December 2004 Archives

To view the stamp collage, go to my main site, www.marcolmsted.com, and click on the image next to Cyberart & Design.

December 31, 2004

I am happy to report that I woke up about 50% less anxious today than at any other time since my release.

Call it self-psychotherapy, mid-wifed by AA. It is a tremendous relief to discover the anxiety I've suffered from is not a new anxiety, but an old anxiety that I never really grew through, merely medicated all those years.

This is not to say that growing older, in and of itself, did not have some impact. I was, after all, not high or drunk all of the time. But borrowed courage is not quite the same as the courage one develops free of intoxicants.

I do, however, have a task ahead of me. I need to grow up, to catch up. Hopefully I can do that somewhat faster for being 46 instead of 16.

I think of my father, who was no doubt equally petrified through most of his life. When he was but 14, his father killed himself, and his self-medicating began when he joined the Navy at 17. No doubt his reluctance to stop drinking, even when it became a clear threat to his welfare and the happiness of his family, was no doubt at least in part due to the same fear of facing the pain of that loss without a cushion. I am going to try to blog soon "Bloodless," my essay on the experience of his father's suicide by his family as imagined by me. Alcoholism, like suicide, seems to be a family disease. with ramifications over generations. The legacy of both have been potent in my family, and in writing about it I hope to shed light on its effects and grope for answers to a mystery that has haunted us for years.

This is not to say some of this anxiety is not hereditary from the other side of the family. My French grandfather was renowned for it. After every meal just prior to the second World War, when the storm clouds gathered over Europe, he would literally pace around the dinner table for some time, obsessing silently over the state of the world. In later years, he would recount tales of his experience as a soldier in World War I, acknowledging perversely that those were some of the happiest years of his life. For the simple reason that for the first and last time of his life, he had friends. The memory of that comradeship eclipsed the horrors of war.

I surmise that both my grandfathers suffered terribly from being part of a generation that reserved friendship as a luxury indulged in largely under the cauldron of war, or as an expression of unity against an enemy. Friendship is, happily, something I have managed excel at, perhaps in direct proportion to my shitty luck in the love department. I have unfortunately lost more than my share of friends, first to AIDS, then to substance abuse. But those that remain are many and precious.

So, to my friends, old and new, in good times and bad, drunkeness and sobriety, I dedicated this New Year. With my deepest wishes for a happy and prosperous and love-filled 2005.

MCO 2004

December 30, 2004

Boy, getting relaxed in your own skin is a full-time job. How long have I had this existential angst? What it reminds me of most is when I was in France at 17. I barely drank and never did drugs and was a nervous wreck most of the time. I got involved with a man much older than me (though in retrospect, at 28, a baby himself), who would be wonderful for a day and hardly talk to me for the next three days. Really, a terrible first love, (are there any other kind?) because I have always henceforth been ready for the rug to be yanked out from under me at the very moment harmony seems to set in.

I see now through my college years and 20s, I drank heavily to quell this very anxiety. I got jobs in gay bars, in which I could be comfortably gay and drink. But the nervousness came back pretty forceully during my first 18-month attempt at sobriety at 26, and not being able to get rid of it probably had a lot to do with my picking up again. I can see now that it is this feeling more than any other I have been medicating through my drink and drug use since then.

I honestly think it has something to do with never having learned to feel completely “safe” as a gay man. Never physically and emotionally completely comfortable in society, in the face of rampant tacit dissaproval, and periodically very real menaces of verbal and physical abuse. When the threat of AIDS became like a knife at my throat, you can imagine how the fear was fueled, provoking more attempts to throw water on the fire. (Unfortunately, the water was laced with vodka). When and where did I feel completely comfortable? Drunk or high in gay clubs, as a patron or an employee, then later, on drugs, in my house, behind the computer screen.

I thought I had grown up, that I was a self-affirming proud gay man. But by medicating my fear on a daily basis, I merely calmed the fear temporarily. And now I am a scared 15-year old again, and I am confronting the fear yet again. This time I am determined to treat the disease, not merely the symptoms. I want any progress to be real, not ephemeral. I want serenity.

I went into my noon meeting in a knot, and the sharing was on the 4th step—taking a fearless inventory of yourself. It’s hard to be fearless when you are so afraid. I realized though, that that could be as much a part of my personal inventory as anything else. My fear. My fear at not being accepted and approved for who I am. My fear that I won’t be forgiven for the wreckage I’ve wrought, or that I won’t forgive myself for it either. I found myself welling up and crying. This was a good thing, as AA is a good place to cry. It is the ultimate sanctuary of unconditional love for adults. There, whatever the sexual orientation of the constituents at a given meeting, it is a completely safe place to be afraid.

After the meeting, a new buddy, T., took me with his roommate and another colorful character to lunch in the heart of Nob Hill, the closest thing Albuquerque has to a gay neighborhood. This was a tonic, because I actually felt I could live there. And T. is a babe, and funny, and has about the same length of sobriety I do. I have been around the block too many times to get in a froth over someone I’ve just met who I barely know, but it was nice to feel that I can actually meet new, interesting people in a new place, and that possibilities open up when you open yourself up to them.

The colorful character was older (my age I guess—T. is 25) and straight, and as we exchanged stories, it was revealed that he was in prison in the late 90’s. Not any prison, Chino, my alma mater. And not just anywhere in Chino. He lived in my old dorm, Redwood. Small world, ain’t it?

C.C., as I’ll call him (for Colorful Character) told me his story outside of the meeting, so I don’t feel I am violating the tradition that whatever we hear in a room, stays in a room. He recounted a varied post-prison profession resume during a long sobriety, culminating in his silent investor status in a prosperous Albuquerque daycare center. Then an angry ex-wife tipped off the press that his conviction had been for statutory rape—consensual sex with a 17-year old. Before you knew it, he was painted by the media as a pedophile running a daycare center. His life spun out of control, he started drinking again, and lost everything. EVERYTHING. I drove him back to a living center for homeless veterans. And all the way he could only say how grateful he was to be sober again.

Be skeptical of what you read or hear about “Sex Offenders.” Stories such as his are just as common as those of the child molester plucking kids from the park. (And this coming from someone molested by a scoutmaster at 11, so I certainly am not ignorant of that reality.) But I must point out the dehumanizing witch-hunts going on in this country, generated by overzealous prosecutors seeking to portray themselves as defenders of the innocent in a country “plagued” by devilish victimizers (drug dealers are often painted with the same brush). This is often more a reflection of their career ambitions than of reality. Sometimes the true victims are not who they appear to be.

Speaking of prison, I got a letter from my friend Brad, still inside. Here’s a sampling: “Thank you for the blogs. You’ve been a busy boy and it’s a treat to live vicariously. I always was under the impression that ‘re-entry’ pertained to spaceships and sex, but methinks you’re in the middle of another variety altogether? The “Deprogramming, delousing and revitalized beauty regimen” must seem daunting! Personally, I feel dirty. I’m seriously considering getting “dipped” upon parole much like an old wicker chair. Come to think of it, I look like an old wicker chair! [Ed. Note HE DOESN’T.] My beauty regimen will be nothing short of “industrial strength cosmetic surgery.” It’ll be a BIG job!”

He makes a fair amount of witty observations about the minor humiliations of prison (the lack of privacy in the hygiene department, the brain-numbing attempts at banter) and embarks on a discussion of his current reading list. (He’s a big fan of Rita Mae Brown, John Steinbeck, and a book I left him, Julia Glass’s suberb “Three Junes.”) If anyone out there cares to correspond with a literate, good looking gay man, out in August, please pick up your pen and write to:

J.B. Ware

V-36436 9206-UP

C.I.M.

P.O. Box 600

Chino, CA 91708

After my lunch, my sister called and summoned me to meet the owner of the educational consulting agency where she does tutoring. A very affable man, who may well use me to do some SAT writing prep teaching if I move out here. As of today, Albuquerque looks much more promising than it did yesterday. However, since I have to go back to LA anyway, I frankly suspect I will not want to leave again when I get there. While I will try to remain open to the most objective decision possible, I will job hunt in L.A., and if I find a shoe that fits, I will wear it. In which case I will be looking for a roommate situation. So if anyone knows of anything interesting, please let me know.

I’m off to another meeting, a gay one. No one will be able to say I’m not giving Albuquerque a chance, not to mention sobriety.

MCO 2004

P.S. Two Hours Later. The meeting was wonderful. I was the last one who shared, and laid bare my ephiphanies about fear, and internalized homophobia, and self-medication over all of it. I also talked about my feeling that the reason the meetings provide such relief is that just walking through the door is a statement that I am at least brave enough to admit I need help, I can’t do this alone. There was no doubt in my mind that everyone there identified, in spades.

