Go East To Find Sun

John Day Fossil Beds NM

First I should mention the rain, which in Portland wouldn't merit a sentence. But we were not in Portland we were east in the desert, sun country- John Day Fossil Beds National Monument. Only there was no sun, well briefly on the first day, but that’s not really worth a longer mention. But for the most part we spent the trip dodging  bullets of rain- significant, impossibly, wet, punctuated showers that heightened our sense of experience.

It was a blessing of sorts.

On the first morning I (we) slept in...

blissfully unaware of the possibility of the creek rising near the dispersed campsite we were staying at. As I lay there, drifting through a scattering of timpani slumbers, slowly thoughts of slot canyons, flash flood warnings, and all sorts of other safety flotsam and jetsam rose to the surface of my mind and I soon began to calculate how fast I could pack up my gear and leave. In my head I would be like John Wayne herding

cattle through the storm, epic, big, muddy, and super sexy.  Except I am not John Wayne. I am bald, without a drawl, and I don’t think there would be anything romantic about a dripping tent that would inspire a dramatic, sweeping, boom of a soundtrack, much less the smell of hundreds of wet cattle being driven through mud and poop. Yeah.

There would be shivering.

That much I could guarantee. I motivated faster than I expected and with careful flips and twists to the fold of the fabric, I kept the tent and my stuff mostly dry. I was impressed, years of being grilled by my friend on how to, why we, and when to paid off. Then I realized I was by myself in this effort. My camping cohorts had yet to rise.  Dammit. I was ready to tackle the day. Make breakfast. Or do something. Anything but sit here in the consistent anti-dramatic rain. So I drew circles of ink in the passenger seat of the car and became 

intimate with the sage. Never truly 

noticing before how the leaves stick up from the twisted branches at 90 degree angles, like miniature telsa coils- an exercise in patience, meditation, and boredom. My droid did not get any service. So the multi-tasking crack of my life had been taken away, brutally.

Later after an awkward cup of coffee and sausage platter cooked at one of the viewpoints we hiked the boardwalks of the different formations.  

We were lucky. 

If it rained the painted hills changed to darker, richer colors as the clay soaked up the water, in some cases causing the rivers to run the green of the minerals in the soil. The sky, instead of being a mediocre blue, congressed in piles of storm clouds enhancing the sagebrush twist with a spice of haunt and eerie that gave permission to become aware of the gone-already-has-been-age the permeates the place. John Day Fossil Beds National Monument is host to several different beds, quarry’s, and assemblages of fossils from various epochs

in the past. At the Thomas Condon Paleontology Center visitors can walk through these different periods of time and see the reconstructed creatures like bear dogs or nimvarids and browse the multitude of fossils. It also provides a reprieve from the sun or for us, from the rain.

But.

I am a cloud watcher. 

I went outside anyway.

In the sun/ rain I could watch the storm pass over the features and shadow their colorful crevices or illuminate their grassier lowlands. While the place feels old, which might be because we are instructed to feel that way, or as humans we have an innate sense of the deep time, either way, watching the rain move through gave me a glimpse at the constant force of destruction. I was not interested in the rebirth cycle, not here, but

more in how the land wrinkled under the direction of the clouds. How it revealed under the direction of those clouds. How the wind ushered those clouds and time with it through. It’s difficult not to reflect on time or where we stand in the midst of the time’s storm. But it’s not what I am trying to say. Perhaps the rain is a catalyst to understanding. Perhaps  it’s because in the sun we move through this land so purposely, while in the rain our discomfort forces us to slow down and look, experience, run, hide, comment, frustrate, feel?

So- a blessing of sorts. 

Not the trip any of us expected.

Go east to find sun, we were told.

Hmphh. 

Peep Show (For Dad)

The petticoat thrills of hundreds of woman shine tawdry and ridiculous in the hot sun. This peep show feels better suited for a wet-streeted back alley theater, the kind where you end up and don't remember why. I am skeptical. And frown. I feel exposed. I am the youngest person wandering these rows, and around me I hear exclamations and thrills as they inspect the furled edges, and the explosion of color. It's almost too racy for me, and I am in need of a fan to combat the heat and hide the color in my cheeks. Names like Who's Your Daddy? All Night Long, and Poem of Ecstasy give the conservative in me, a smirk and a giggle.

