March 2006 Archives

This is the article in Gay.com in which my interview was used. Please note the letter I wrote to the reporter that follows.

Arrested justice: When LGBT people land in jail

Part four: The myth of "protective custody"

Patrick Letellier

The most frightening week of the nine months Mark Olmstead served in California prisons came in July 2004, when he was forced to share a cell with a menacing "soldier" in a white supremacist gang.

"It was a psychological inferno," Olmstead says. "Every second you think the cell door will open and someone will come in and knife you. I knew I had to get out of there."

And get out he did. Olmstead, 47, was serving time at the California Institute for Men, a minimum-security state prison in Chino, Calif., for selling crystal meth and forging drivers' licenses, and came out to one of the guards.

"I told her I was gay and HIV-positive, and I needed to get out," he says, "and she had me out of there in 15 minutes."

Olmstead was lucky. He was moved to "protective custody," a segregated section of the prison designed to protect the most vulnerable inmates from the dangers of the general population. There he served his time relatively unscathed with other gay, transgender and HIV-positive inmates, as well as older prisoners and informers who sought protective custody in order to survive.

"We could get by without fearing violence for being gay," Olmstead said. "That was a huge relief."

But many other inmates aren't so fortunate. Protective custody in many state prisons is extremely difficult for inmates to get into, leaving countless gay and transgender prisoners to fend for themselves in a prison population that is often violent and extremely anti-gay.

Roderick Johnson, for instance, a gay man who endured horrific physical and sexual violence at the hands of inmate gangs in a Texas prison, petitioned for protective custody on seven separate occasions. And seven times he was denied. One prison official, Johnson says, told him, "We don't protect punks [gays] on this farm."

Johnson sued the Texas Department of Criminal Justice for violating the Eighth Amendment, which prohibits cruel and usual punishment, claiming that prison officials took "sadistic pleasure" in denying him protective custody. Prison officials flatly denied Johnson's reports of abuse, citing a lack of evidence, and last October, he lost his suit. (Johnson later served a brief detention term for violating parole.)

Proving they are being threatened can be very tricky for inmates. "Snitching" on another prisoner is the ultimate taboo and can provoke a violent retaliation. And, as in the Johnson case, prison officials are often reluctant to believe claims of abuse without proof.

"Unless they show obvious physical injury, their complaints tend to be ignored and their requests for protection denied," says a Human Rights Watch report on male rape in U.S. prisons. One inmate who sought protective custody in an Indiana prison told Human Rights Watch that a corrections official said he "won't do anything till I come out here with my ass torn up." Such graphic remarks by guards and prison officials are not unusual, inmates say, and demonstrate a cold-hearted indifference to their plight.

While state prisons remain exceedingly dangerous for many LGBT prisoners, a handful of county jails have attempted to address the danger by creating separate, segregated housing. In San Francisco, transgender inmates are automatically segregated from other prisoners, says Eileen Hirst, the sheriff's chief of staff.

Being gay, however, is not enough to gain an inmate entry to segregated housing. "We look for vulnerability," Hirst says. "You can be gay, but be 6'5", obviously have spent years in a gym, be extremely criminally sophisticated and in on a murder charge." Young inmates, men with slight builds, and people incarcerated for the first time are considered at risk and may be segregated as well.

But segregated inmates in San Francisco jails cannot participate in programs designed to help prisoners get back on their feet. "If you are trying to protect a population, it's very tough to put them in a classroom with other inmates," Hirst says. So drug treatment, writing classes, anger management and high-school equivalency prep classes are all off-limits to segregated inmates.

The Los Angeles County Jail separates gay and transgender prisoners into three units, known as K-11. But inmates there can participate in the Social Mentoring Academic and Rehabilitative Training (SMART) program, a series of courses designed to reduce recidivism by helping gay and transgender inmates succeed outside prison.

"That part was great," says Olmstead, who spent six weeks on K-11 before being sent to state prison. He took a SMART computer programming class, he said, and enjoyed the security of being in a mostly gay-friendly environment. "Some of the guards were openly hostile to gays," Olmstead says, "but it wasn't real bad."

New York City had segregated housing for gay and transgender inmates until December 2005, when corrections officials closed "gay housing," as it was called, on Rikers Island, the city's largest jail. Gay activists objected that the city was compromising the safety of its most vulnerable inmates.

"There is no easy solution to the housing problems" for gay and transgender inmates, says Chris Daley of the Transgender Law Center. "There are global answers about getting over our addiction to incarceration, but on an everyday level, it comes down to how are going to keep people safe. And it's complicated."

Tomorrow: What if you are arrested?

Patrick

Is it possible to have the spelling of my name corrected from Mark Olmstead to Marc Olmsted in today's article?

If anyone googles me, they're not likely to find the blog.

They're some misimpressions in the story, but fairly inevitable given the volume of confusing information I gave you. (For the record, I spent only 6 weeks in Protective Custody, while I was completing Chino reception. After that, I spent my last 4 months "on the mainline," mixed in with the general population, which was fairly non-violent because it was Minimum Security. The article makes it sounds like a served out the rest of my time in P.C.)

Prison is no picnic, but in my experience it was not as terrifying or violent as it seems to be depicted in your article. I never ever heard of one rape in my 9 1/2 months. I think it's important to inform the public, but I don't think it's helpful to scare the beejeezus out of someone about to do time either. (They might already be suicidal as it is) If you write about this further, please make the all important distinction between minimum, medium and maximum. It's a completely different experience depending on the severity of your crime and what level security yard in which you do your time. (I believe Roderick Johnson was not in Minimum, where most inmates are--I could be wrong. Texas is also rather notorious on every level).

Marc

MCO 2006

Tell all the Truth but tell it slant-- / The Truth must dazzle gradually /

Or every man be blind. -Emily Dickinson, poet (1830-1886)

A wonderful time--the War: / when money rolled in / and blood rolled out. /

But blood / was far away / from here-- / Money was near.- Langston Hughes,

poet and novelist (1902-1967)

I have to work in with the www.equalityforall.com people today (hint, hint-please check it out and consider donating) , so won't have time to blog later. Above please find two quotes that speak volumes about everything.

I went to a screening of Basic Instinct 2 last night. It was kind of cool to be on a studio lot--not the first time, but's it's been a while. The movie was High Camp--not to be taken seriously but fairly fun. London looks completely futuristic and Miss Stone oozes over-the-top sexy divadom.

She's a year older than me...gives me hope.

MCO 2006

I have always held--at least to others--that kindness and compassion are the human traits that I most revere. But inside--where it counts, really--I've always valued wit and intellect more. I guess I thought 'anyone can be nice. Being smart and funny--now that's an accomplishment.'

But you know what? That's really not at all true. Being clever, amusing, sharp--those are gifts really, most often the result of the right education, the right parents, the right brain. Even those without the first two advantages sort of need the last one for their determination to become cultivated to pay off.

Being kind, on the surface, seems like something anyone can do. But in the real world--one that hurts, insults and wounds, just in the course of living--treating others with warmth, compassion and respect on a consistent basis is actually a far more difficult thing to do and maintain than coming up with witty one-liners on a moment's notice.

I will always appreciate a well-honed intellect and clever personality. My first and greatest love will always be words, and those who use them well beguile and awe me. But what I hope to learn to value, really value more in others and in myself is the capacity for kindess, tolerance and understanding.

Where is this coming from? I've become increasingly aware of an insensitive streak of mine that has long lurked behind a mask of witty repartee. It's a one-two punch that makes for sharp drawing room comedies and entertaining drunks, but nurture and support healthy relationships--not so much.