December 28, 2004

May I just say that I was very gratified to see that 143 people were interested enough to see how I was doing on Christmas!

I don't want this blog to become Marc's "daily sobriety/anxiety report." On the other hand, you report what's happening, don't you? And there sure seems to be a link between my anxiety level and whether I get to an AA meeting. Last night I went to a gay meeting here that meets twice a week. It was just the right size so that everyone could share, and I shot up my hand in the hope of "telling on myself" and subsequently releasing some of my anxiety. I felt much better last night (though nights are always calming) and somewhat better this morning. This anxiety is like morning sickness. It comes and goes like waves of nausea. Fear. Just pure fear. And I'm in the safest of environments imaginable, surrounded by love and support. Feeling safe within oneself, however, is another ball of wax.

One area of personal agreement I heard in more than a few shares was that the less you define a "higher power" the closer you get to what that is. I'm not crazy about the G-word at all, because it carries so much baggage. I am though, trying to accept the reality that surrending to the will of the universe, the cosmos, the future, the power of love, whatever you want to call it, is an empowering process Giving it up is not the same as giving up.

But whether in LA or here, I do note a marked shift in what the program is about for me this time around. My first time round, years ago, it was mostly about my not drinking. Now it's about living sober. Less about what I'm walking away from, than what I'm walking towards. Or stumbling, as it feels some days.

In other news, damn the housing here is really cheap. I could get a two bedroom apt for $495, and a three-bedroom house for $925! On the other hand, perusing Craig's List for job opportunities makes it pretty clear that I'm much likelier to find something up my alley in L.A.

Decisions, decisions. I gave myself a Tarot reading that had some serious shit in it. Even I don't think I so fascinate anyone that they want to read all 11 cards, but given where I'm coming from and how I got there, I thought these two were pretty startling.

Situation: Ten of Cups

POSITIONAL (MAIN) MEANING

You, your friends and the whole community join together in thankfulness for the rainbow after the storm.

The card that lands in the Situation position refers to social or circumstantial factors which could be affecting your life at this time.

When the Ten of Cups is in this position, the whole world seems to be filled with feelings of joyful celebration, relaxation and healing. These feelings come partly from being comfortably situated among your favorite people. Friends may seem to be everywhere. Cooperation and mutual support prevail. This situation, however, was not arrived at without stress and challenge.

Equate this magic moment with the clarity that follows inclement weather -- it's all the more precious in contrast with what came before. Even if life cannot stay this way forever, right now all feels right with the world. We are united, joyfully at peace. The blessing of the Creator rains down upon the creation in a sacred moment of recognition.

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Higher Power: The Hanged Man

POSITIONAL (MAIN) MEANING

Have such confidence in your strengths and compassion that you could stand in for others less resilient than you.

The card in the Higher Power position reflects the broader perspective and influence of your conscience, Guardian Angel, inner wisdom.

The Hanged Man in this position suggests that it is part of your soul's growth to serve as some kind of sacrificial lamb. You should have elected this for special reasons -- you knew you were strong enough; it wouldn't be fatal or cause permanent damage; and in your great compassion you saw that you could help others whose vulnerability or fragility would make this experience too devastating for them.

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You're probably wondering if I'm going to AA or a witch's coven.

MCO 2004

December 26, 2004

Last night my sister read my blog entry, and explained her seemingly placid reaction to the stamp collage to me. It, had in fact, brought up many sharp and unpleasant memories she associated with knowing her brother was in an awful place and she was powerless to do anything to about it. Which wasn’t completely true, of course, she was able to do an immense amount of good, but it is true that that she couldn’t get me out of there any faster than events dictated. Still, her reaction surprised me at that the piece did reflect one unquestionably perfect thing: my complete joy at receiving mail, and all the love that mail represented. It hadn’t occurred to me even that part of the experience would be overwhelmed by the rest when it came to this manifestation of it. But she reassured me it was beautiful and probably just needed to spend some time with it.

We also talked about the possibility that I may decide to stay in Los Angeles after all. I have no idea if that would be smarter for me than coming to Albuquerque or not, I do know that there is a familarity there that I am taking so much pleasure in rediscovering. L.A. is home. And with my unexpected comfort level with “the program” I also can see myself staying sober there and enjoying it. I also can see getting a job more suited to my skills rather more likely that finding one here. And it wouldn’t hurt that my sister’s offered me her old Nissan, whether I stay or go.

Not that I am throwing out the Albuquerque with the bathwather just yet. I have to get out of the house a bit and figure out how to get around. I tried to get to a meeting tonight but found it hard to read the street signage and I was certain I was going to make an illegal turn or somesuch and find myself pulled over. So I decided just to drive back to my sister’s, barely retracing my steps successfully. Nerve-wracking.

Tomorrow she’ll show me how to go where I need to go during the day, and as there will be her husbands’ family visiting, in the evening, it’ll be a good chance to meet some new people.

Today I spent virtually the entire day working with my nephew on his documentary, about a disastrous film he worked on last March in Vermont. Almost everything that could go wrong, did, and Keir caught a lot of it on camera. Brainstorming with him about the narration and editing proved fun for me and fruitful for him, and exercised a lot of my underexercised creative muscles. He’s a smart, talented kid.

As am I, when I don’t get lost. Which, frankly, I am a bit right now.

MCO 2004

December 25, 2004

When oh when am I going to stop waking up without “la trouille.” This, in French, basically means a pit in your stomach. The only good part of it is that I no longer associate drinking or drugging with part of the range of options that would fall under the category of “solution” to this problem. The bad part is that all my nouveau awareness and spiritual connectedness does not mean I am suddenly not still a very anxious person much of the time.

My trip started inauspiciously when the framed collage I was bringing to my sister slipped onto its face in Union Station. I thought I’d have a heart attack, but a sweet apple-pie mom from Oklahoma traveling with her husband and three kids said she didn’t hear a “crack.” She then told me she was dying of curiosity to see what it was, and so I took off the wrapping and unveiled it. Before I could even explain, I heard the hoped-for oohs and aahs. I told her these were stamps on mail I had received during a year when I had little access to phone or to email. I sort of wish I’d told the truth, but there I was in Union Station, with all these men in uniforms patrolling on segueways, and every word I said could be heard in the immediate area due to the particular acoustics of the place. So I told her I'd been in El Salvador. No matter, one of her kids still remarked the piece was “so cool!” and the Mom said “I wish I was your sister.” (I had specified this was a gift of gratitude to my sister in particular for having gone “above and beyond all calls of duty” in supporting me during a difficult year.)

The trip itself was truly deluxe. The cool part about Amtrak was the dining car (meals included with a sleeper, thank you very much) in which you are seated next to strangers and from which one can expect some unexpected conversation. All the cliches are true about the ability to open yourself up to a stranger when traveling. I met a couple named Lucy and Eric, she a younger, bit prettier version of Julie Hagerty (circa Airplane!), he a Dutch Dave Mathews lookalike. Both, sharp, smart and funny and I decided not to be as discreet as I was with the Union Stationite family. Lucy and Eric were suitably intrigued by more story, in a worldly way. Could it be that Martha Stewart has made prison stays ho-hum? I can just hear my 2005 references to my experiences being referred to as “so last year!” (By the way, if anyone reading this knows how to get in touch with Martha’s “people,” don’t you think I’d be the perfect “as-told-to go-to guy” when she’s shopping for a ghostwriter to document her version of “Living…Inside”?)

Inevitably I had the wonderful experience of falling asleep to the clickey-clack of the swaying train, but not before giggling at thoughts like track lighting for deserts, and wondering why there aren’t more “flashers” who get their kicks exposing themselves briefly either to or from trains that zip by in the night. (At Stony Brook, where I went to college for a year pre-NYU, I once lost one of those Truth-or-Dare type games. I was required to plaster myself naked against the window in the dark late at night, this during a blizzard. When someone walked by, we would flash the lights on and off, and the person would do a double-take, wondering if she had seen what she’d indeed seen).

Upon my arrival, my sister and niece and I drove around Albuquerque a bit getting me acclimated. Of course I asked myself, can I really live here, be happy here? Do I have any choice? I could, of course, use my sister’s help, but I could also get a job back in L.A., which has become a whole new city for me within the context of sobriety. My sister seems inordinately stressed out about money, and I feel all my expenditures are under the microscope. I wonder if that’s why her reaction to the collage, which I thought would evoke an emotional or aesthetic response on par with that of Andrea’s at least, was so noticeably anti-climactic.

