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Perspectives (Part 4: Majoring In Drama)

#1 asks:despite the fact that he frustrates, I think that I've fallen for him  what defines "fallen" in your opinion?3:23 AM I'm looking for real responses here  not something contrived

When it comes to gravity, I'm stupid.  I don't know how or why it works.  I've heard things about the moon, and Newton's apple.  I've even fallen down stairs just to see if I could hit my head just right enough to figure it all out.  But I still don't know anything about gravity, other than, it works.

And, of course, I'm going to liken falling in love to gravity.  It's an easy analogy.  Both can be explained with graphs and equations.  Neither make any damned sense to most people.  Still, devotees of science and romance claim that they understand them.  Both get you through most of your life, while occasionally knocking you on your ass.  Both are bitches.

I've never really thought of either one of them having definitions.  Gravity is serious.  It's something that binds you.  Falling is an accident that results in gravity.

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It's Like There's A Party In My Balls, And Everyone's A Freshman

The comic book store has signs like skin has pores.  Like an ocean has hydrogen molecules.  Like sororities have STDs.  Like lazy authors have analogous similes.  When our stores have sales, the signs cover the front window, the door, the ceiling, the shelves, the counters, and, in some stores, even the floors.

This is why no one can ever tell when we are or aren't having a sale.

When I was still fairly new to the comic book store,  I had a fairly terrible day.  I was living in Slummerville, but still had loads to do in Allston (and not the laundry kind).  So I got up early one morning, and discovered it was blizzarding.  I was in Allston in God May Or May Not Know Who's apartment.  I threw on my shoes, trudged through the snow to the Allston store, opened the door, and sleepily entered the alarm code to one of our other stores.  Now, I'm sure someone had told me what to do to clear out the alarm so you could enter the correct code, but all I could hear and think of was "AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA"

I tried calling the alarm code company, but the siren was hogging the phone line.  So I just kept pressing the code until it worked.

I picked up the Chinese food I'd left in the refrigerator the day before, and hopped on the bus home.

Back at home, I was leisurely (read: naked) updating my Livejournal when my phone rang.

Continued at



Splinters (Perspectives Part 3)


Everything splinters over a time.  Sometimes it's a gradual shaving, and sometimes an explosion.  Whether beautiful or troubling usually depends on where the splinters land.  A kaleidoscope of colored wood on the floor being much preferable to a single blade of tarnish lodged in the plantar.

When I was living with Celeste, Sora, and Sir Trick in Mission Hill, our front door was the only door in the house that wasn't splintering.  It was solid and brown, while the rest of the doors flaked paint on the floor, and wore at the hinges.

Divine moved in in September.  And the other doors continued their slow wither, and the front door continued to be, well, a door.

In December, Sora let me know that he was going to be in town, and he wanted to talk.  And the talk was uneventful, and uninformative.  He was, as always, late.  I was, as always, forgiving.  I bought the meal, and we parted company when he realized he was half an hour late for meeting some of his other friends.

I traveled home without incident.  Opened the door to the house, which was never locked, got into the tiny lobby, and the door...the door to my apartment, solid, brown, sturdy, had been thoroughly decimated.  The hinges were ripped from the wall.  Huge chunks of splintered wood lay in ideograms on the floor.  Each one reading something to the effect of "theft", "loss of trust", and "holy shit"

...the entry continues at




In case you hadn't noticed, this journal is now, officially, finished.  Haven't been able to really get back into LJ since the foolish hacker nonsense.  I have, however, finally purchased a website.  And, finally transferred most of the entries from this journal, and from my blogger, and from my old LJ to that new site.  I will be restarting the Perspectives story there tomorrow (I got two LJ entries in before I stopped).  I will probably rss it to LJ and Blogger, but if you want to see the very much still in beta site, check out  Leave a hello comment there, if you'd like.  I'm not sure I'll be checking anything back here.

I will try and get back to doing some stuff for Bad Sex in the next couple of weeks, but that's not really going to be my focus, either.