MCO 2006

(In Chapter I, [see March 25th] our hero, Tom, has come back from an early death reincarnated as a dog belonging to Eileen and Rhonda, the lesbian neighbors of his grieving ex-, Sean. He had just finished telling us about his hot new neighbor, Paul, and Paul’s persnickety cat, Amber.)

II - The Balcony Scene

It’s been a little harder than I thought getting humans to do what I want them to do. First there was naming me. Of course I wanted ‘Spike’ or ‘Max,’ something butch, but Eileen wanted a place name, like ‘Banff,’ and Rhonda had a hankering for something foreign, like ‘Boris.’ It turned out no matter what name they discussed, I found myself oddly pleased that they were talking about me, and banged my tail against the floor so insistently that Eileen ended up coining me “Banger.” (Little did she know how well that described me in my past life, but far be it for me to lick and tell.)

At first it was hit or miss running into Paul, but it’s happened a few times when my walks coincide with his coming and going. Back in my human days, I would have more likely first noticed him leaving for work in a suit and tie—a little fetish of mine for many years, truth be told. But in my dog body I first noticed him coming back from the gym, pre-shower, when he smells his best. Woof.

In spite of the fact that he owns a cat, Paul seems nice. He looks about 6. Er, I mean 42. He’s got a full head of prematurely gray hair. Even though I am now colorblind, I can tell that his eyes are icy blue. His eyelashes are still a good deep black. He’s got fine nose, full lips and a mouthful of even, white teeth.

I’ve at least trained Eileen to let me out on the balcony when she’s having her first cup of coffee while checking email and Rhonda’s in the shower. I provoked this little routine--with insistent sniffing and tail-wagging—so I could get a clear view of the balcony of the apartment I shared with Sean, across the way and one floor down. But he’s either out of town or really depressed, because he hasn’t been coming to the window at all.

Meanwhile, the girls think I’m an angel for waiting so patiently for my morning walk--little do they know that I figured out a way to angle my urine into Amber’s kitty litter, just through the bars separating each half of our shared balcony. (Okay, I only did it once. Just because I could. Though I must admit I‘ve had trouble coming to terms with this whole poop-on-grass thing. The girls think it’s hysterical that I tend to crouch behind a bush, though I’m starting to wonder why I do that. It funny the things I’m forgetting.)

Anyway, this morning’s lookout for Sean turns out to coincide with Paul’s Friday routine. Either he goes in late once a week or he works from home, I’m not sure, but this a.m. he’s out with a big mug of steaming coffee and a paper (New York Times, I think, but this reading thing isn’t so easy anymore.) Before he sits down, he reaches through the railing and gives me the most pleasant ‘scritch, scritch’ imaginable behind my ears, murmuring “Hey, boy, how are you this morning?” in that vaguely southern drawl of his--North Carolina maybe? Of course I lick him—though I can’t help but notice that Amber has jumped on the little table, right on the paper, and is shooting me looks to kill. I don’t know if she’s jealous or knows about the little gift I left her in the catbox, but she sure ain’t scared of me, that’s for sure.

When Paul sits and shoos Amber off his paper, I glance over to Sean’s window and get very excited at what I notice. There’s definitely some movement right behind his window shades. I am dying to see him, but more than that, I am dying to smell him again. It’s hard to believe scent wasn’t so important to me back then, but now I’m sure his smell and Paul’s will mesh just right, and for some reason I’m also sure that’s what matters more than anything else! In fact, I realize that ever so slowly, I’m starting to feel a little less human and a little more dog. It’s kind of a pleasant drift actually. All that anxiety and worry about everything seems sillier and sillier with each passing day.

But how do I get his attention? If Sean’s been peeking, Paul’s thick hairy legs have already done that part for me, but Sean is probably way too broken up over me to do something about it like come out on his balcony and start a conversation across the way. Engineering this calls for some cunning and guile on my part.

Mmhh. The answer is staring at me right in the snout, literally. What if I were to get my head stuck between two of the bars of this railing? I could yelp to high heaven, everyone would come running, someone would gently extract me, rub my head, hug me around the neck, all of which would be very nice. Most importantly, it would be the excuse Sean needs to come out and see what the big flap is about. Nothing sparks a conversation between the neighbors like the dog—it’s safe like the weather, but much more fun. That’s what I’ll do, I’ll just stick my head through the bars and pretend it’s stuck--

--‘Don’t. I know what you’re thinking, and don’t!’ a disembodied voice commands.

I yank my head around. No Eileen or Rhonda. Who the hell was that?

‘It’s me you big doofus. Yeah me. Up here. Amber! No I’m not talking, lame-o. That’s how we communicate with each other, us reincarnated pet-types. ESP.’

I look up at her, perched on Sean’s shoulder, looking like Cleopatra.

‘And please don’t think "Queen of Denial." That’s so tired.’

…to be continued.

MCO 2006

I recieved the below from Patrick Letellier, the man who interviewed me for the gay.com article on gays in prison.

I am not quoted in today's first installment, but will let you know when I am. The article is worth reading, although I think the level of abuse he describes comes off as rather more pervasive than it is, at least as far as I witnessed.

For me, prison was about as I imagined it would be and no where as awful as in my worst fears or even as bad as the media portrays it. But that doesn't mean it wasn't just plenty dismal, nor does it diminish the reality of the horror stories cited in the article. What doesn't make great newspaper copy is that most of prison is dull and boring--a lot of waiting, a lot of stupid conversation, and lot of noise and time-killing.

Hey Marc,

It's up!

The first of the five-part series on the plight of lesbian, gay, bisexual and transgender people (LGBT) in America's jails and prisons is posted on Gay.com and PlanetOut.com.

http://www.gay.com/news/roundups/package.html?sernum=1338

http://planetout.com/news/feature.html?sernum=1338

Both sites run the same stories, but on Gay.com people can post and read comments.

The series runs Monday-Friday this week:

Monday: What happens to LGBT people behind bars

Tues: Prison rape and HIV

Wed: Transgender inmates

Thurs: "Protective custody" for LGBT people

Fri: What to do if you get arrested.

Please distribute the URLs far and wide.

Many thanks.

Patrick

MCO 2006

Boy sometimes things come full circle, don't they? And then they come full circle again. I started out like anybody else, in my teens and early twenties, with a boundless optimism about the future and all the possibilities that lay before me. I was going to do everything. I'm remember fanatasizing (only half-jokingly) that I wanted to look back on my life having lived 5 years in each of these major metropolises--New York, London, Paris, Rome, Los Angeles, San Francisco, Montreal, Boston, Rio de Janeiro. Then maybe some minor ones for a year or two, San Diego, Barcelona, Marseille. With room for improv--Chicago anyone? Buenos Aires? (Do all 20-year olds think that way?)

Then AIDS completely warped my view of the future. I would be lucky to make it to end of the decade, much less the new millenium. After the miracle drugs came through, in the mid-90's, I ever so cautiously starting thinking maybe...just maybe...but my drug use had progressed from recreational to occupational, and nothing like meth all day to feed a fatalistic view of the future. Then I came as close as I could to a living death--well not as bad as that, but, with prison, an equivocal ENDING--followed by a veritable rebirth with freedom and sobriety. I started to dream again about the possibilities of the years to come.

Now, I tell you, between how truly truly real this global warming thing has become, and the predictions of Edgar Cayce (2012 everybody--earth shifts on its axis--and his track record of predictions is phenomenal), the near certain giant flu pandemic, and finally, yesterday, an article I read on this new completely drug-resistant strain of TB, I feel back to square one. A man without much of a future--though no less of one than any of you. It looks like we're all going down together, and much sooner than we thought.

So that begs the question, if you only really have the present, how best to spend your time? Does leaving anything to posterity matter if there's no posterity?