I find myself reading David Sedaris’ latest work, some of which details what a delicate place it is to write about your family when they may not want to be written about and you may prefer they don't read you either. Even more dicey is the realization that it is often easier for you to be completely honest with a stranger than it is with a friend or relation.

Sometimes communication is easier at an epistolary distance, once removed from all those sensations of worry about the world and one’s place in it that are constantly sloshing over the side of one’s cup runnething over. (Stick that one in your GrammarCheck!) Maybe coming to Albuquerque will be about giving back to my sister in ways a lot my profound that some artfully conceived stamps in a frame she probably couldn’t help thinking she paid for indirectly.

I tried to give back more directly last night by very simply accompanying her on a tour of her gated-community, where she had been strongarmed into being one of the annual judges of the annual holiday displays. This task was both an opportunity to judge the Christmas lights on the one hand and to not judge those hanging them on the other, for engaging in what is essentially an attempt to be civic-minded instead of cynical.

Why not, really? And what could be more pretty and less requiring of denominational declarations than lights? Of course there were a lot of really decent displays, but we wanted to resist the more assertively attention-getting among them in favor of the more decoratively discreet. So, announcing that I was putting the “gay” into her “gated-community,” I found the best way to help my sister continue to earn her stripes as good neighbor of the month (hey, better than “best neighborhood dealer,” wouldn’t you agree?) was to provide her with a series of categories that would fulfill her obligation without being saccharine.

Hence my categories: Personal Favorite, Best Use of Color, Honorable Mentions, and the Mosts; Most Impressive. Most Restrained, Most Elegant, Most Traditional, Most Las Vegasy Cul-de-Sac, and Most Over-the-Top-and-Luvin’-It! (also known as Most Sarcastic Reaction).

The important part was that she and I found a Christmas Eve activity that was fun. And, while hardly along the lines of Oprah’s Angel Network funding schools for ex-child prostitutes in South Africa, neither was it devoid of social usefulness (the tour bus of seniors in front of us part of the way seemed to be having a lovely time). And we laughed a lot and I didn’t need to get drunk or high to have a good time.

I can’t speak for the seniors or claim any knowledge as to what may or may have not been in their hot cider.

MCO 2004

December 23, 2004

Oh, my, a Christmas Miracle already. The LA Public Transportation system got me to the Parole Office and back in 2 hours. I actually have time for a last-minute blog before packing and heading off to Duke City.

I really like my parole agent. She’s very sweet. But honestly, if another agent in the office asked you what your e-mail address was, would you say in front of a parolee "I have no idea?" These are your taxpayer dollars at work, people.

On the train I witnessed three "homegirls," two with babies, talking motherthis and motherthat, doing time at county jail for fighting and packing heat and dollops of the n-word all around. I just wanted to shake them, and point to their children and say: "Do you see those? Those are EARS!"

At the Western/Wilshire stop, in Koreatown, a group of evangelicals were angrily singing Christmas Carols, in Korean. "Oh Come All Ye Faithful" came out soundling like "Deutchland Uber Alles." Then they started haranguing us that a) Jesus Loved Us and b) We were all Going to Hell if we if we didn’t Repent. NOW. This would be comical if it weren’t so scary. We export hate in the form of fundamentalism and then it gets re-imported. Talk about trade deficits. How about love deficits?

As I got on the bus, I flashed my day pass, and noticed the "23" on it. It took me a second, but I remembered this is the 8th anniversary of the death of my father. His last years were not the happiest, but the years before life had its share of compensations, chief among them my mom and their 5 kids. And one thing I can say about my Dad, is damn, he could parent. Really well. So here’s to you Dad. Forgive us if this Christmas, we will be toasting you with rum-free eggnog. But you go ahead.

And because, of course, I can finish no entry without a dash of redemption, (art mirroring life, of course) I leave you with the sweetest most angelic smile I received from a Madonna and Child on the same bus, right before we got off at Fairfax. There was so much love in the way that Mamacita stroked her little one’s hand, and truly, can you get any more of the Spirit of Christmas than a simple gesture like that?

I got mine. Hope you get yours.

MCO 2004

December 22, 2004 Evening

Well I’ve found an advantage to my difficult wake-ups and falling asleeps. They ground me after these days that have been so intense and almost magical, and quiet the lurking fear that maybe I’m just having a series of manic episodes. It’s been that intense. But really quite wonderful.

After this morning’s blog entry, I went to lunch with my friend Mark, and we had one of the best conversations we have ever had, and in fact it was up there in the good lunch conversations I’ve ever had period. He’s just a delight. And the gazpacho at "Le Pain Quotidien" is among the best I’ve ever had. (I used to be a connoisseur of Bloody Marys. I now officially declare a switch of allegiance to Gazpacho. In my new vocation, I intend to travel the world in search of the best of them, and to report my findings faithfully.)

Then I walked to a newsstand to buy him a pack of cigarettes (really, he couldn’t leave the showroom where he works) and a beautiful woman was buying Elle, Decorator, Vogue, House & Garden etc. I said to her (thinking of a scene in Vera Drake) "you’ll be like one of those rich British woman sitting on their couches, just reading through a magazine" and she laughed and said that she was looking for decorating ideas. I told her that my friend ran this showroom down the street and was also a great interior designer. I share this story not to show off my networking skills, but to point out a complete difference in the way in which I am viewing the world. Everything is an opportunity, and it’s okay to talk to strangers! (It goes both ways. On the bus, the other day, a complete stranger—Mr. Milquetoast incarnate--came up to me and asked me to make movies with him. Thinking it a come on, I said "Erotic?" And he said: "No. I just need someone to make films with me" I told him "well sorry, I’m moving to Albuquerque" and he said "Oops this is my stop!" and got off. Poor, lost soul. If you want to ask a stranger to make movies in this town, you better be riding a Jaguar, not the 217 Bus.)

Any way, I walked along, looking at everything with a fresh conscious eye. I have to say, one cliché about L.A. is true. This is the land of beautiful people. They are all over the place! I resolved to do something about this, and passed "Kenny’s Barber Shop," which, I was told by the Moldavian barber as I settled into the chair, has been there since 1947. Think of the history! Whose famous and infamous butts had graced that very same plush red leather? Whether it was the offer of a massage from my sister I had declined, or the inspiration of Sam Goldwyn or Al Capone doing the same, after my most excellent haircut, I found myself saying "yes" to the first barber’s shave of my life.

First the hot towels, then the lather, then the shave, and the cream, and the towel and the facial massage. All to the playing of Bailaika Disco! OH HEAVEN! (I had to keep reminding myself, though to enjoy the moment, and stop wondering how I was going to word the blogging of it! But I did, I did!) Anyway, thanks Sandra, and I saved you $40. The poor man’s massage, and I walked outta there singing "Voinka Droi" (the remix) and feeling like a million bucks! Beautiful people, HA! I’ll show them all!

When I walked in the door the phone rang and it was, finally, D., the addressee of "Surviving Rob." He had not read the blog entry yet, but I think by the time we finished talking an hour and a half later, I had pretty much covered it. I just heard from his (still delightful, and assumedly still handsome—but not as handsome as me after the shave!) nephew, who heard from D. The conversation may have done some good, it certainly did no harm.

I am not the first to observe that in life you often need to do the work, and let go of the results. I also remember that there are always turning points, if sometimes only in retrospect. I hope this will turn out to be one for him.

I’ve had so many turning points in the past week (and yes, I do note that they coincide with me going to meetings every day-including one tonight) I can barely see straight. Although seeing "straight" has never been my strong point. [INSERT ANNOYING SMILEY FACE EMOTICON].

I just got a call from another friend telling me I’ve got a ride to Union Station tomorrow night. I may not get to the blog tomorrow, as I have to get my pass from the P.O. in the morning, then run back here and pack and clean up. Hell, I may not even blog till after Christmas, but you all will probably be too smashed on eggnog to notice (except for the-you-know-who’s-and-I’m-an-alcoholic’s among you).

I leave you with the short Christmas anecdote, to chuckle over as my train goes clickety-clack across the Arizona desert. On my way to a meeting last night (when I was still one of the Unbeautiful, Unfacially-massaged People), I passed a homeless black woman with enormous breasts pushing her shopping cart. She stopped and said "Hey, Gorgeous!"

I was so grateful I immediately thrust a dollar in her hand.

HO HO HO (Me, not her.)

MCO 2004

December 22, 2004

OKAY, so I TOOK a Xanax last night! I’m sorry, I was trying TOO hard to be relaxed and blissful! I got so afraid of not being able to sleep, that of course, it became a self-fulfilling prophecy. I got up, read (a novel this time, to I’d have something to think about when I tried to get back to sleep). I also got two letters from jail yesterday, which I am going to try to respond to now, and sometimes I start thinking of how dismal it is still back there, and feel so guilty that the last thing I want to do, really, is think about them in there, much less keep it touch. But my sister and all of my friends sure didn’t take that tack with me, so I sure as hell can’t turn my back on them.