No Time Like The Present (Perspective: Part Two)

The first time my parents came to visit me at Torpor Heights boarding school, my dorm adviser told my parents that I had the sort of personality that adjusted well to change.  "Everything that happen.  It is like nothing to him.  Is just.  Day."  And, broken English aside, she wasn't wrong.

Wherever I wake up is where I am, and there's nothing that can be done about it.  Oh, I can make sure I'm somewhere else in a few minutes, an hour, a day or so.  But that's the future.  The present is completely beyond your control.  It's like the past, but harder to ignore.

In my current present, I'm sitting in front of a fan in the living room of The Yoda Louise Vader Memorial Cafegymtorium, which is the name I've given to the house I've been living in for the last year.  Tomorrow I work in both the comic book store, and at the bar.  Thursday I interview potential new roommates: a pair of friends from Mission Hill, a poetry reviewer (no shit) who already lives in this neighborhood, a "free-spirited artist", and a 21 year old gay kid on disability for psychological problems.  The last one is just like Sora, but with an income.

Any potential roommate has a lot to live up to.  My most recently previoused roommates: Don, and Ms. Gibbons  were roommates you're just going to have to read about to believe.  Not only were all our bills paid on time but we never had any epic battles over dishes or thermostats, and Ms. Gibbons didn't even steal my TV on the way out like that awful Thai tranny drug addict, Divine, that I lived with on Mission Hill.

"Frankly," Bacchus said, as he sprawled across my chest, "I don't know how you can trust trannies anymore."

I wrinkled my eyebrows at him.  "It wasn't the trannie part of him that stole my TV.  It was the drug addict.  Or possibly the Asian part."

It was Bacchus's turn to shoot a funny look.  Unfortunately, he was not gifted with the proper genetics for facial grammar.  "Then I guess you'd better keep an eye on me when I go home tomorrow."

Bacchus was the man of the moment.  It was the summer of 2008.  I was living in Somerville, and had spent the winter dating and then not dating and then dating and not dating Sora, among other people.  Spring had much the same feel to it.  And I spent July preparing for August, where I drove to Madison with Mazarine and did some poetry things, and some insafemodey things.  And when I came home, I found an e-mail reply to a hardly used personal ad that sounded promising.

Like all solid relationships, ours began when Bacchus pulled his car into my driveway at 2:30 in the morning.  We talked, made out, and tried, unsuccessfully to reproduce.  But we had enough fun that we tried it again a couple of times for good measure.

This ritual went on for a couple of weeks.  And while we confined our recreational activities to my bedroom, we often cuddled on the couch in the living room, watching American Gladiators with my roommates or just hanging out by ourselves watching the shadows charcoal the wall.

"I like him."  The least combative of my roommates, Byrne, said.  "He's a refreshing change of pace from Sora."

"How so?" I asked.

"I dunno.  I guess it's just nice that you're dating the God Of Wine now, as opposed to the God of Whine."


The following night was the premiere of The Comedy Central Roast Of Bob Saget.  The entire household: me, Mike, Byrne, and the other roommate were all going to watch it together.  I invited Bacchus to join us, and about ten minutes before the show was about to start, I saw his car pull into the driveway.  I tried to hide my goofy grin when the front doorbell rang.  "The back door is open."  I said.  "I don't know why--" and I opened the door to see a Chinese man holding a paper bag.  I had been hoping to see a Vietnamese man holding a bottle of vodka.  "Huh."  I said.  "Wrong Asian."

Bacchus was in the kitchen, and he was trying his damnedest to give me a dirty look but his face was refusing to cooperate.

Byrne paid the Chinese guy n the front porch for his bag of fried food, and we all sat down for the comedy stylings of Jeff Ross, Greg Giraldo, John Stamos, Gilbert Gottfreid, and Norm Macdonald.  During one of the commercial breaks, Byrne excused himself to go to the bathroom when a series of explosions went off in front of our front door.