Okay, you caught me. I'm trying to find someway to justify going on a big-ass cruise to the Mediterranean or somesuch (As if I decided the answer was "yes, go!" it would make a damn bit of difference. Oops! Better check that lottery ticket. I spent $2! Doubled my chances!). And geniunely just wonder if all my ambition to write something that gets published or produced is just plain stupid. Maybe I should just hang it up and sit back and enjoy the fact that around 200-300 of you a day somehow find it worth hearing what I have to say. That's pretty decent. Way more than most writers ever get.

Then again, on This Week with George Stephanapoulos, George Will pulled out an article in the New York Times from 1975 on the scientific inevitability that we were entering a cooling period. And maybe the Left Behind/Armageddon/Rapturists have it right. Hey maybe EVERYONE is right--but we just won't be able to tell until we look back at it all, and laugh, and go: "Who Knew?"

MCO 2006

My sister wrote me urging that I start another serial. It just so happens that I had been working on a "roundrobin" for Wehonews.com. I was going to write the first 3 installments, and then other writers were going to take over, and finally we were going to have the last chapter be the product of a contest by readers.

Unfortunately or fortunately, depending on your point of view, (I have no regrets), I disassociated from Wehonews. However, I really like this story, and blogging it will force me to write new installments. Comments welcome--it helps to hear when something is "working." And I'd very much appreciate if anyone could tell me of any blogs in which fiction is serialized as it is written. (I'm not talking about Fanstory.com, but individual writers). Everytime I imagine I've stumbled on something original,I get cold water splashed on my grandiosity. So just let me know now.

TAILS OF THE CITY

I – Down to Earth

Forget everything you think you know about God, the afterlife and heaven. This is the way it is, reduced 1000-fold in subtlety, beauty and complexity because human minds are to God’s like ants’ minds are to human’s. (Ever try to explain “instinct” to an ant? I rest my case.)

First off, yes, there is a God. But the ancient Greeks had it sort of right. The one we think of as God is actually one of many Gods. One, basically, for each planet inhabited by sentient beings. Above this God and all of his peers is the God of the universe. Well, this universe.

So Earth’s God is not THE God, but rather a piece of the big God, and as such, well, less God-like, in the way we usually imagine God to be. The lesser Gods are all rather flawed, almost human, which explains a lot of things. And explains nothing at all, because like I said, it’s all sort of beyond human comprehension. At least until you get there and see for yourself, but then you aren’t hampered by the limitations of the human brain--a marvelous device, but a device nonetheless.

So how do I know all this? Because I’ve been there, that’s why. And now I’m back.

How? You wouldn’t understand. Why? Because I’ve got unresolved business, that’s why.

I’ll try to break it down. Usually those with unresolved business have to take it to the next life. But there are exceptions to that. In some cases, you are allowed to return, but only if you are willing to come back as a dog or a cat. That’s right, as a pet.

Of course, some are sent back as a dog anyway, say if they need to learn how to give unconditional love. (I’m not sure what being a cat teaches you). But those souls don’t get to keep their human memory, awareness, and smarts—like yours truly. I’m Tom, by the way. Or was, at least.

I’ve chosen to come back as a dog because I need to make amends to my ex-, Sean. We were lovers for 4 wonderful years, and then I—well I found out I was dying, and I didn’t tell him. (No, not of AIDS. Believe it or not, sometimes gay men get other things. It was a brain tumor. The end would have come soon enough—but it wouldn’t have been Dark Victory pretty.) Not only didn’t I tell him--because I was too vain to get sick and let him see me sick--but I stepped in front of a bus to kill myself while I still looked like the man he fell in love with.

It was a shallow, selfish thing to do, and I didn’t realize how much until I saw what a wreck he was at my memorial service. And though I left him with plenty of insurance money, I also left him completely unprepared to lose the love of his life. And so, I arranged to come back as his new dog, in the hope I could blunt his grief a little and even help him find someone new.

Unfortunately, you know how I said the Earth God is a little flawed, a little human even? Well, though he can see the future, he makes mistakes. (He’s very busy). Anyway, it wasn’t my lover he foresaw leaving the condo to go to the dog pound that day. It was the lesbians across the way, Eileen and Rhonda.

When I lived with Sean, we were friendly enough. I used to call the girls the “Sticks”— Eileen being lipstick and Rhonda, chapstick. Let me explain. Eileen is blond and lean and Cameron Diazish, and Rhonda is shorter, blunter, and, well, ethnic. (Either Greek, Jewish or both—I’m not sure). But both women are smart, and pretty funny (yes lesbians can be funny) and delighted that I’m entirely housebroken. (I’m not a puppy—I got to “displace” a one-year old short-haired pointer mix—I think he’s off to be a dolphin. It’s one of those things God can do that I can’t explain right now).

Here’s the thing. Despite my human provenance, I’m still a dog, and find myself acting like one. When we go for a walk, I am overwhelmed by the desire to read and write pee-mail. (I made that up—you have no idea how frustrating is to try and share that and bark instead). And it’s all I can do not to tug on the leash, and sniff everything, as I’m genuinely excited by the little world around Larrabee I used to take for granted as a man.

But I must behave. I must, so that the girls will be comfortable leaving me off the leash and I can make my way to Sean. Or maybe he’ll want to dogsit! I know I can do it, I know I can. At least if I can keep my cool, and remain unprovoked by Amber.

Oh, yeah, did I mention Amber? Amber is the Paul’s cat, and she likes to hang out on our balcony, which, unlike Paul’s, gets sun in the afternoon.

Who’s Paul? Oh, he just moved in…

To be continued…

MCO 2006

I deleted your comment out of respect for the 11th Tradition.

Please address your objections to your perceptions of my behavior in person. I'd like to know what you think you heard--and I'll apologize for that if it's merited. I am rather certain you are assuming the content of my whispers inaccurately, but I can hardly address it here given where you heard them.

This is one of those odd mornings that start out well, and then, it's like all the energy and motivation just drain from my body.My legs becaome leaden, and all I can do is lay down. Unfortunately, if it's too early still, I can rarely nap. So after about a half an hour I find gratitude in the fact that maybe I'm not a parasite and really would find it to sustain the energy necessary for a full-time job. Then I get up, and bit by bit, start to feel zip enough to get through the day.

Yesterday I volunteered for the Equality for All campaign. The GLBT community is facing the possibility that the religious right and allies will succeed in getting an amendment on the November ballot to ban not only gay marriage, but civil unions and domestic partnerships as well. So we have to identify as many supporters as possible as well, and line up donations and more volunteers.

I HATE doing this kind of thing, even if I had lists of friendly people to call, members of progressive organizations. I only got one rude "no!" and actually had some nice conversations. Mostly I got voicemail--gee, and I thought everybody spent most evenings at home watching TV. Still, it was SO uncomfortable to feel oneself to be that annoying interruption one hates to get.

And I thought, gee, I really should be calling my friends and guilting them into making a contribution. God knows I'm always good for $20 when asked by my friends doing the AIDS LifeCycle or somesuch. But rather than doing that, I'm going to blog a request that my readers go to www.equalityforall.com, and 1) get informed 2) consider making a contribution. For the Californians, I add making sure you vote and possibly signing up to volunteer. Even if you don't feel that strongly about the right to marry, no fair-thinking person can conceivably feel 2 consenting adults shouldn't have the right to enter into a domestic partnership or civil union. Let's face it, the religious right doesn't want gay people to act like straight people, they want us to become straight people.

Like we didn't try that for a couple of thousand years--and still do, in most of the world.