No terrible harm done. I’m going to blog part of their letters, and maybe some kind soul out there will also pick up the pen to one of both of them. Earl (who I called Merle in the blog, but has officially told meto use his real name) is gay, sweet, and my ex-bunkie. Jimmy, (his real name) the "King of the Whites" is a bad boy with a heart of gold, funny as shit, jaw-droppingly handsome, and straight—although you’d never know it from the letter he sent me, which is practically a love letter. (They both made clear enough that they wanted personal letters over excerpts from the blog, so I can speak freely. I had written them "cover notes" but I don’t think they can identify with my experience out here. Better if I concentrate on reacting to their continued experience, as best I can.)

So I drink coffee, and I try to BREATHE. And I made a lunch date with a good friend to get me out of the house and probably sneak the last cigarettes I’ll have for the rest of my life, because it is OUT of the question for Albuquerque and it is not worth the self-loathing. Maybe I can get some SNUS. It’s non-cancer causing Nictoine gum my mother, of all people, recommended I try, but it’s hard to get in the U.S.

And this little morning blogette is my attempt to combat the anxiety that seems to be mine more often than not with the morning hours. I think it will make an enormous difference to wake up in a houseful of people. No man is an island (although some men are peninsulas—as I wrote once in one of my favorite poems). I sure ain’t. I think the reason what saved me from this anxiety during my time on Meth was not the drug (there’s a surprise), it was my dog Gaza. I was never really alone. That boy saved my ass, big-time.

FROM JIMMY [MY NOTES IN CAPS AND BRACKETS]

Hi! I love your furry ass. (HA HA) Just joking. But really sweetheart, now that you’ve gotten your shot of "MAN," how are you feeling? 185% of course (all natural, of course). I’d like a letter or two that is a tad bit more personal please?

It really beats my ego, when I read 3rd-party correspondence. Blog-Post-prison letters that I’m only a passing subject in (sometimes).

I really don’t see how you are I are going to change me into a Hard-Driven ego mania soap opera stud/bad boy without us being on a much more intimate level, not to mention me doing any ego or any confidence after the way they keep being ripped off my chest. By the only male sexual toy I know. (HaHa Yes, you my highness! Earl’s no fun!)

No, no, please, don’t talk! [I TAUGHT HIM DIANNE’S WIEST’S FAMOUS LINE FROM BULLETS OVER BROADWAY]

HaHaHaHaHa! [IS THERE A LOT OF NERVOUS "HAHAING OR IS IT JUST ME?]

So Mark, how’s that for you? That was the poop, woe is Jimmy! Down and Out in Hollyweird, (HA, HA)

So anyhow Darling, do you miss me? You better. I know you’ve been feeling under the weather or more like less than a potent Alpha Male (Ha Ha) Plus having lots of things for you to do and still doing it riding the bus! You are made of sterner stuff than I am, Mister Mark. I can’t handle with the bus.

But really I’d like a letter from you Mr. Olmsted. I’d like to hear about some of your friends’ reaction when you told them of me, and I’d like to know how you’ve been feeling since you’ve done about half of what you needed to. I was thinking maybe you could put an ad in the personals for me in the newspaper! Something like Single White Male, 6’6", 240 lbs, BRN/BLU looking through love through correspondence. Treats women like shit. Only rich. Serious women reply!!! What do you think?

A little rough maybe, needs a little work? Do you have some beautiful, rich, bad girls I can meet, maybe have a visit, maybe fall in love with, or maybe they can just rent me for a while? Will you let me know, okay?

[ON THAT SARDONIC NOTE, I WILL LEAVE JIMMY. HE IS OF COURSE KIDDING. HE IS A BIG SOFTIE UNDERNEATH, WHO I AM CERTAIN WOULD RESPOND TO SOME TENDERNESS. HE’S BEEN IN SO LONG, HE HAS PROBLEM KNOWING HE IS EVEN CAPABLE OF IT WITH A WOMAN, (HE SAYS HE CAN BE PAINFULLY SHY WITH THEM AND I BELIEVE IT) AND WITH A MAN, HE DOESN’T DARE TRY ANYTHING, AT LEAST NOT WHILE I WAS THERE.]

WRITE TO;

Jimmy Eastridge

H63910

P.O. Box 600

Chino, CA 91708

FROM EARL:

[BLAH BLAH BLAH] Thanks for the money $ (SANDRA FORGIVE ME IT WAS ONLY $20 AND MEANS SO MUCH TO THEM] It’ll help feed Jimmy, God knows how much that man can eat!

He cut my hair with scissors [HE USED THE LETTER I SENT TO THE WARDEN] and did a fantastic job! That bitch can cut some mean hair! I knew he was one of us! HO HO HO.

You’re not gonna believe this one! Kenny [THE BLACK KID WHO ACCUSED ME OF BEING RACIST THE DAY I GOT OUT], well he actually went to West Yard from here. They brought him back in an ambulance! He tried to hang himself! Yes, yes, Kenny! You killed KENNY! [SOUNDS LIKE A SOUTH PARK EPISODE]. Well, maybe you didn’t, his guilty conscience did. Rumor on this one is that he had consensual sex with DiDi [A DRAG QUEEN] Then he couldn’t perform for her and wound up with a sheet and a rope around his neck. 3 weeks later he accuses her of raping him!

Crazy shit, hunh!

ENOUGH OF EARL. I GOTTA WRITE THEM BOTH BACK. AS YOU CAN IMAGINE, I DON’T MISS IT IN THERE ONE BIT, ALTHOUGH I’LL PRETEND TO MISS THEM BOTH.

Write to:

Earl McNicholls

V28495

P.O.Box 600

Chinco, CA 91708

MCO 2004

December 20, 2004

Today was about experiencing pure, unadulterated joy. And not because of anything specific, (although some wonderful things happened), but because I was just able to access it. To let it in, more accurately. And it just kept coming.

I was miserable enough recently enough, and will surely be miserable enough soon enough. But one really should acknowledge and celebrate such days when they occur, because they are certainly rare enough.

I went to sleep last night on only 1/2 of one milligram of Xanax, and I don’t even think that was necessary. (Tonight I’ll try nothing at all). I think, most importantly, I had finally stopped obsessing over the behavior of the man who didn’t say yes when I wanted to hear it. I allowed myself to stop resisting the verity that I had been rejected. I allowed myself to just BE rejected.

I didn’t die. It was OKAY. Much more comfortable than jumping through hoops trying to find ways to prove to myself I wasn’t really rejected (with more than enough ammo to feed my denial, I might add.) Basically, I took the advice I gave D. in "Surviving Rob." Be with the pain. And it will not kill you. Resisting the pain might, though.

So relatively at peace I slept blissfully, dreaming of flying. I haven’t dreamt of flying in a while, but when I used to, I always flapped my arms like wings. In this dream, I flew like a fish swims. Swooping up and in and out like a dolphin. For HOURS, I swear. It was SO much fun.

Then I got up, without too much drama about getting up, and went to my ADAP appointment. This will allow me to get back on my once-a-day meds. The woman who helped me, Chris, was like the fantasy lesbian from bureaucrat heaven. She was completely cool about the situation, and we talked politics and bashed Bush the Bozo et al. for a good 20 minutes.

The same thing happened at the Doctor’s office. The three of us waiting held a virtual seminar on the election and how certain we were that Ohio was stolen. And ended up feeling comforted that Kerry at least won’t have to try clean up the uncleanable mess in Iraq and the economy. We’re gonna watch those evil, stupid men that lead us drown in the horrors of their own making. We just hope they don’t bring the country with them. But Americans are thankfully, a resilient and basically honest people, who eventually come around when the truth blasts them in the face long enough. (Oh, and I also got a flu shot and a testosterone shot. My pecs are starting to get perky for Albuquerque.)

Then I spoke to my Parole Officer, who had good news and bad news. The bad news was that the paperwork she sent in was returned because she filled it out without some number or some such on it. The good news was that she got me a pass to go to Albuquerque and spend the holidays with my sister, brother-in-law, niece and nephew. I’ll be on a sleeper car Thursday night, from Union Station. My sister said the bed sleeps three! Lions and Tigers and Bears, oh my!