My Dad sent me here, to the Shreiner's Iris Show Garden.  I know, it sounds like a child when I type it like that, but given this is his mecca, his shrine to the Iris gods, I thought I would pay homage for him, after all as he exclaimed I was so close. The show garden is only open for several weeks to the public, but besides being an opportunity to pomp and circumstance the vulgarities of color, it is also an opportunity to see what the bulbs look like in person, how do they fare in the heat, or how many blooms per stalk. See Dad I did listen...

I took a few requisite photos of the Iris's feeling a bit foolish, as if I was peeking at their legs, and had noticed a stray hair or something. Would I have been one to advocate putting the hem lines back down to the ankles? I came with my own tools though, and sat down to make a study of the lips of one of the purple and white varieties. It was as I moved the pastels in the directions of the veins that I began to notice how voluptuous the curves moved into and out of each other. The edges trilled with subtle color under the at-first obvious lip liner. Their throats were coated with shadow and they swallowed their own form. I could begin to see the attraction. I wonder how they would sell if the advertised the catalogue more like personals or perhaps maybe this reminded me of my own digital square pursuit of sex and love and what I chose to show of myself given my mood of the day. Suddenly, I am blushing again and I look around to see if anyone else notices, but I think, today, I am the only immature one in the art class.

Walking Sky- Fort Stevens State Beach

I am not sure if given wings to fly that I would immediately jump up into the air and flap myself crazily about. I would most certainly not be graceful about it if I did. I do dream, however of falling in flight. I do not remember if I smile when I wake up, but that might be worth the mental note to find out.  Regardless, wings or no wings, I still like to walk the sky.

Today I am at Fort Stevens State Park, on the Oregon Coast. I am walking in a world between two skies. My footprints behind me hesitate before disappearing into the clouds. Off in the distance the horizon smudges becoming more of a concept than a definition of an idea. When the waves roll out, people bend down to greet their shadows.

This is line I walk between the worlds, is familiar to me. I seem to be obsessed with the search for duality. When I was young at my elementary school there was a merry-go round. Late in the afternoons when I was waiting for my mom to pick me up, I would spin myself, lying my flat back to metal and falling, flying into the fathomless blue sky. The sensation of experiencing two places at once, the metal grounded earth and the equally airy blue sky, grounds me. When I lived in Alaska, I looked to the ice beneath my feet for glimpses at the cosmos, often drawing connections between the star patterns and the cracks in the ice. Here, along the Oregon coast, I look at the waves on the beach. When a wave slides back down the sand, a thin film of water is left, hovering, carrying a mirage of the sky. This is what I am walking upon.

The concept of duality seems to be emerging as a strong theme within my artwork lately. My suspicions are that since I came out, and accepted that once dual side of my persona that it gifts a clarity towards other aspects of my dual nature and it’s representation in the surrounding environment. There is a certain amount of distrust left within me since that experience.  I am grateful for the realization but also horrified by the mind, my mind’s capability to deceive itself. As I seek to understand the implications that has on my personality I find myself drawn to these sort of grounded sanctuaries where I can experience both sides of the duality at once, extroverting an expression of my thoughts as a realized environment.

 The beach is peaceful to me today. With the constantly moving energy of the coming and going of the waves, the tumbling and sifting of the sand, and the scrambling, picking about of the local volunteer group cleaning the beach, I would think I would be irritated and taking my anger out selfishly on a stowed away chocolate bar. But I am not. Instead I am at peace walking the between-the-worlds where the sun is a washed out negative and the sky ripples silver and blue beneath my feet. I am comfortable on the edge of this perceived sanity. I am comfortable knowing my shadow connects me to the ground and my feet connect me to the sky.