MCO 2006

I was listening to a scary and depressing report on KPFK's Democracy Now on a completely unreported story--the dire situation for gays in Iraq. The activist and journalist interviewed described 4 to 5 murders of gays a week--for no other crime than being gay and refusing to marry. (Sistani and the influence of Iran are the main culprits in this reign of terror). And when a delegation went to plead for help from American officials in the Green Zone, he was laughed at. The man is no fan of Saddam Hussein, but he said for gays (as it seems for women) it was comparatively a more enlightened time. And it only seems likely to get worse.

Of all the follies of Bush's invasion of Iraq, the one that I find most unforgivable is not the lies about weapons of mass destruction--after all, some of Saddam's own officers weren't sure whether he had them or not. It isn't the linking of Hussein to terrorism--indeed he'd slaughterd his own people by the hundreds of thousands--it's certainly believable. What I find most galling is the absolute refusal of Bush et al. to avail themselves of tons of their own intelligence that accurately predicted the likelihood of the very scenarios that are unfolding. And I don't care how doggedly Bush keeps repeating (as if it will make it so) that he did the right thing. Knowing what he knows now, there's no way he would invade if he could return to 2002-3 and decide the issue again. No one will say it out loud, but to a man the Bushistas are all secretly longing for the days of Saddam (and low deficits and high poll numbers.)

So now that we're in this mess, what do I suggest we do? I think we should immediately withdraw from Iraq, while granting asylum to as many Iraqis as we possibly can. Let the fundamentalists be the guards and prisoners of their own giant concentration camp. Even resettling a million secular Iraqis (the gays among them) here would cost a fraction of what we are spending there now.

MCO 2006

Be like the bird, who halting in his flight

On limb too slight,

Feels it give way beneath him, yet sings

Knowing he has wings. -Victor Hugo,

writer (1802-1885)

There are two remarkable things about this stanza. The content, obviously. But the translation--it's hard to imagine it's better in the original.

For me, my relationship with God, or the universe, or the spirit world, or whatever you want to call that which is unseen but a matter of faith, constitute my "wings." I had a similar, but slightly different metaphor when I was trying to explain to someone how my faith operates in my life. I likened it to walking a tightrope assuming there's a net underneath. Whether there really is or not, 99% of the time, doesn't really matter. But my belief that there is makes for a great deal more confidence crossing the rope.

I don't know whether or not for sure there is a God, in fact, I'm relieved there is no sure way to prove or disprove her existence. I just know that my life seem to work a lot better, and offer up a lot more serenity, when I function with the awareness of a power greater than myself. And when I lose that faith--which happens regularly, even if it's blessedly temporary--just getting that I'm not God supplies the necessary humility to lubricate just enough this sometimes difficult life.

I think I've expressed these sentiments before, in so many words, so I apologize if I am repeating myself. It's what's on my mind this morning. That, and taxes.

Gotta do my taxes.

MCO 2006

I picked up the roommate yesterday and he is recuperating just fine.

So am I (doing fine), if feeling a little unmotivated. I can sense I'm about having a day that's a little of this, a little of that, but overall a bit sloggy and unaccomplished. So the blog is going to look like my day.

Two quotes:

I want to stay as close to the edge as I can without going over. Out on the

edge you see all kinds of things you can't see from the center. -Kurt

Vonnegut, Jr., writer (1922- )

What is madness but nobility of soul at odds with circumstance? -Theodore

Roethke, poet (1908-1963)

Rented "Gosford Park" - loved it.

Watched "Prison Break" - One of best shows on TV

Saw "Sordid Lives" - Amusing Theater - but the lack of Leslie Jordan in the role of "Brother Boy" showed

Received: The following What You Need To Believe To Be A Republican:

Jesus loves you, and shares your hatred of homosexuals and Hillary Clinton.

Saddam was a good guy when Reagan armed him, a bad guy when Bush's daddy made war on him, a good guy when Cheney did business with him, and a bad guy when Bush needed a "we can't find Bin Laden" diversion.

Trade with Cuba is wrong because the country is Communist, but trade with China and Vietnam is vital to a spirit of international harmony.

The United States should get out of the United Nations, and our highest national priority is enforcing U.N. resolutions against Iraq.

A woman can't be trusted with decisions about her own body, but multi-national corporations can make decisions affecting all mankind without regulation.

The best way to improve military morale is to praise the troops in speeches, while slashing veterans' benefits and combat pay.

If condoms are kept out of schools, adolescents won't have sex.

A good way to fight terrorism is to belittle our long-time allies, then demand their cooperation and money.

Providing health care to all Iraqis is sound policy, but providing health care to all Americans is socialism. HMOs and insurance companies have the best interests of the public at heart.

Global warming and tobacco's link to cancer are junk science, but creationism should be taught in schools.

A president lying about an extramarital affair is a impeachable offense, but a president lying to enlist support for a war in which thousands die is solid defense policy.

Government should limit itself to the powers named in the Constitution, which include banning gay marriages and censoring the Internet.

The public has a right to know about Hillary's cattle trades, but George Bush's driving record is none of our business.

Being a drug addict is a moral failing and a crime, unless you're a conservative radio host. Then it's an illness and you need our prayers for your recovery.

Supporting "Executive Privilege" for every Republican ever born, who will be born or who might be born (in perpetuity.)

What Bill Clinton did in the 1960s is of vital national interest, but

what Bush did in the '80s is irrelevant.

Feel free to pass this on. If you don't send it to at least 10 other people, we're likely to be stuck with more Republicans in '06 and '08.

Friends don't let friends vote Republican.

MCO 2006

Today I brought the roommate to the hospital for surgery to remove the excess fat from his neck that is one of the side effects of the lipodystrophy caused by his AIDS-regimen. This is annoying for him, of course, but I prefer to focus on the opportunities for gratitude this brings up. 1) That we have life-saving HIV-meds--even with side-effects, 2) that I don't suffer from the same side-effects that he does, 3) that his insurance covers the procedure, 3)that he has me to take care of him for the week he has to take off work, 4) that I have a way to partially repay him for his recent help on several occasions 5) that we didn't even have to discuss that I would take him to the hospital, pick him up, and take care of him. It was a complete given. It's nice to have that relationship with someone, even more so who is not blood family nor who you are sleeping with. It's true, pure friendship.

Yesterday I printed out all 5 installments of "Oscar and Me" and read them out loud to David (the roomie.) He's not much of a reader, so this is how we do it when I want him to hear my prose. Unfortunately, I found it on the long-winded side--which makes sense, I guess, given the way it was composed in installments. When I finished it I felt so good--I would even use the word "high." It was a bit of a letdown to feel I'll have to rewrite it. Though I suscribe to the precept that all writing is rewriting, it can be a bitter pill to swallow. It's not as if I don't already rewrite exhaustively as I compose, in this case it feels like I got to the end of a long road and then discovered I'm still miles away from my destination.

Oh well, one day I'll get a real problem. I'm off to Griffith Park with the dog, then back to the hospital to pick up David.

MCO 2006

P.S. I'm tentatively reinserting the "comments" option. I think I'd rather delete the spam than not hear any reactions, ever, to what you read. (HINT, HINT)

This is the final installment of the account of my visit to Oscar Wilde with my great-great-great-grandniece, Silmorn. If you are brand new to the blog, the previous entry was on March 15th

Before going back to 1895, Silmorn and I realized we had to do something about our wardrobes. Though I could have probably not raised too many eyebrows with a present-day suit, her nylon knee-length brown silk skirt and matching blouse would not pass muster. (I forgot to ask her if she dressed this way in the future or whether she’d done research about present-day fashion. Not that she needed to worry. Truth be told, is there anything you can’t wear these days?)

