shakespeare.

I’m “too nice,” and “not edgy” enough.

I’m emotionally available, which is only one step above leprosy.

I was the shiny prize, always slightly out of reach, undesirable once attained. Yearn. Touch. Discard. Lather. Rinse. Repeat.

I remember 25 like it was yesterday.

There are missing pieces in this cross-country love affair. I wonder if they can be found. I wonder why I am willing to try to find them with him. I wonder if he’ll be willing to try, too.

I’m tired of not trying, tired of discarding people, tired of getting hurt, tired of sounding like a whiny lovesick teenage girl.

I liked this journal better when I was writing about getting hit on at car washes or the hairy eyeball from Gore Vidal, and I bet you did, too.

One last thing before I go. Saintly, if you’re out there, I’m really sorry to have been such a complete asshole. I hope you can forget, if not forgive.

Post number forty-nine, Confession.

Tonight, a few honest assessments from my lifelong love/hate relationship with myself:

My college life wasn’t like the brochure filled with smiling, white teethed multicultural faces tossing a frisbee on the grassy common and being, well, collegiate. I wasn’t greek. I drank too much. I had friends, but not many that I keep in touch with.

I’m a lousy friend. I care for many people, but don’t reach out as often as I should.

I lie awake at night knowing I’ve hurt people I've cared about. I lie awake at night wishing that people hadn’t hurt me. I still manage to get eight full hours of sleep, thanks primarily to vigorous physical exercise and booze.

I am attracted to impossible people and situations. Given a long stretch of flat road, I will look for the first opportunity to veer off into the rocky hills. Love me, and I run. Show me disregard and I come running.

I assume too much. I assume that I know what people are thinking, and that people know what I am thinking.

In the office, detached from overly personal emotions, I am a dynamo. In fact, I am painfully shy.

I have a nice car. I have nice things. I have a nice, comfortable lifestyle that doesn’t really matter to the still, small voice in my head.

I spend too much time in my head.

I can draw. I can write. I can sing. I have gifts that I mostly ignore because I am afraid to really try. Not trying sucks.

I do not lie. But I rarely tell the truth when it matters.

I get by with faking it most of the time.

I hate pity, self or otherwise.

I am a work in progress.

I remain an optimist because there is no alternative.

I am in love.