Then I went somewhere to meet Andrea, (where is a secret because it involves surprise holiday gifts from both of us.) We walked in on one of my favorite actresses, and as she left I told her "Ms. Pleshette, you’re wonderful…" and she turned and responded in her inimitable gravely voice: "Thank you daahhhling." What Andrea and I were doing occasioned the telling of my "story" to the store owner (sans the the departed Suzanne, helas)). But the store owner, Pamela, was wonderful, and we left with hugs all around. (Oh my God, I’m becoming a hugger! I was never a hugger!)

Then Andrea and I went out for a sandwich at a bistro. She told me the ear-popping story of the harassment her boyfriend and her have endured from an ex of his. Trading stories with the prodigious listener and fabuloso raconteuse that is Andrea is always joy, even when the stories told are a bit hair-raising! (It’s also perversely comforting to know that even really nice, law-abiding people can find themselves caught in intractable dramas.)

Then we came home and we talked to my darling Maman, and I called my niece to celebrate her 20th birthday! Dat bitch is da bomb! (I used some prison lingo I picked up on her. She loved it.)

Then I went to a meeting, and got confused at the time, and got there a half a hour early. I saw an ex-client and we re-bonded, no pipe necessary. And I spoke for 20 minutes with a visitor from San Francisco and learned all about building forensics. Don’t ask, but I might pitch it to CBS. The speaker, as it appears to be increasingly the case, said exactly what I needed to hear. His first sentence was about fearing sobriety to be about drudgery, and finding out it was about joy. And as always, in these rooms, there was much laughter. For me, personally, this is the biggest reason I find the meetings much more fun than work. Recovering alcoholics can still be the life of the party (just no longer the death of it.)

I always thought drinks and drugs enhanced and accentuated. They may have even for a time for me, and they may do so for others. But they unquestionably stopped doing so for me, and would doubtfully do so again if I went back to them. (The highway may be faster than the byways, but the tolls are too damn high and the view is nowhere as interesting.). More importantly, as the speaker deftly pointed out "You know exactly what that experience is like. What you don’t know is what it might be like to be sober for 10 years." I can’t argue with that.

Bottom line, I’m finally starting to feel (not just think, or know intellectually), that I don’t need accentuation or enhancement or medicating. I don’t need to be half numb to feel anything. I just need to be myself, whoever the fuck that is.

Today I was like that woman in the 70s greeting her husband at the door dressed in nothing but Saran Wrap. Total Joy. (Or was that Total Sex? Whatever, it felt good.)

MCO 2004

P.S. Now I’m watching Faye Dunaway do the tribute to Warren Beatty at the Kennedy Center Honors. I lived right next door to her for 10 years, I did, I did, I swear it!

December 20, 2004

This morning I didn’t take my anti-depressant, in the hope that I can get to sleep Xanax-free and then don’t sleep away the morning. Frankly, my Xanax-dose is so low that I think it’s fear of the world more than anything that keeps me in bed.

Fear is such a powerful force. It underlies every negative emotion we experience, I think. Being with the fear is what we need to do to before we can let go of it, but boy, we certainly resist that don’t we? Trying not to feel something is like putting a bothersome cat in a sack and carrying it. Oh gee, that works!

Today I did some errands and went to see Vera Drake. Good movie. Mike Leigh captures 1950 lower middle class England superbly. It tells the story of an English housewife, an abortionist who, in her mind, is doing more good than harm. Suddenly she finds herself arrested and her unaware family ripped apart.

As you can imagine the movie hit a bit too close to home. (I don’t think this movies-alone-in-the- afternoon-thing is a great idea for me.) Smartly, I had grabbed a meeting booklet before I left the apartment, and I found a meeting close by that was just starting. It was a big one, (with more than a few really good-looking men, I might add.). The speaker turned out to be one of the best I have ever heard. Incredibly funny and insightful and perfect for where I was at the moment.

I had with me copies of my stamp collage that I had just sent to many of you as Christmas card. After the meeting, I was the very last in a long line of people thanking the speaker. He had recounted how he had barely escaped prison, by some miraculous error all charges were dropped when he was caught with a considerable amount of drugs, while driving under the influence of LSD. I told him I wasn’t so lucky, and just got out of 10 months in the pen, but here was something to put on his refrigerator. I told him if he ever need to feel some love, than to just put his hand on the collage, because there was an unbelievable amount of love in those stamps.

We gave each other a great big hug. Then I turned on my cellphone, and got a ride back to the apartment and spent some time with a friend.

We talked about what was so different about being on drugs and about being sober, and I told him one of the big differences for me was when I was on meth, it was always a hunt to find something out there. And sometimes you found it, but rarely felt sated afterwards.

The contrast of sobriety, for me, is more about opening yourself up to the universe. Put yourself out there, and do the work, but allow yourself to let in the love, and let go of the fear. It’s less about finding something, than getting out of the way so you can discover what is right there in front of you,.

I don’t want to reserve this for "sobriety." It’s good advice for life. Sobriety is just a context that make the process much more available to someone who was previously placing obstacles to his full access of it.

And I’m pretty sure if there is a God, she prefers you don’t call her up drunk or high. It’s like static on the line.

December 19, 2004

Today I woke up feeling unaccountably good. I discovered with my use of meth that the body can adapt and compensate for almost any manner of abuse. So why shouldn’t this include HIV meds, diarrhea, and anti-depressants?. Let’s hope it holds.

As for my other plaint, like it or not, some relationships just don’t seem to exist in a pain-free zone. And sometimes in your life, you can tolerate less time in that pain-filled zone than others. (No relationships exists completely outside of the zone. I caught Chris Rock’s latest HBO special before bed, and he makes the point with sidesplitting hilarity. Not for the faint of heart if you have trouble hearing 4, 5, 6, and 7-letter words—hypenated.).

So I’ve decided to step out of the pain-filled zone for a while. If our friendship survived 10 months in prison, it’ll survive at least that much time in Albuquerque. And if it doesn’t, then it doesn’t. Our experience together may have meant much less to him than it did to me, but that doesn’t diminish what it did mean to me, and a lot of my discomfort seems to come from the sense I am losing something because it wasn’t wholly mutual. You can’t lose someone else’s feelings, because they did not belong to you. What I hope to lose is the pain, and hold on to the joy. I do wish time did its magical work faster than it’s supposed to. My letter to D. ("Surviving Rob" ) is testament to the shakiness of the proposition "Time Heals All Wounds." Sometimes the best you can hope for is a decent scar.

I’ve often said to my mother that she had two marriages. A very good one that lasted the first 20 years, and a very difficult one that she endured for the second 20 years. One does not diminish the other. It’s a pretty good idea, in general, to apply to yourself the lessons that you would ask others to apply to themselves.

So, writer, heal thyself.

MCO 2004

December 18, 2004

Unfortunately, the new meds my doc put me on are requiring me to stay within sharp proximity to a toilet. This was rather unexpected, as I have been on them before, but it seems the body forgets. Let this be a lesson to any HIV-negative men toying with the idea of unsafe sex. AIDS still sucks, and it can suck the lifeblood out of you, even if it doesn’t so readily kill you anymore.

It could have happened at a worse time, I suppose, like if I had to be on a bus or a train somewhere today. But it would have been nice to get out of the house today, for a movie or a meeting or a Christmas party. Particularly as to help me avoid dwelling on a wildly insensitive remark made by a friend, who could have realized its gratuitous cruelty if he thought about it for a nanosecond.

This is not to say he didn’t speak the truth. But the unadulterated truth sometimes could use a little adulterating when it comes to matters of well-known emotional delicacy.

So I’m off to run (literally) to AD-RX for a fix of immodium, that, Goddesses willing, may allow me to participate in the world today. On the way I will no doubt ponder, in typical Libra fashion, at what point and whether the joy some people bring you is outweighed by the grief they bring you. I imagine he might be wondering the same thing about me.

MCO

2004

Devember 16, 2004

I had dinner last night with the nephew of a man who was the lover of my college roommate, and best friend, in my 20s when I lived in New York. My friend, Rob, died of liver failure due to Hepatitis C, HIV, and alcoholism in 1998. I address this to Rob’s surviving lover, (who I shall refer to as D.) D., according to his very handsome, very smart and very charming nephew, has still not recovered from Rob’s death. Five years later, he hasn’t moved a thing in the apartment, and has had no subsequent relationships.

Because of my status as Rob’s best friend for all of those years, the nephew felt that perhaps I might be able to come out with something resembling an argument that might nudge D. along into a healthier future. While recognizing that grief is a highly personal syndrome, and D. is an extraordinarily intelligent person who has probably heard and tried it all and is not therapy-phobic, here goes. (Since I am addressing a largely gay audience who knows a thing or two about grief, I am blogging this instead of sending it to D. directly, because it might be possible that I say something that can help someone else, if not him).