Luckily I live in Los Angeles, ground zero for movie costumers. I suggested we get in my car and drive down to a prop house I’d seen many a time but never imagined I’d have occasion to enter.

We didn’t talk much on the way to Metro Rentals, because I could see that Silmorn was fascinated with the street scene she witnessed through the car window. I only understood too well. I can’t even go to a new airport without gawking. All is magical when I have never seen it before. A new city—I don’t care if it’s the equivalent of Newark—I’m enthralled. It did lead me to ask her where, exactly, she lived in the future.

“Vancouver….My grandparents fled there.”

“Fled?” I was alarmed. She may have been talking about my grandniece or nephew. She explained: “I told you things got worse before they got better.”

I don’t know why it felt so strange that my indirect progeny were Canadian. I felt somehow disloyal, like I personally hadn’t stayed and fought whatever menace would be coming decades after I died. Suddenly I didn’t want to know anything else about the future.

We told the clerk at the rental place that we were in a production of “The Importance of Being Earnest.” He started to look it up in a catalogue, so I just told him, “England, 1895” and he led us to a brown suit with thin black stripes for me and a charming green dress and hat and matching shoes for Silmorn.

I put the deposit for the costumes on my credit card, worried that I would be hard put to come up with any fees if we were gone long. Silmorn, sensing my discomfort, explained to me that no matter how long we were gone, we could come back as soon after we left as we desired. (No need to explain any absence to the roommate either, or arrange to have the dog walked.) She also told me that she had brought with her some currency from Edwardian London, in case we needed it.

“Why didn’t you bring some currency for me?” I asked, only half-joking.

“You wanna go back to prison for counterfeiting?” she retorted. I wasn’t quite satisfied with that answer, and I guess it showed. “Actually,” she added sheepishly “I didn’t think quite that far ahead. I brought enough for Starbuck’s and that’s it.”

“Nyah, nyah, na, nyahh, nyah, I’m smarter than future girl” I teased her, as we drove back to my apartment. What I was thinking was that I anticipated the past better than she anticipated the future, but I couldn’t quite articulate all that irony in one coherent sentence at the time.

Once back, we got dressed, and looked at ourselves in the mirror.

“I feel so Merchant and Ivory,” I noted. This was one reference that escaped her.

Silmorn had brought a small leather bag with her, and at that point she took from it a small case that she placed on my desk. Then she took the book I had on Oscar Wilde and reread the page I had showed her a few hours prior. It was a short passage, and I saw her mouth the place-names, memorizing them. Then she turned to me.

“Marc, you’ve picked up on how humanity has evolved in the future, haven’t you?”

Indeed, the question was itself the answer. What she asked indicated that she could tell I was indeed thinking that she had, on several occasions, read my thoughts. I smiled, answering her silently. Empathic communication was indeed in the wave of the future

“That’s right,” she affirmed. “That’s why this will work.”

She took the case she had set down, and opened it to reveal a device laying within it. It looked like a sort of neon harmonica.

Silmorn motioned for me to come stand next to her. She put her left arm around my shoulder, and held the device with her right hand.

“Put your right arm around my waist, and take the other half of this with your left hand. It’s called a chronanasm, by the way.” I did as she directed.

“Now, when I count to three, close your eyes, and begin concentrating on November 13th, 1895, Clapham Junction train station, 2 p.m., London England. Visualize the drawing we found on the computer. Something will begin to happen. A sort of whirring, with a slight sense of levitation. We’ll see a rift in spacetime appear, and we’ll step through it. Then close your eyes, because the light can get a bit intense. Stay calm, and keep your hand on the chrononasm. Don’t open your eyes until I say so. When we get there, we will be invisible until I determine it’s safe to uncloak. That’s when we let go of the device. We’ll return the same way—to, let’s make it simple, 12 noon.” Wow. Even if we were away for hours we’d only be gone 10 minutes. So why not stay for hours, or much longer even?

I forgot she could read my mind. “I know. I’d love to spend a few days in London, but we don’t dare. Too great of a risk. We could change the future without meaning to. We have to stick to the specific task we’ve chosen.” I was disappointed but I understood. Before she could read that thought, I asked the next question. “If you master this time travel thing in the future, will you maybe come back and take me on a longer trip?”

“We’ll see. Maybe. Now, concentrate.” She started counting. “One….two….”

The passage of the book I have on the life of Oscar Wilde that Silmorn had looked at again before we left read as follows:

“On November 18, 1895, Oscar was moved from Wandsworth Prison to Reading Gaol. He arrived at Clapham Junction at 2:00, and waited, under guard, in his prison uniform, until 2:30 for the connecting train. He was widely recognized, and a crowd slowly gathered. They jeered at him, some even spat on his face. To make matters worse; it rained. About the incident he later wrote in De Profundis: ‘For a year after that was done to me, I wept every day at the same hour and for the same space of time.’

When I returned from 1895 to the present, I immediately turned to the same passage. It now read: “…To make matters worse, it rained. And then something occurred which caused great skepticism amidst biographers until the gist of it was confirmed by the guard to whom Wilde was handcuffed, in an interview he gave in 1920. Oscar described the incident in a letter to Robbie Ross, his friend and executor, in one of his first letters out after his arrival at Reading Gaol:

‘So there I stood, dear Robbie, truly the most wretched man on God’s earth, surrounded by a growing crowd of passersby who not only took no pity upon me, but seemed rather to delight in the evidence of my fall. The restrained among them sneered, the uglier among them cackled, and the cruelest among them spat upon me. I at least had one small blessing in the rain, which mixed with the spittle and swept it from my sorry countenance.

And there is no other explanation for what then happened than that God took pity on me. There appeared from nowhere—or so it seemed to me—a man and a woman. He, my age, reasonably handsome, well-dressed; she the same but younger, in a green dress and hat. Neither aristocratic nor working class, there was something confident about their bearing that bespoke at least some familiarity with society and the world.

What followed was extraordinary. The young lady fixed a stare such as I have never seen on the faces of the assembled crowd---fierce is the only word that can be used to adequately describe it—think Salome. The effect was astonishing, she quieted the jackals with the force of a lioness defending her cubs. My warder, Sergeant Foxby, had no more the wherewithal to react to her than he had to the crowd when they’d begun to mock me.

I was so enthralled by her performance that I was startled when the man stood next to me, and proceeded to open his umbrella, holding it above us both. He addressed Sergeant Foxby, who was handcuffed to me but standing just at the edge of the platform overhang and protected somewhat from the rain. With an American accent and in a sonorous and pleasing voice, he asked my guard: “Any objection?”

Poor Foxby, I almost pitied him. He was rather out of his depth. Whether it was the young man’s accent—perhaps he was Canadian, he didn’t seem brash enough to be American—perhaps it was his air of authority, but Foxby, clearly intimidated, merely responded with a half-shrug. Then the young man turned to me--he’d clearly prepared what he wanted to say and perhaps for that reason I remember every word just as he spoke them. “You’ve never met me, Mr. Wilde, but I am a long-time admirer. I wanted to tell you, very simply, that you are a great man, and a good man, and I am certain—as I live and breathe here right in front of you---that the children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren of these cruel and ignorant people will hold you in years to come in the greatest esteem. As will the entire world. Your life, your memory, and your work will be completely redeemed. This I know.”

It will surprise no one that his words enveloped me in a momentary bubble of joy and relief. From the depths of living hell I had been transported, as from a broiling desert to a cool oasis. I was fed pure love from a complete stranger at the moment when I could not have been conceivably more hungry for it. I was of course mesmerized, so much so that I did not even notice the arrival of the train that was to take me back into the nightmare.

