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.