Drops From the Sky

 Drops from the roof splattered the sky into liquid glass. My hiking boots seemed small on the edge of the porch, where I sat, exhausted and watching the water. I am inside a wooden shelter built by volunteers and donors to the Audubon Society's Pittock Sanctuary Pond. The steps of the shelter, like a temple, lead into the water. This morning it is sunny, and quiet. The sound of the drops falling drown out the quiet hush of the nearby freeway. I breathe in. It is a cold morning as well, as stifle a cough. I breathe out. The clouds of mud part, and a mini- leviathan swirls and swims between the pond weed. The epiphytic chorus continues to drip and I watch the salamander hover in the sun. His tiny pink fists curl in and out. I am reminded of my niece Emily's hands when she squeezed my pinky for the first time- in, out. Skaters skip over the images, threading the clouds and weeds into the ripples. The sun is a sometimes friend. It is hard to breathe, but it feels good to be outside and slowing down. I think about what I want in my future garden. The light shifts again. The salamander is gone in a puff of brown, but the sky still remains. I listen for the next drops to fall from the roof. I breathe in.

The Beginning Kind

The path between the different falls is a long one- plenty of time to have conversations, plenty of time to have the beginning kind. Behind me, in pair, are Wenzl and Jacob. They are at that stage in their relationship where each conversation forms a building block for the future, though today is tenuous. Jacob is still unemployed and there is air of uncertainty for what that might mean in the long run. I am not worried, but then again I am not in their relationship.  I am happy to see her happy. They may not know it now, but this is healthy for them, and will lay a strong foundation for their future. Their conversational probes are gentle ones, but not idle, and some are followed by long silences. They talk of houses, places to travel, roommates, employment, and paint colors, and circle around, and circle around.  I purposely keep a few practiced steps ahead of them with an unashamed curious ear open. It is refreshing for me to be surrounded by the beginnings of a relationship- one that seems so fortuitous and filled with care. For me though, this place is not about a beginning, not today, this place is where a conversation ended years ago. This is a place where plans had been made when another one of my we's had it's beginnings. 

 

I don’t write about him often or ever now that I think about it. I am still tender, though time heals. But before you all judge, there are few items you should know. He was aware of me, before anyone else was. He knew what I wanted and said no. I didn't listen to him until it was too late for us both and I hurt him. This is not easy to write, nor easy to feel, but nowhere else in the world, is there a place that speaks of him more. I first met Greg as a sophomore in high school. He was a funny, angry, sensitive, quiet, six foot two, blue-eyed straight man. We liked the same films- Willow, toys- Legos but more importantly we shared a love of the outdoors- swimming in Folsom Lake, or walking out at Rattlesnake Hill. Eventually day hikes turned into barely manageable  grandiose trips to different national and state parks with our friends, but always with the we, the us at the core. The trips became a staple of our friendship. Early on, we started plan broadly, we talked about Alaska but not till we had explored the Cascades, starting the long tour first with a detour to Silver Falls State Park. Greg had a passion for waterfalls and it was always worth the detour to hear him laugh like they roar.  This park promised to be the pinnacle of water fall experiences for him, and us.

  

Those who lived this story would say that the end came about because of a girl, but they are wrong. Yeah, there was a girl, who loved us both and it almost tore us apart. But neither of us, understood then why I reacted the way I did. As I got older and I recognized myself for whom I was and what I wanted, I imagined my life with him and said so. He said no. I said okay, which meant I will wait. I did, for years. The trip to the falls kept being put off and became something we only talked about once in a long while, as life intervened with parties, unemployment, and tons of movies. When I was 26 I realized he would never say yes, he didn’t know how, or the heart physically couldn't.  So, I did what I do best, I ran and left for Tahoe promising to come back after the end of the summer. But I never did.  It broke my heart and I know his. He is everywhere here. I am overwhelmed at being here, and surprised that the feeling still lingers however faintly.

Wenzl and Jacob are now sitting on the stone ridge outside one of the waterfalls, exchanging foods. I open, decadent mint chocolates from Alma’s, and share them- a hiking tradition left over from my days with Greg. The chocolates are a welcome, sinful delight.