“What is your name?” I did manage to ask. “It doesn’t matter,” he replied. And then, he took from his pocket a neatly folded handkerchief, and wiped my face, on which there remained some spittle. I uttered “Thank-you. You are very kind.” And he looked at me with what can only be described as gratitude, as if it was I who had done him the greatest service imaginable.

“C’mon, Wilde!” then came the summons from my guardian that I had so prayed for minutes before and now so regretted. The passengers disembarked, and I was forced to accompany Foxby to the train. I barely was able to utter “goodbye.” It felt so wholly inadequate.

As I walked up the steps to the carriage, I think the stranger mouthed “courage” to me. Foxby allowed me to look at my benefactors from the window. The young lady in the green dress had moved next to her co-conspirator, and together they smiled and waved. The crowd remained quiet, evidently still cowed. I watched as we pulled away, then Foxby made me sit, and when I looked out again, they were gone.

I have never felt before in my life as though I had been visited by an apparition. But every day since, at the same time in the afternoon, I relive the experience. If it was something I willed into being, a delusion created to soothe myself, so be it. It is as real to me as the table on which I write, as the poor candle that lights this pen and paper.

If, Robbie, there is any way for you to discover the identities of this most unlikely duo, I pray you to find their names for me. I would, at the very least, like to thank them in person upon my release, to perhaps dedicate a poem or even a book. If I had any riches left, I would bestow upon them most of my treasure.

Yours faithfully, Oscar

P.S. I have just discovered in my pocket a clue: the handkerchief used to mop my brow, placed there by the kind stranger. It has imprinted upon it: “Metro Rentals: Where Hollywood Goes to Dress.” Hollywood? I have never heard of it. Have you?

THE END

MCO 2006

Well, clearly, the Gods have no intention of David and I going to see my friend Jeff's play in San Francisco. After delaying the trip a week because of the weather, we started driving up today and just as we reached Santa Clarita, the instrument panel on David's 1998 Ford Explorer started to act bizarrely. Then the car itself lost considerable pep and the radio turned off. The windshield wipers would not turn on. Even though he had the alternator and battery replaced 10 days ago, we knew we were losing electrical energy. We turned off the freeway and into a Chevron literally seconds away from the car dying on its own accord. I took a moment to be grateful. It could have been a really dicey situation.

We called AAA and the mechanic who repaired the car back in Hollywood, to where it was towed--$134 later. I called Jeff and gifted the tickets to him, so he could make sure the tickets went to some people who would not have otherwise been able to attend. He was quite thankful--I hope a big producer or somesuch gets to come in my stead.

The mechanic took about an hour to replace the faulty alternator, so conceivably we could have rembarked. But to tell you the truth, I think there's an underlying electrical problem that for some reason is provoked by the wet weather. Neither of us are in the mood to take the risk. If there's a silver lining, it's that David realizes he really doesn't need his car. We may well sell his and use mine.

Gaza will stay at my friend Mike's until tomorrow. I realize how utterly unanchored I feel without him around.

My God, what a tedious entry. Dare I indulge in more speculation that the fates have something special in store for me that would not otherwise have happened if I'd not stayed here this weekend?

I daren't.

MCO 2006

It's actually bumming me out that I had to delete my comment option because of all the junk spam I was getting on it. As I undersood it, the only way to combat it was to arduously place the address of each sender on a blocked list. But don't they just automatically resend from other addresses? If any computer maven out there has a better solution, let me know.

Part of my desire for comments comes from wondering what you guys are thinking about Oscar and Me. The other part comes from envy when I visit some other blogs that get an unbelievable amount of comments per entry. Even in the best of times, I never generated many comments, but it almost seems like I'm violating one of the sacred "rules" of the blogosphere that the dialogue goes two ways. I just can't stand clicking on the comments only to see a half page of "Buy Fenteramine!" or "Casino Poker!" etc. Spammers should be branded lepers and forced to live on a deserted island without any computers or the rule of law until they die. I don't even know if they should be dropped food.

This blog thing does bring up interesting privacy issues. There are some things I can't talk about that I'd like to, and I can't even say why I can't talk about them. Then again, I don't assume everything that happens to me is interesting to you. Sometimes I wonder if being a blogger isn't symptomatic of an unhealthy self-centeredness. Then again, autobiographers aren't accused of that--at least not for the mere fact they are autobiographers.

I am off the San Francisco for the weekend tomorrow, but will probably squeeze in something before Monday.

MCO 2006

If you are new to the blog, see Oscar and Me- III, March 7th

This morning around 9:30 I heard a knock while washing my breakfast dishes I walked to the door, expecting to see Colleen, my apartment manager, with some request or another, or perhaps the UPS man with a package. Instead I opened it to a young woman, about 30, with short brown hair, hazel eyes, and an intelligent gaze. I had never seen her before, and yet there was something vaguely familiar about her.

“Hello.” I smiled, blocking Gaza with my body. Of course he was excited at a stranger. Particularly woman strangers. I think he prefers their scent.

“Hello--” she started, then stopped short, seemingly unsure of what to say.

I had two thoughts in quick succession. The first, that she was a new neighbor—there’s a lot of turnover in Hollywood buildings. The second came immediately on its heels, and it was clear to me as I had it that it was the correct one.

“Silmorn?” I asked.

She smiled, relieved that she would not have to explain, that the emails had been enough.

My heart raced. I was looking at my great-great-great grand niece, who would not be born for another 125 years. And I swear to God, she had my sister’s eyes.

“Come in.” I didn’t forget my manners, but I was at a loss to know what the protocol was in such a situation.

She saved me from the awkward moment.

“Can I hug you?”

“Of course,” I told her, and that’s exactly what she did. “I feel like I know you,” she added.

“Well, you kind of do, don’t you?” I assumed that I’d continue to blog until my death.

“Oh my God, you know when I’m going to die. Don’t tell me.”

“Oh no, I wouldn’t. I can’t.”

“Of course you can’t. Thank God you can’t.”

I motioned her to the couch. We sat, and she cooed over Gaza for a good 20 seconds, immediately winning my heart and his. But my head was bursting with questions.

“What can I ask you about the future?”

“You can ask me anything, but I won’t necessarily answer everything.”

You’d think I would want to ask about the state of the planet, but I figured that was probably mostly off limits. So I went for the important stuff.

“Will I ever be in love again? With someone who’s in love with me back?”

She smiled, and made me wait a second, before she nodded slyly in the affirmative.

“Yes!” I pumped my arm in triumph, like an obnoxious 11-year old on a sitcom. Silmorn found this gesture amusing. I must have seemed to her like Huckleberry Finn would have seemed to me if I went back in time 150 years. I blushed.

“Uh…I won’t ask anything else. Of course, a stock tip would be nice before you fly back to the future.”

“Noted.”

Mmhh. I had the answer to that question.

“Do you want something to drink? Eat? I don’t know how arduous it is to go back 150 years in time. Is it a long trip?”

“No, not at all. And I’m fine. Before I came over, I stopped in the Starbucks on the corner and had a muffin. That was fascinating.”

“Oh my God, do you still have Starbucks in the future?”

“Not really. Well kind of. But they’re pretty different. They sure don’t scribble your name on the cup! That’s the sort of detail that gets lost to history!”

“That would be, wouldn’t it? What else struck you?”

“Nothing about Starbucks so much. But the people walking by on Hollywood Boulevard. Their faces.”

“What about their faces?”

“So much…character. And pain. We…we age better in the future.”

“That makes sense. How old are you?”

“How old do I look?”

Some things never change. I decided to go low, and shave off two years for good measure.

“28.”

She let out a thoroughly delightful laugh.

“You charmer. I’m 47!”

“GET OUT! I’m 47. I must look 60 to you.”

“No, no.” she lied, but I realized her idea of 60 wouldn’t be so bad.