Number 1, D., I think it is helpful to note that you have not committed suicide. This tells me that no matter how grief-stricken and miserable you are, you have, in fact chosen this pain-filled existence over no existence at all. This is good to remember when you ask yourself if you really want to live. You do. If you can realize you have actually answered that question, than perhaps you can stop asking it, and that can be the beginning of moving on.

Number 2, I’m sure you know, but it bears repeating. Keeping your love alive, remaining "faithful," is an attempt to keep Rob alive. If you allow your love to become a memory—however a potent one—you are truly accepting the reality and finality that Rob is gone. Despite your clear intellectual understanding that he is dead, you are in essence, somewhat in denial of the very fact of it.

Number 3, most people go through life never even meeting their soul mate. You met yours, and had 6 years with him. If you had the choice of never having met him, and not feeling this pain, and having had the six years, and experiencing this loss, which would you choose? I am quite sure you can’t imagine your life without having met Rob, and wouldn’t trade a minute of it. You need to find the gratitude of the gift your received and hold onto that instead of holding on what you have lost. Also, remember what an extraordinary gift you gave Rob. I, for one, would have put him dead last on the list of those likely to meet someone who could put up with him. Without you, his life would have been a rapid descent, instead of a comparatively soft landing.

Remember that far before you met him, when he had that awful near-death car accident one drunken New Year’s Eve, he was told he could never drink again. He did, prodigiously, until he finally obeyed Doctor’s orders when it was too late to undo the damage. You know how completely intransigent Rob was on the topic of sobriety. I tried to get him sober in 1986, and though he completely identified with the speaker at the AA meeting I took him too, he could not face life without the medicating effects of alcohol. If Rob had not had Hep C and an iron liver, he might still be alive. You wouldn’t have lost him to death, but you would have lost him to alcohol, and you would have watched the slow dissolution of a fine, talented man. There was already too much dissolution for me, and I had to distance myself from Rob as he had become. He would call me drunk to talk through our "repertoire" and the rigidity of his routine became alienating and obnoxious. "Don’t kid yourself, Mary" loses its charm after the 1000th repetition.

Maybe Rob would have gotten sober, but not likely. This was a man who left his one and only therapy session (at least when I knew him) 40 minutes into it because whatever it was that the therapist creaked open the door to was simply too painful for him to face. To your undying credit (literally) you loved Rob through his pain and cherished the perfect, undamaged man beneath all the sarcasm and hedonistic indulgence. Give yourself some credit for that and stop beating yourself up wondering if you had done something differently Rob might still be around. We are all here on a journey and have to learn whatever we need to learn in each lifetime. Rob completed his journey. You learning to accept that completion is part of your journey, and if you don’t learn it this time around you’ll just have to learn the same lesson the next time around.

Also remember that Rob did smoke like a chimney, and death via lung cancer is every bit a ugly as death by cirrhosis. Rob’s body simply had no intention of spending a long time on this planet. Not to mention HIV which given Rob’s high likelihood as a non-compliant medication-taker, could have proven easily as fatal.

If you’d been hit by a bus, Rob would have been completely devastated. Unlike you, I don’t think he would have hung on. He would have OD’d, or killed himself drunk-driving. By surviving him, you spared him an incalculable grief. Think about that, What a gift to have given him.

And by surviving, you have become a very important presence in the life of a nephew who absolutely adores you. You have navigated him through the shoals of coming out, and even meeting me may have been what he needed to reinforce his decision not to even try crystal meth, a tough temptation to resist in city awash in it. I needn’t point out that Rob—who glorified indulgence as a paean to his Germanic opera over-the-topness, might well have had a different influence. I loved him dearly, but face it , D., he was an extremist in such matters, and "proud of it" as he was wont to say. Rob didn’t like to challenge his world views, to call into question any behavior that may have let to regret. He was piteously direct with others, but not with himself, except when drunk. Which, unfortunately, is an evaporating lucidity.

Remember after I last saw him, I wrote him the next day to tell him he would die soon if he didn’t stop drinking. He tore up the letter, incapable of not taking it as a personal condemnation, and God knows I was and am the LAST person on earth to judge anyone on this basis. I just knew he was scared to death of Death, and given our history, if anyone could sway him, it might be me. I couldn’t and pretty much knew I couldn’t, I just wanted to make sure that when he died, I didn’t have a moment of wondering "maybe if I had…"

Rob was afraid of death, but he was more afraid of facing life’s pain without the help of substances. I think, to a certain degree, you are doing the same, using different tools. You are keeping his memory alive to avoid completely experiencing the pain of accepting that he is truly gone. The truth about pain, however, is that suppressing it takes just as much psychic energy as experiencing it. I think we avoid completely experiencing it because on some level, we really believe we will not survive it. We will die if we completely feel the pain.

Well, funny thing is, we don’t. If we are lucky, we cry and cry and cry like women, and soothing chemicals are released that make us feel better just like a drug. I know my mother would never have survived the death of my brother without tears, and boy, do I envy her that capacity. But tears or not, the only way to move though and past the pain, is to be completely in it. This is something that Rob could not do, and so never got past his pain, even with the love of a good man standing by him.

At the end of Ordinary People, I remember a powerful moment where the Timothy Hutton character had to forgive himself for surviving his brother. And to forgive his brother for not being able to hang on to the boat. You need to allow yourself to be angry at Rob for not holding on, and then you can forgive him for it. And more importantly, forgive yourself for still being here.

The earth evidently, still requires your presence. Your nephew certainly does, and I imagine other family and friends love you just as dearly. Rob, however, does not require you to keep grieving for him. If he is still watching, I think he’s actually appreciated how terribly and long you have missed him. But I think he truly loved you, and loves you, enough that even he wants you to move on. If you can’t do it for you, do it for him.

And of course, if you haven’t tried a bereavement support group, get your ass to one. There’s an inexplicable relief that comes from hearing others go though what you are going through. You are not alone.

As for me, I’m dandy. I got to have dinner with the handsome, smart, charming nephew (after a thoroughly enjoyable AA meeting, for those of you who need reassurance that my reservations about the program have not been translated into not availing myself of its support.) And my new glasses are ready!

I could get used to this freedom thing! (Still waiting for my Albuquerque decision. Hopefully something by Tuesday).

MCO 2004

December 14, 2004

Today I went to the Doc’s and got my testosterone shot. I feel blessedly "normal." The doc also gave me meds to get me through until my appointment with ADAP, the Aids Drug Assistance Program that will cover my AIDS med costs.

On the way back I splurged on a book. David Sedaris’ new bestseller "Dress Your Family in Corduroy and Denim." Actually, for me, David Sedaris is not a luxury, he’s a necessity. So what if people look at you funny while you laugh hysterically on the bus.

I concluded long ago that what keeps me sane, even during the insanity, is laughter. This was reinforced by the AA meeting tonight, where the speaker was particularly brilliant. [I originally described this person, than realized that perhaps I was violating the precept of "everything that is heard in these rooms stays in these rooms." So that's all I'll say.]

My only problem tonight with the 12-steps is the use of the pronoun "him" for God. It would be so refreshing if someone said "her," if only to remind that God is neither him or her. I was describing to my sister a definition I heard Beth Nielsen Chapman on NPR. She said "I see humanity as a diamond, and God as light. Each part of the diamond sees such brilliance that it thinks its conception is the truest, the realest. They are all just experiencing the same light, from their own vantage point."

Amen.

MCO 2004

December 14, 2004

Despite a glorious Xanax-faciltated 10 hours of sleep, I woke up feeling like crap. I took a Lexapro, had breakfast, had come full-caf coffee, and then had a wonderful, funny conversation with my sister.

God knows which of those elements had the most impact, but I’m feeling much better, and I only started noticing it as soon as I hung up the phone with my sister

I think what constitutes much of the "magic" that goes on in "the rooms" where 12-step programs meet, is no more mysterious than the relief that comes from honest communication. I’ve been dealing with a friend who hews very strongly with the "half-measures avail us nothing" AA tenet. 90 meetings in 90 days, get a sponsor, work the steps, all of which I did in 1986 and none of which kept me sober in the long run. This is not to make AA wrong—I simply wasn’t ready to get sober. I didn’t, and I don’t regret it a bit. I had a different journey to go on.