There is a place at the park where the river runs over, at the first approach to the falls. There you can lean close and see the power of the water and wind roar and fall, turbulent, chaotic to a thousand or so feet below to a calm pool. There is a bench there at the top, which I highly recommend you take a few moments to sit down. The roar drowns out the tense beating of the heart. The mist on the face hides the sting in your eye. And when you put your head in your hands, visitors think you’re at prayer. 

Any Other Ordinary Day

The man who was not quite a bear, and not quite a man, but who had the heart of a sparrow crashed his soul one snowy winter morn… Two years later he awakes in the city of roses, the heart still beating, not a bear, not a man, but something else entirely…

The day begins with a stretch and ends with pie. On any other ordinary day this would only be a blink of my eye, but today is no ordinary day. Today: I walked the dog; I fried eggs; I went to Freddie’s to buy spinach and then to Hollywood Pet to pick up dog food; I took a picture; I went to choir practice. On a similar ordinary day two years ago: I got in my car; I put an apple-pear pie next to me on the seat; I crashed the car. It was snowing. It was an ordinary day. It is one I choose to remember.

In the morning I walked my dog, Tater, which is short for something like, Tater Chicken Nugget Golden Sunshine, or some other Denali kennel’s staff riff. I choose Tater, because it was simple, and let’s be honest, she is a Tater. I love her, sometimes. Several days before she pounced into my life, my ex-boyfriend called and told me he had met someone, purely by accident, the way it is written. My heart broke not because he had found someone but because I had not. I asked the universe to send me love. I wished for it on every snowflake I walked under. I cried. I wrote a song. Three days later, Tater sat in the middle of the Denali Park Road, in the sunshine waiting for someone to take her home. She is an unexpected joy. I joke that she is my chastity dog and she has kept me getting in trouble on more than one occasion and warned me when I should have listened. She is more than that though. She curls up next to me chest in the bed and keeps me warm, and is training me for the day when it will not be her but someone else. For years I didn’t let anyone touch me, hug me, much less cuddle with me for fear that I would be found out. It’s not easy to hide that when you are a guy. But with her, I find it easy to say I love you, and to give her a hug. I can tell when a guy touches me now that I don’t flinch as often and she has made that small difference. She is gift. She is love.

Before I walked Tater, I made breakfast which consisted of three fried eggs, baby spinach, and a small handful of pills. This has been my breakfast, with some variation since spring of last year. I am a Paleolithic eater. I have a strict diet and I exercise most days of the week. I am religious about it. I have to be. I always thought my heart carried the burden of the years but as it turns out it was my stomach. Leading up to the car accident I had been having migraines and everything I put in my mouth I developed sensitivity too, including the kiss. My stomach was no longer working and eventually I would have starved to death. Now I am working with a naturopath to fix it. It is helping, but I still hurt. I blame myself. I get angry with the society. I have no money to deal with the situation yet I must. This is my therapy. This is why I am careful what I say to others. Maybe if I had let someone touch me, hug me, love me, teach me, know me when I was younger, I would know that it would be all okay one day. Maybe.  

I can see the effects of the Paleothic diet in my self-portrait today. My cheeks are thinner. My head looks smaller but that could be my new computer screen. Each year on February 11^th I commemorate this day by taking a picture of myself. When I am in the editing room I can see every flaw, every mark. This year, I notice the crow’s feet around my eyes. I decide not to emphasize them with the burn tool. I am more beautiful than I remember. I love my smile. It is important to me that I hear those words from me. Every morning for the last year I say an affirmation which starts with I am a beautiful man, I am a gay man, I am an artist… I never thought I was attractive. I know different now. Beauty is in the smile, the eyes, the touch, the voice. It is in the inspiration. This year it was difficult to choose which photo to post to Facebook. Both show two different sides of me, one shows a softer, flirtier side of me, a side that I tried to hide but now embrace. It caused a flurry of comments today. I hesitated to post it. There is still work to be done. But I am okay with it now. Most days.