“You know, I realize I am dying to know some things about the future. Can I assume then that things get a lot better, if everyone looks 20 years younger?”

“Well, yes, eventually they got better.”

“But first they got worse.”

“Yeah, way worse.”

“Global Warming? Avian Flu?” She struggled, unsure of whether or what to answer. Another disaster popped in my mind. “Not another President from Texas.”

She laughed. “2 out of those 3—I can’t say which. One will be much worse than presently predicted, and the other not anywhere as bad.” Then she leaned forward, and whispered conspiratorially. “And history will not treat George W. kindly.”

“Thank you for that” I squeezed her arm. “You know what? Why don’t you tell me as much as you can tell me, and then I won’t ask any more.”

“Well…” She paused, as if remembering what she had rehearsed. “There are a few other things that you can’t possibly predict that are pretty bad that happen…but because they happen the world survives--”

“--I knew it! A pandemic way worse than AIDS that kills, like, billions of people! But that’s all necessary because we’re so overpopulated!”

Silmorn won’t confirm or deny my hypothesis. But I’m on a roll.

“And…and then technology saves the day!”

“Well…those are pretty good guesses actually. But you’ll just have to trust me that I can’t say more. Not that there’s anything you could do about it anyway.”

“Mmhhh. Well, that’s a relief I guess. And I suppose if there’s an assassination or something I could stop, that might change everything.”

“In fact, I guess I can tell you this. When we first found out how to travel back in time it was agreed on that the first task would be to go back and kill Adolf Hitler, in 1914, when he was a soldier in WWI. And so they did—or he did, this one man, successfully. And you know what happened?”

“What?” I was wide-eyed. I love this kind of shit.

“He came back to the future, and everyone was speaking German. He found out someone just as bad, but more competent than Hitler came to power, and won the war. Succeeded in killing all of the Jews, enslaving Russia, getting the atomic bomb-Japan won too. By 1984, it was like 1984—the book--and things were awful. One big North Korea. So he went back in time again, and had to kill himself, before he could kill Hitler.”

“He killed himself!?”

“Yup. Then he made it back to the future, which was back to the way it was, and explained what had happened. That’s when we realized how confusing and hard to control this time travel thing was. And then you know what happened?”

“What?”

“He killed himself, because he couldn’t stand the guilt of having killed himself in the past.”

“Wow. That’s intense!” I immediately imagined accepting the 2007 Oscar for best screenplay for this story.

“You can’t use it though,” she warned, as if she could read my mind. “I only told you so you absolutely understood why it was essential that if we go back into the past, we cannot alter anything.”

So I guess I shouldn’t be blogging this, but none of you are gonna believe this happened anyway. But in case you do, I have to explain why I didn’t go back and kill Hitler myself.

“Hey, let me ask you. Is this an authorized trip? Or are you a renegade?”

“Yes. To both.”

I looked at her quizzically.

“Let’s say that time travel is a rather contentious issue in the future. I’m one of those people who believe that eventually we can go back and make some changes, and save millions untold misery. But I’ve got to make a lot of preliminary trips to show them I can control the results. So this is one of them.”

I wondered if she told me the truth about how she found me, “doing research on early blogs.” I wondered if she was telling the truth about being my great-great etc. niece. Maybe I was just a pawn in her grand scheme instead of the other way around.

I decided it didn’t matter what the truth was. If she could actually take me on the greatest adventure of any lifetime, why should I care? Would you?

Silmorn was silent. I think she was wondering if she said too much. I thought we maybe should get back on track.

“You didn’t come here so we could change the future anyway. You came here because you want to know what I proposed for a visit to Oscar Wilde.”

“I kept waiting for you to blog your proposal.”

“I was going to, but in case you said yes, I didn’t want to ruin it for my readers. I want to tell them after the fact.”

“Oh, I see. So what do you propose…exactly?”

So I told her my plan. And she agreed to it. And we did it. All this morning.

I just need to write it all down.

Patience. After all, it all happened over 100 years ago. You can wait a few more days.

MCO 2006

This morning I spent an hour on the phone with Patrick Letellier, a writer for Gay.com doing an article on LBTQ issues and the prison system. I feel safe in saying he hit the motherlode with me, in fact the article is not that long and he'll probably have trouble knowing what to use from all the info I shared. Hopefully I'll get a few new readers from the article, which I will of course share as soon as it comes out.

Much of this morning I've devoted to my buddy Mike, still in prison. I realized how little real effort it takes me to make an enormous difference in his life, just by finding interesting stuff to mail him just as my family and friends did for me when I was inside. In fact I'll make my periodic plea for anyone out there who has the time and inclination to please write him. If you're feeling underappreciated in your life, this is for you, because you will get waves of gratitude for every letter. Or even just an occasional postcard; howabout one from whoever's reading me from Andorra? You must have some cool ones! Hell, if ANY of you are willing, print this out and send Mike a postcard. You don't have to give a return address if you don't want to start a correspondence. But it will make someone's day for the price of a stamp. And a bunch of them will make his week, and each one will be displayed and passed around, I guarantee you.

Mike Stiltz

V-31062

D 17 32 U

P.O. Box 8103

San Luis Obispo, CA 93403-8103

MCO 2006

There's another article, in the LA Times, about what Sherriff Baca is trying to do about overcrowding and violence in the County Jail System. I am frustrated that I have yet to receive even an acknowledgement of emails I sent to various individuals in authority proposing the "N for Non-Violence" solution. Not even a form letter.

It can be so easy to play the numbers game and lose at it. I've always been one to point out that not everyone can be rich, successful or produced, even if they have the talent to be all three. I wonder how well this unflinching realism has served me. After all, I assumed I would be no different from all of my friends who contracted HIV in the early 80's, and buried them all. So, me, the one person in the group who did not insist they would beat the odds, who, in fact, banked on not doing so, is the one who survived. What's that all about? Is my acceptance precisely what saved me? Because I didn't resist the worst case scenario, I also didn't feed it energy with my resistance?

Conversely, am I perhaps undermining my success by not believing, on some level, that I can beat the odds? Do you have to be a little unrealistic, sometimes, to make a dream happen? Or is it all hopelessly arbitrary?

These questions arise because I realized that I reacted to the idea of sending an unsolicited op-ed piece to the LA Times with the thought "they'll never publish it." I'm probably right, but I wonder how many opportunities I've sabotaged because I didn't even look into the possibility. I like to think of myself as an optimist realist, (hope for the best, expect reality), but I wonder if I'm really more of a negative pessimist who not only expects the lesser outcome, but tends to guarantee it.

One does reduce disappointment by not expecting good things to happen. But in so doing, does one also prevent good things from happening?

MCO 2006

I mentioned I would pay extra close attention to the encounters that I had this weekend, as I wasn't supposed to be here, but in San Francisco. And sure enough, yesterday I was taking Gaza for a walk on a different route and at a different time than usual because I was anticipating rain (that never came), and I bumped into my friend Y (not his real initial). Y is incredibly bright and talented, he used to be on sitcom in fact, and now, years later, he can't manage to stay clean for more than 90 days or so. Then, over and over, he succumbs to cravings that overwhelm him. It's an odd sensation, one that I have personally experienced since getting sober more around cigarettes than drugs or alcohol, thank God. It's odd because you know that the source of the cravings must be psychological or spiritual, but they manifest themselves in an intensely physical yearning.

Y was walking to the bus stop to get to his car in Glendale, and after I established that he was anxiety-ridden and paranoid and in need of a friend, I offered to drive him. As we pulled out, I remembered to ask him if he was carrying anything, and he confessed he was. I told him I was a felon and an addict myself and I could not have "it" in my car. He was staying at a hotel around the corner and he ran in to drop it off. (All you untreated Alanons out there might be wondering why I didn't "make" him throw it out, but you'll just have to trust me that it would not hasten any sobriety--just create alienation.)