"HEEEEEEEEEEY!!!!   HEY YOU FUCKEN FUCKERS!!!  OPEN THE FUCKEN DOOR!!!!"  Then the crash of fists being drunk driven into our front door.  "OPEN UP!!!"

The room froze.  Bacchus sat up with a face that nearly expressed concern.  Byrne appeared in the hallway, staring at the door.  Mike let out a "What the fuck?"  And I, because the moment was now, and there really wasn't anything else for me to do but be present for it, stood up, and walked over to the door.


The problem with jumping out of a plane and into the middle of an ocean is mainly about perspective.

One: I can't gauge how far away the water is from my point of entrance in the sky. I'm wearing a parachute, but not entirely sure that pulling it is going to do me any favors.

Two: The ocean is fucken vast. I don't know for certain that I can't swim to the nearest island, jetty, or continent from this middle point, but I'm probably going to wish I'd packed a raft, and possibly some crackers.

Three: How exactly did I get to the point of my life where I'm jumping out of planes to begin with? Into an ocean no less? Which ocean? I've got no idea, which further impedes my perspective problems.

Four: I can't see the damned coastline.

They tell me distance helps with perspective. You don't write about the shit currently going down in your life, you wait a while. Realize that maybe the problem wasn't the person you've been blaming for the past several months, but, perhaps you. YOU may be the problem. And maybe being left crying in your kitchen wasn't a major moment in your life. Maybe it was no more important than that time you were halfway home from the grocery store before you realized you'd forgotten the toothpicks, which were the whole reason you went to the grocery store in the first place. Allow time to remove you from the events and they somehow seem less important. Or at the very least, less dire.


Ryan was dead over five years before I started writing about him. Elvis was a couple years gone. Beckee Krackow was a distant memory. And then I started writing about Ben when he was sitting almost directly behind me in the apartment his parents paid for. We began fighting over the way I was portraying him, and grew incredibly distant, which really didn't help either of our perspectives at all.

And then Sora happened. And I'm writing about how in love I am with this person I barely know, who moves into my house somewhere around the third date. And do you know what happens next?

No you don't.

A computer crashes. An account is hacked. A relationship falters. A friendship is ruined. Many, many people have sex. A job intensifies. A family stops speaking to each other. A fuse is blown. And I'm standing on the edge of a tiny little biplane over God knows what ocean, ripcord in hand, trying to figure out when to jump, and which direction to swim in. Knowing that every direction is uphill, and how the fuck do you swim up hill?

Very carefully?


You swim up hill like your knees are bleeding and your feet are made of sharks. You swim up hill like the crest of that wave can launch you past the horizon. You swim up hill like you took lessons, even though you know you're self-taught at best, ignorant at worst, it just me or does everyone I've ever fucked turn out to be emotionally retarded? What does that say about...where did that metaphor go?

The problem with perspective is that I delude myself into seeing things a certain way. I'd known Sora less than two months when we were talking about love. He'd lived with me less than two weeks when he said "This is never going to work. We're impossible." And I held him, and told him he was wrong because I knew he was right, but that knowing the truth wasn't going to make either of us feel any better.

And do you see how giant Sora and the ocean are in this entry? Enormous, right? It's as though all of these things I'm finally going to write are going to be about our relationship, and how I got to this point where I was too baffled by our lives together to form a coherent sentence to describe it. I stopped blogging. I threw myself into so many men, I stopped naming them. I let all these emotions wash over me without committing them to paper because of Sora and ocean and...really, it's a false perspective. He's not nearly as important to my story as all these strung together sentences would lead you to believe. He's a dot on a horizon that's going to turn out to be driftwood. And I'll cling to him, untl I realize that all this time I've been able keep my head above water and still touch my feet to the ocean floor. I just couldn't see how shallow the water was around me, so focused on finding the shore as I was.

Where Am I?

An update about lack of updates.

I'm currently involved in writing a comic.  The kind you can find in your local comic book stores.  It's an already existing title, so nothing Insafemodey.  I'll write more about it when I have release dates, and, well, a physical copy of said comics (right now, there's no artist attached, just a publisher and distributor).