The evening was full of mostly gay men, singing. Even though I have been in the choir such a short time, the impact of being among my brethren is overwhelming, emotional, and a new necessary ordinary. Today was different though and not so ordinary. Staff had arranged the chairs in a circle with the piano in the center so we could see each other and tune. I could put faces to back of necks. A few seconds before break the director played a few notes of Oklahoma from the musical of the same name, and 130 gay men broke into a rousing rendition of the number. I sighed, so cliché, so beautiful, so poignant, yet so right on. Later in the practice one of the fellow choir members asked me why His eye was on the sparrow, tongue in cheek or not, I smiled. For I sing because I am happy. I sing because I am free. I am there because I am free.

The day ends with a slice of pie and a few words of remembrance. This last paragraph is for you. Any other ordinary day and the words you say, the actions you do have an effect on the people you meet. For me, it was a blonde cop, who helped me get out of the road one snowy morning. I never met him. But his actions, his kind words, led me down a path far deep into the wood where I heard my first sparrow sing.

This is where I smile. This is when I give you a hug. This is how I choose to remember. Good night.

Flight

Alone friend.

You left your shoes.

I thought we’d walk these streets-
together again.

These were our words:

baker, shoe-maker,

infuser, gardener.

At the Co-op, in Eden,

a la Cart, in the Alley we debated:

cedar and bubbles,

stuck our tongues out at roses,

stuffed our mouths with salty-wrapped mammoth turds,

jazzed in painted cemeteries—

hung with the  jobless Dude.

But then I looked up.

There were your shoes.

Alone friend, if not me,

then you.

Here There Be Monsters

.

Here there be monsters. I have seen them lying naked in my bathtub. As the water runs cold and my claws cling a crumpled plea to the sides of the tub while the last of the lukewarm overflow from the river drains away, I am exposed to their teeth and their needs. They will be with me always. It is not defeatist but acceptance. Do not mis-understand me. I know it is not the romantic picture of a younger man thriving, laughing, eating, and loving...

In the absence of summer Raven left his imprints on my eyes and they bleed black with blood. At times I am blinded. But with his curses comes the gifts of light and flight. I have been given wings and I threaded them silver onto my back. I flex them in the night when I need dreams, and fold them in when the nightmares find me. Once in the beginning my wings were pale white pounded into dust by the bones of the soldiers that marched before me. Now when I turn my head in anger they are black. When I wear my crown they drip with gold. When I bow my head, listen for the drums that play the deep dark heartbeats of these woods. This is not your world. But this is how it is. Here there are monsters.

But where there are monsters there are angels. In this city that breathes of roses and champagne men I found song. In a cathedral built upon tolerance, pain, and beauty there is a melody that rises above the balding assembly and reaches for the heavens. It is a cadence of sanctuary even though, there are monsters here too. But they are familiar and they are ours and we protect our own. In their shadows I can see my face; I can see my hands; and I know my voice.

In the company of my friends and my others I am a light, a hungry, wavering light, an unexpected arrival, a long overdue invitation answered. How long will I stay? Where will I go? What will I eat? They are the ground beneath my feet. They are the path through these woods. I listen to them. I try. But the heartbeats, the wingbeats, are louder than my footsteps on the path. And somewhere in the depths of these woods, I swear I can hear a sparrow singing. So I fly.

In my cottage I dream. There is an image in my head of a room with with half-filled champagne glasses, white-raspberry wedding cake crumbs on bone-china, jackets, over turned chairs, and a man with undone bow-tie  Somehow the music starts. Somehow we dance. The song screams out of me. The roar betrays the shake in my hands. I no longer know how to hold the music in. Who is this dancing with that man?

I tell you all of this because I want you to know before you accept my invitation to come in. I have wandered far down the path from where I began. I am no longer halfway through the wood. I know the monsters are here, but I am here too and I can see them now. This is my beautiful tomorrow. This is my enchanted glade where I choose to rest. This is my cottage. You have been warned. Please come in.