What I am saying is why can’t sharing outside of the rooms have the same tonic effect as doing so inside the rooms? My father was an alchoholic who never made an honest stab at sobriety. He also had very few friends. He didn’t share inside the rooms, but he didn’t share outside of the rooms either. My mother, on the other hand, went to a few Alanon meetings, and never shared once. But she did have a wonderful circle of friends with whom she cried her eyes out during the years. Who’s to characterize her "sharing" as somehow less therapeutic because she did it outside of "the rooms?" She never chose to leave my father, and as hard as it was I don’t think she regrets not staying married to him. Part of her journey was to honor their vows and to be there for him and sickness and in health, and when he died, of cirrhosis, they only thing worse than being there for him would have been to not be there for him.

I’m not trying to "set up" a rationale for not going to meetings. I’m going to another one at 7:30, frankly, as much as anything, because I get lonely around that time, not surprisingly as I spend all day on my own. But if any part of me might have been drifting closer to using today (it wasn’t), it is a funny exchange with my sister that would have halted that. I resent the implication I am getting from this friend that the only way to get and stay sober is the 12-step way—everything else is a "dry drunk," some sort of ersatz sobriety that doesn’t count. This a dogmatic arrogance, in my book.

It also does not reflect my experience. I have a host of abstinent friends thriving, who took their distance from me when I was in the throes of my addiction. All got and stayed sober with little or no help of the program. They are as inspiring to me, and as much an example, as anyone who raises their hand and says "3 years" in a meeting. And they also have a lot more time to just live their lives because they don’t have to run to a meeting every other day because they been brainwashed into believing without a steady diet of the program, you are doomed to get high again. If any of them do get high again, I’m sure they’d dust off, get back on their feet and go right back to being abstinent, without experiencing a horrific sense of failure and great fall from the heights, saying "1 day back" and being treated like a newborn, as if the three years they had accumulated count for nothing. In fact, many of the relapsers I know have a terrible problem going back, I think largely because they can’t bear the sense of humiliation and group reprobation. They hear the whispers, "So and so went ‘out.’ Tsk. Tsk."

The relapse rates for Meth, in particular, are horrific, mostly because of its intense correlation with sex. When overeaters deviate from their eating plan, or gamblers buy a lotto ticket, it makes sense to me they own up to it, look at it and what prompted it, and return to their corrected behavior. This strikes me as utterly sensible. If I ever do relapse, I would not envision using it to rationalize my way into thinking I could drug "safely." Addiction to me, is less a disease than an allergy. If you are allergic to peanuts and break out in hives, when they hives subside, you don’t go back to eating peanuts. I consider myself allergic to drugs and alcohol. It may be, in my view, a milder allergy simply because using or drinking did not send me into a frenzied personality change where every indulgence resulted in a morning-after contemplating the half-remembered wreckage of the previous night. (Most of my experiences were almost wholly pleasurable and I had few, if any, apologies to make.). It doesn’t mean the long term effects were not cumulatively toxic, and it doesn’t mean I am not allergic, or that I can drink/drug safely.

Same thing with cigarettes, an addiction if there ever was one. I have quit and started again more than a few times. The non-using periods have been far longer than the using periods. But they count. I’m have been a smoker for 6 years over the past 30, and and a non-smoker for 24. I haven’t been a non-smoker only since the last time I didn’t have a cigarette.

I risk "protesting too much." But I am not going to stop using my brain, intellect and experience to assert that the whole addiction syndrome is complex, and the jury is out on the best ways to deal with it. If I didn’t have the gigantic motivation to say sober no matter what right now, it might well be foolhardy for me to follow any path that is not tried and true. But I do have this motivation, and I am not truly in danger of returning to my old ways. So I assert the right to remain sober the way that is most comfortable for me. Life is too hard all by itself to make it any harder by working at doing so.

MCO 2004

December 13, 2004

So I saw my Parole Officer today, and as expected, I signed the forms and was told to call Wednesday to hopefully find out if someone can give me the go ahead for Albuquerque. I imagine they will have "just received the forms" and will ask me to call again by which time it will be too late to make it to New Mexico for the holidays. Let it be known that I have an invitation here for Christmas, so I won’t be alone in any event.

Unfortunately this chore was made all the more difficult because my body seems to be reverting to the pre-testoserone state of fatigue. Mornings are really tough, afternoons somewhat better. I should be able to go in for a shot tomorrow though. And finally the pharmacy located my Xanax prescription. It has been rarely stressful to go to bed at 1 am and not fall asleep until 3. Particularly if you have an annoying tendency to dream that you are still awake and trying to go to sleep.

I tried to meditate after coming home, but the phone rang twice and then I had to get out of here because building inspectors were due and my host would rather not give the impression she is subletting. Saying that she’s just letting a friend stay here because he’s out on parole doesn’t seem to be the smartest route either. Sorry, sometimes honesty is not the best policy.

Andrea drove me to a Fluff n’ Fold where I’m splurging to have my laundry done. It allows me to arrange for a ride to pick it up. It was way too much to haul back on the bus. I found myself in front of the cheap Beverly/Fairfax cinema where Farenheit 9/11 was playing. The movie was a big deal when I was incarcerated, and even though I knew it would drive me nuts to see it now, knowing we were stuck with 4 more years of Bozo, I went in anyway.

I was right It did drive me nuts. I can’t understand this country. 50 million people with all the information they could conceivably need re-elect (and I’m being charitable with the "re," as he was hardly elected the first time.) this cabal of war criminals. I’m rather certain I’m preaching to the choir on this one, so I won’t bother going on. Suffice to say I’m ashamed to be an American.

I also feel lucky to be one, for the crassest of reasons. On the way home, I stopped in at the 99 cents store and bought $15 worth of groceries that would probably have cost an Iraqi housewife’s half of her husband’s monthly salary. Hell, there were an assortment of Angeleno housewives with very full carts, and let me tell you, with that selection, you have to be some creative cook to feed a family decently.

I can only quote the Wicked Witch of the West. "What a crazy world…."

MCO 2004

December 12, 2004

Today was a good day, but this will be short because it is late and I have to get up early to go down to my see my Parole Officer tomorrow.

I went to brunch, and then to the flea market where I bought a watch and a Christmas present, both for cheap. Then I came back and finished the notes on my friend’s screenplay, then took my stamp collage over to another friend’s and scanned it piecemeal into the computer, and returned home to try and reconstitute it on the computer. This is tricky because I have to reduce in size in exact proportion, and my Photoshop is rusty. Computer languages are just like any other language; you forget stuff when you don’t use it, even for just 10 months.

Somewhere in all that I managed to squeeze in 30 minutes of meditation. That’s one of those things I have no idea if I’m doing "right." I know only to lay or sit as still as possible, and clear your mind as much as you can.. Then I took some advice that was given me. I was told if "prayer is talking to God, meditation is listening to God." So I just tried that for a half an hour, and whatever the result was, I enjoyed it.

In fact, I really appreciated my freedom today. Everything was up there on my list of favorite things to do: lunch with a friend, critiquing a good script that I felt I had some good ideas for, working on my art, And two newer activities---meditating and going to a meeting. Needless to say, it’s nice to recite such a wholesome list.

I imagine I’ll have some news tomorrow about how much longer my stay will be in this town. A demain.

MCO 2004

------------------------------------------------------------------------

December 11, 2004

You know the "Word-a-Day" service that you can get via Email? Well, I suscribe to it, and years ago sent it this explanation I heard of the term "eighty-sixed." It's making it into a book they're putting out!

Thank God I didn't ditch the AOL address.

From: Anu Garg  [ Save Address ]

To: makemarc@aol.com">makemarc@aol.com

Subject: Permission to quote you

Date: Fri, 10 Dec 2004 22:45:43 -0500

Dear Marc,

In October 2005, the publishing house of John Wiley & Sons will publish

my book based on words that have appeared on 'A Word A Day'. I will also

be including a number of anecdotes from AWAD readers. I would like to

include the following, which you wrote, for publication in the book:

-----------------------------

I was told by a bartender friend that the derivation of "eight-six'd"

comes from the Old West. Alcohol was once allowed to be 100 proof in

strength, and when a regular was known to get disorderly, he was served

with spirits of a slightly lower 86 proof. Hence he was 86ed.

-Marc Olmsted, West Hollywood, California

(Please fill in your location above).

-----------------------------

To include your feedback, I need to have your permission. If you are

willing to let me use this material in my book, please reply to this

email as soon as possible. I will then email you Wiley's standard

permission letter, which you will have to print out, sign and mail to me.

If you ask me not to include your feedback, or if you do not reply to this

email in the next few days, I will not include your material.

I am under a fairly tight deadline from my publisher, so, if you are

willing to grant me permission to use your feedback, please respond as soon

as you can.