I'm writing a poem a day for the year 2009, and am only about 30 days behind in writing, but about 70 behind in posting them in the official forum (which, is, unfortunately, private).

I have two horrendously needy cats.  One in constant heat.  One in constant state of hyperactivity.

I have several awesomely needy boyfriends.  Several in constant heat.

I spend most of my not working time, either working on poetry/comics, or checking up on my Racist Grandma.

All my shows this year have been within the state of MA, and I don't have any plans for that to change until the fall/winter.  But it will change.

I also want to put together parts 5 & 6 of the Insafemode Journals.  And a pony.  A pony with a winning lottery ticket.  A pony with a winning lottery ticket who'll help me figure out exactly what type of person I should be dating.    I'll call him Merle Swagger. He will be the awesomest pony to ever pony.  (No ass jokes, please, those aren't ponies, they're donkeys)
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The Fix

During the last Depression
Roosevelt lost track of the White House's stability
He was so focused on war and the fragile economy
he didn't notice the ground sinking beneath him
not metaphorically

In 1948 Harry Truman was told The White House was no longer structurally sound
Floors swayed instead of creaked
The president's bathtub sunk into the floor
But The White House was such an institution
that Truman couldn't allow it to be demolished
so for four years he had the White House rebuilt from the outside in
while he moved into the house across the street

I wanted to build my arms into a home where you felt comfortable
but they weren't big enough
so I called them a lobby
My mouth was a door that locked when you twirled my tongue counter clockwise
Each key I cut for you was a work of art
you lost in other mens' pockets

I tried to build myself more solid
Tune out the echoes of plaster cracking
the cringe of metal driving metal into wood
as you drove nail after nail into my flesh
with no regard for my skeletal structure or artery placement

Hammers destroy as easily as build
The claw can't apologize
Just rip the nails out of you

The verb "to fix" can mean to repair
or to dishonestly influence the outcome of a game or trial
To fix can mean injecting yourself with a narcotic
It can mean to focus your eyes on something
or to castrate an animal

I was fixed by you somehow
I'll call it repair
So focused on being stronger
I failed to notice how weak I'd become

I had built myself backwards
A carefully crafted facade
without proper support
stairwells leading nowhere
my shoulders not level enough to hold you
windows to rooms no outside world should see

I'm sorry you couldn't stay here with me
You aren't the tenant I was built for
And honestly
you never took care of me the way that you should have
never bothered taking off your shoes before walking all over me
And eventually you decided I was
at best
a vacation home
a small cabin to visit when the gurgle of life grew too loud
and you needed a place to weekend or summer with no responsibility
Who cares if the spiders web the corners
How the inch thick the dust falls on my shoulders

And I let you do this

And would do it again

I am a repeatedly abandoned building
Even at the crash
Even though I can see myself becoming splintered
Foundation cracking
Support all but gone
I still try and kiss the wrecking ball
As it insists on swinging away from me

All's Well That Ends (Part 4: An Eye On Roads)

I started this story in August, and, during the great computer crisis of '08, neglected to continue it.  I'm continuing it now.  The links below go to the first three parts.  More is on the way.  Much.  Much more.  This story takes place, not now, but in August 08, and will be archived there in a few days.

Part One
Part Two
Part Three

Roads only end in Arizona.  Roads there run north to south, or east to west.  And sometimes, you'll be on a street, going to somewhere else on the same street with the same name.  But, then, the street stops.  There are buildings and vacant lots in the way.  And you have to take a left or a right on to another road, and then turn right or left on yet another road, and then, after several blocks, the road you were already on returns, and you can continue your journey.

Boston roads don't end.  I'm not saying they make sense.  It's just that, instead of ending, they just become something different.

After several months of living in my closet, working in the same building as me, and being a major part of my, and my roommate's lives,  I eventually decided to get Sora his own set of keys.  He was, after all, paying rent.  I think.  In theory.  Possibly.

The first three alleged key copying places in the area around my house proved not to exist.  It's not that there weren't hardware stores or locksmiths at the addresses I'd found via Google, it's that the street addresses simply didn't exist.  For kicks, I googled "gay-friendly locksmith" and actually found one.  I figured theater district, and was very much correct.  I figured pink awning, and Shakira on the radio (these being the halcyon hip days of 2005).  And I was not wrong on either of those counts, either.  Either.  But the address was on Tremont Street.

Tremont Street is the ultimate in the ridiculousness of Boston roads.  Heading toward the Mission Hill apartment, you had to get get off the highway, and make your way to Tremont Street.  You then had to take a left on Tremont Street, and drive up the hill, and you reached my apartment.  The trouble is, once you find Tremont Street, which is not so hard, you're driving along for a few blocks, and suddenly, you're not on Tremont anymore; you're on Columbus.  In order to stay on Tremont, you have to take a hard right, because sometime in 1647, a cow farted and turned ninety degrees to the right, so that's the way the road has gone forever and ever amen.  Tremont Street does this several times during the course of its roadliness.

Knowing this, I got off the T on Tremont Street, and paid really close attention to the street signs.  And, after taking a left where I could have gone straight, I stayed on Tremont at the 300 block.  And the address I was headed to was 420 (shut up, hippie).  And there was 380, and 400, and 120.  What?

400 to 120.

400 to 120.

Another fucken locksmirage?  I was never going to be able to get keys for Sora.  I started loudly seething, and apparently actually said "Mothercunting Tremont Street" out loud, as the guy beside me stopped and said, "Are you lost?"

"No.  I'm not lost.  The fucken road is.  I'm looking for 420 Tremont Street, and the numbers just went from 400 to 170, and the numbers start going down from 170 instead of up, and I'm trying to get--"

"The hardware store?"


"It's up there.  Technically, these are the sides of the buildings on a perpendicular road  So, the 170 isn't 170 Tremont it's 170 Herald Street.  The signs are just really poorly placed.  The hardware store is the next building on your left."

He wasn't shitting me.

So I got the key copied, got home, and gave it to Sora.

"I'm confused."  Mazarine says.  "You gave him the key?  Or you 'gave it to him'?"

"I can't mean both?"  I say.

We're driving home from Madison, and we're both stupid tired.  Poetry - sleep + driving - sleep + a large amount of cigarette breaks - sleep = me telling stories to keep myself awake.  Because, it's either that or sing along loudly with my Zune, which we'd purchased an adapter for on the Boston to Madison leg of the trip.  And I'm telling her the Sora story because it involves roads, and I'm seeing roads everywhere, which is good, because I'm driving, and not seeing the road = car crash.

"So, are you two, still an item or what?"

And I consider for a moment that my relationship with Sora is a Tremont Street.  A series of weird, unnecessary turns.  I don't think either of us ever really know whether or not we're together.  And while I've been driving excessively for the past year or so, only once or twice have the tires of the vehicle I'm driving ever touched down on Tremont.  "Not really."

And, yet, he's the first person I IM when I get home.  I tell him most about my trip to Wisconsin, and he tells me about work, and then we discuss missing each other.  And then I sign off.  And I click on Craigslist.  Because I miss him.  And that is never enough.



Defining Moment In A Grocery Store #7 (there are 6 others scattered amongst this lj)

My nose is running for President of my face.  I'm in a grocery store, basket full of bagels, cream cheese, and juice.  Tissues.  God, do I need tissues.  So, I go to the paper goods aisle, and begin staring down the long line of facial tissue boxes.  Out of nowhere, the mostly dormant gay part of my brain  says I need to get a box whose pattern will mesh most with the colors in my room.  And, I think, Hey, this is progress.  I could set up a much nicer vibe to my room than the current Pile Of Laundry And Cat Toys  (And Cat) ambiance.

This is when I realize, I have no idea what color anything in my room is
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