Best wishes,

--

Anu Garg

December 10, 2004

So I walk over to Sharper Image Printing, in the mini-mall two blocks away. I used to go there when I worked at the ad agency, over 13 years ago; it is right next door to Caffe Latte, where Andrea and I cemented our friendship around the same time. It is also next to AD-RX, where the doctor has called in a prescription for Xanax. Before going to pick it up, I am bringing my finished stamp collage to be scanned, so I can make smaller versions as framable gifts for all those who wrote me faithfully in prison.

The proprietor—who had done business cards for me years ago—is occupied by an attractive woman in her early 30s with a children’s photo. I say I’ll wait, just as he excuses himself to answer the phone. I remember this guy is always really busy,

I hold my collage in a closed circular loop, but you can see a bit of color peripherally, and the woman asks if she can take a peek. I lay it open and she provides the most hoped-for reaction. "Wow…that’s beautiful…" What follows is right out of a movie where the screenwriter has struggled to figure out a way for two characters to meet (say, Will and Grace as opposed to Tracy and Hepburn. I’m pretty sure she picked up the gay vibe. In fact I imagine that’s part of why she was so forthcoming.)

I tell her my story, the story of the stamps. Each and every one on a letter that had been sent to me during a time where "mail was my only lifeline." A paragraph later I go ahead and tell her I was in prison. It is like we are strangers on a train. Confession begets confession. She tells me her story.

She is in the middle of a horrific custody battle with her trust-fund millionaire lawyer husband. He had tried every trick in the book, including provoking a fight and then having her arrested for spousal abuse. I heard this so many times in prison, usually it was the woman, of course, making the phone call, but angry words often translated to "Making Terrorist Threats." What has evolved in our present legal system is a culture of the accuser. Whoever accuses first has the upper hand. The police are required to arrest them, even when it’s basically one word against the other. Mothers often use the accusation of battering or child molestation on the father; Kim (that’s her name) admits to having considered it (probably when she was in handcuffs at the police station) but this guy is so savvy that he now only sees the kids with third parties present.

I inquire about her options, then realize she had considered them all; she is three steps ahead of me. Unfortunately, her ex-husband seems to be four steps ahead of her, and he can afford unlimited legal fees—she is going broke. The stakes are high. One of her two children—the five-year old, I think, the other is 20 months--suffers from a genetic disorder that requires extensive therapy. I finally ask the inevitable questions. "Is it worth giving in? Is he a good father?" She hesitates, and puts it this way. "It’s not that he’s a bad father. He’s just not a good mother."

I tell her that is brilliant, brilliant. That’s what she needs to tell the judge, or what character witnesses on her behalf must testify to. "I’ve been thinking that’s what I need, character witnesses" she agrees. I tell her that when I went to prison, I didn’t begin to imagine how much response I would get if I just asked for help. The stamps silently testify to this on my behalf.

Even though she is remarkably self-composed (think Mary Steenburgen at 33, but a bit prettier) she admits to being near the end of her rope. She tells me she kept all the envelopes from all the letters she received from notes congratulating her on the birth of her baby, and that she was thinking of using them in some kind of "art (self) therapy."

I give her complete "permission" to "steal" my idea. What is great about it is that a million people could do it, and given the nature of stamps no two could be the same, I further suggest that she make copies of the result as Christmas presents, accompanied by a letter asking her family and friends for their support. Sometimes, you won’t know unless you ask.

Eventually, we remember why we are there. I give her this blog address. If you’re reading this Kim, I hope you enjoyed meeting as much as I did. And I hope you beat the bastard. I can tell you’re a great mother.

It turned out mine was too small a job for the proprietor, he would have had to charge me a ridiculous amount for it to be worth his time. And, despite the call I got from the doctor’s office assuring me they’d called in the Xanax prescription, it was not at AD-RX, and the Dr.’s office was closed for the day.

The odd thing is that I didn’t need it. I got back home and fell into a deep three-hour sleep, which makes zero sense because I slept until 11:00 and I went back on the Lexapro. A clue may be found in my horoscope, which mentioned a "giant release of tension." I don’t know if it was the AA meeting, the meds kicking in, or the feeling that my art can serve as a conduit to all sorts of unexpected encounters.

Maybe it’s just a question of getting out of yourself. Thoreau said "the unexamined life isn’t worth living." Which is true, but the overexamined life has its pitfalls as well. All I know is I haven’t felt so relaxed in ages.

It doesn’t hurt that the sun finally came out and we have back our "normal" California weather. Vive le soleil.

MCO 2004

December 10, 2004

I’m reading my friend’s script, and the phone rings. The caller ID reads "UNAVAILABLE."

"Hello"

"Hello, sir, how are you today?"

I groan inwardly. A telemarketer.

"I’m calling you from the Albuquerque Firefighters' Association. We’re raising money for our Holiday Fund Drive. I’m hoping you’d like to make a contribution."

"Hey guy, I would love to, but I haven’t even moved to Albuquerque yet. You’ve got me in L.A."

"Well, this can be a wonderful opportunity to get involved with the community!"

"I’ll be honest with you. I just got out of prison. I’m living on fumes"

"State or Federal?"

"State."

"I just got out of Federal."

"You’re kidding. When?"

"October 17th".

"I just got out November 17th!"

"Well, congratulations!"

"You, too!"

"So this your first job since you got out?"

"Yup. You need a job? They’re always hiring."

He gives me some details, but I tell him I’ve got a job lined up and I’ll be living with my sister. I know he has a quota, but I simply have to demur. I know I can be reasonably certain I’ll get another call the next Fundraising Drive, and imagine he might even be putting my number aside as a sure thing.

"Well, have a happy holidays, and stay out of trouble!"

"I will! You too!"

Truth, is truly, stranger than fiction.

A propos, my P.O. called today and I have to go down and sign papers on Monday so we can finally put this damned transfer through. (I went through all this in prison and they completely lost my papers.) It still remains to be seen how long after this round that I’m cleared to go.

MCO 2004

December 9, 2004

I am happy to report that the AA meeting that I attended tonight was thoroughly undramatic, in a good way. I experienced no triggers, and no irritation at the structure. It’s just a bunch of people in recovery talking, most of them very honest and sweetly funny.

All this I knew, actually, and sort of forgot. Interestingly enough, I realized that I had been "working" the steps to a degree these past months. I made serious attempts to take responsibility for my addiction and my predicament, and to make amends by reaching out to those who I had withdrawn from.

It was also nice to be in a group of people and have some healthy social interaction. I even sat next to an old customer who I had actually been pretty close to. And I experienced a certain alleviation of anxiety that seem to come from listening to people simply trying to cope with life after wading through disaster.

After the meeting I went to an apartment where my friend is housesitting, ate pizza, and watched CSI. It is interesting to continue a sober friendship that had previously been completely centered around our mutual drug use. I am happy to say we still laugh together incessantly, and are very affectionate with each other.

So that was my evening. And yes, I will go to more meetings. Now, to bed.

MCO 2004

December 9, 2004

The testosterone shot, unfortunately, is not time-released. You feel its effects mostly in the next 48 hours, and then it starts to fade. But this wasn’t unexpected

The Lexapro, on the other hand, made sleep difficult the first night, and nigh-on impossible last night. Jittery isn’t the right word, but tense in the head is. You know that taut feeling around the eyes that just won’t relax no matter how much you toss and turn and turn the light back on and read for an hour. I finally had to take an over-the-counter sleep aid, and still feel hard-jawed this morning. So no more of that and half-caf instead of full-caf coffee for me this morning.

I am no doubt being punished for my skipping of the NA meeting on Sunday. Various family members and a friend seem to think the fear of returning prison may not be enough to keep me on the straight and narrow. Being on the defensive about this only feeds this perception, and I certainly have no wish for anyone who has loved and supported me during this to fear for my sobriety, however unwarranted I feel that fear to be.

The reality is that the 12-step paradigm, which has no better a track record (this from both personal experience and research I’ve done) than do-it-yourselfers in long-term rates of successful recovery, nontheless has a complete monopoly on the rehabilitation industry and the public imagination in this country. Non-program-based abstinence is somehow considered an ersatz sobriety, in "the program" one still commonly only starts "counting the days" from the date of one’s first meeting—not last drink or drug use.

"Rational Recovery," which is a book I fell in love with when I read it at County Jail, actually argues rather forcefully that AA et al., closes off the possibility of purely and simply becoming someone who doesn’t drink or drug anymore. You are an addict for life, in the throes of a progressive disease that is but temporarily arrested, and only an intense daily acknowledgement of your powerlessness—and the help of a higher power—can keep you from perdition. I find this maddening, because for me, if your life becomes about not using or drinking it is still about using or drinking.

That said, I do recognize when your life has been so much about drinking or using, it is a smart idea for there to be an equal preoccupation wi