The deep insanity associated with Y's repeated relaping is that he doesn't even enjoy the high. After the first 20 minutes or so, he descends into paranoia, which is only worsened with the lack of sleep. And he is frighteningly lucid about it--at least the part of him that questions it. You can hear him go back and forth between ascribing such thought to his "mind"," i.e. the drug, and believing that the hostile, judging attitude he perceives from others is absolutely real. I urged him to remember two things: 1) that these thoughts never occur to him sober, so must be the result of the drug; 2) to "get," once and for all, that he doesn't like to get high anymore. It provides no relief, certainly no fun. Sadly, he seems to understand this all too well, which only deepens his sense of frustration. He just doesn't know what he's doing "wrong"--he doesn't even profess any lack of a spiritual connection when he's sober. I certainly can't judge the quality of whatever that connection is for him. I don't know why some of us stay clean and some don't, and tomorrow that could be him talking me down instead of the other way around.

I stayed at the mechanic's with Y until his car was ready to go, then gave him a big hug and urged him to meet me on Monday in that safe place that has kept him sober before, one day at a time. I can't count the times I've heard stories of people who go in and out of sobriety for years before it finally "sticks." So there is indeed, always hope. Sometimes the person who shares this sort of history ascribes the tipping point to one particular encounter. Wouldn't it be wonderful if years from now Y described this encounter with me the same way?

I doubt it. That I had that sort of impact on those I met was exactly the impression I tried to convey in so many blog entries from prison, and probably only my mom and me thought that was ever the case. I do think almost all of us have brief encounters with others that irrevocably alter their lives, I also think that we rarely if ever would choose correctly which encounters those are. Just as I remember that kid from the sixth grade, or that conversation with that teacher at 17, or that thing I heard at a dinner party when I was 26, or a humilating moment I had in a bar at 38, , etc etc., any great impact I have played in the lives of relative strangers I may be only remotely aware of if it all in the specific. And God knows, if I've helped Y or anyone else get and stay sober, the balance sheet is still heavily weighted in favor of the many more times that I did quite the opposite with so many others.

Which isn't to beat myself up--that serves no purpose. But I'm aiming for a higher degree of lucidity and honesty in my writing, which I intend to use to recreate a rather more authentic and honestly subjective renditon of my past in a redone memoir. What I wrote before was subjective but written in an objective voice, and that was self-serving, to put it mildly. Now if it's my opinion, I'm going to try to make that clear, and not present it as fact.

I churned out a first page this morning. It reads rather differently. I don't know if the difference will show up here, because I don't have the distance about my daily life that I now have about my past. You may have to continue to put up with my desire/need to look good--which hopefully, doesn't bring me too far from the truth, too often.

MCO 2006

Today's Horoscope: It may only last for this one day, but you are amazingly optimistic and confident in yourself today! You are dashing and gallant, a knight in shining armor. Today, Marc, you'll be tempted to assert yourself regardless of the odds against you. By all means, embrace this new you. But be careful of your tendency to distort reality.

I almost can believe it, as my blog readership numbers broke a new personal best yesterday.

Ah, yesterday. Or should I say Ai, yai, yesterday. I had intended to give myself a day off from picking trash during my hike up the hill with Gaza, just because the day before I had hauled down three whole bags. (I shared a couple of blogs back that I finally found a way to make up for all the toxic waste the meth I sold must have produced). But there was that one empty plastic container of Gatorade I've been eyeing for quite a while stuck way back in some brush. I decided there was no time like the present, even though it meant some carefully manuevering around a patch of cactus.

Perhaps that's why I didn't expect another patch of cactus undereath another empty can that I hadn't seen before, 20 feet down the embankment. And I slipped on the wet dirt reaching for it, and blam! my left hand and left butt cheek were throughly pentrated by a load of cactus spines and burrs. OUCH!

It was rather the unpleasant walk down the 1/2 a mile to my car. I pulled out as many pringles as could, of course, but couldn't exactly take off my pants. ("Officer, I swear to God, I was just making amends!")

Of course when I got home it was too late for the doctor's, which probably wouldn't have done much good by then anyway. According to the Internet, I needed to slather the effected areas with Elmer's Glue, and then peel it off when dry. I tried with a glue stick--don't think it helped much. It's not terrible, just some unpleasant needly sensations. I have to believe the body will eventually eject the remaining offending little pins.

Meanwhile, a lot of interesting thoughts about my prison experience and how to write about it. I need to keep thinking and researching.

MCO 2006

Well, we were going to drive up to San Francisco this weekend to see my friend Jeff in his play, but there is a huge storm moving in that's actually causing an warning scrawl across the bottom of the TV screen, so we decided to postpone our plans to the following weekend. This means that I'm going to pay extra attention to the encounters I have this weekend that I wouldn't have otherwise had. As we know, there are no accidents.

I saw Mr. Crush this morning. He just sends me. He sends a lot of people--I would have to vote him "most hugged" in that place where we do a lot of hugging. Part of me feels a little possessive, but the other part of me enjoys that he gives me a little extra attention. Plus the cumulative effect is of a lot of positive affectionate energy around him, and who can begrudge the world that?

He says he's going to come over to watch a film he's in together (that's not in general release yet,) and I just don't know how I'm supposed to not jump his bones. I won't if he doesn't, of course, even if just laying there and holding hands is almost as dangerous (emotionally) because in some ways it's more intimate then sex. (The gay men understand what I'm talking about). Not that I will bar the door if he does show up. (Come to think of it, it'll probably a lot harder for him not to do the bonejumping. He's been attached for 7 years. Itch, itch!)

Heard this morning: "If you're bored, you're boring." Soooo true.

MCO 2006

I'm happy to share that I had a long talk with P.F.A.R. He reassured me that he never saw me as anything less that completely dateable--smart, funny, hot, the works. And that he indeed did not feel he was capable of a serious involvement for most of this year, and that he was genuinely surprised at starting to feel that he could perhaps "go there" with this new person.

Truth be told, P.F.A.R. presented some logistical challenges because he lives 45 minutes away. We were able to have our afternoon get-togethers because he had Fridays off at work, they stopped when he got a new job. Even if he had wanted to get serious, between Gaza and the traffic it would have been a challenge, to put it mildly. I suppose what I wanted most was to know that I was taken seriously as more than just a good time, that I had an impact on someone as he did on me. So I feel rather better to know that was the case, and interestingly enough, after our conversation I sensed a new closeness between us that wasn't there before, that comes from clear (and affectionate) communication instead of assumption and projection.

I also realize that I have 1 1/2 years or so of sober experience, compared to almost 30 years prior to that where the party was primary. I'm very impatient. I want to be where I would have been had I been sober or a "normie." I also want to have back all that time when I lived with the assumption I was in the final years of my life. I'm glad I was wrong, but so many of my choices reflected that warped perpective, and I'm convinced I would have made many different and healthier choices if I thought I was going to be around to see the fruits of my efforts.

Of course I can't have those years back. No one can. (I don't pretend to be the only one who looks back ruefully on roads not taken). I will never quite know where the HIV-negative non-alcoholic/non addict Marc would have ended up, so can't get there now. There's not a shred of proof things could have turned out any differently than they have, and it's a fool's game to spend a second playing the "ifs" game (what if and only if).

I do amuse myself with the thought that in a parallel universe, perhaps the other Marc, published, probably a little portly (sans steriods), with a lover for 20 years who bores him senseless, finds himself regretting a life he sees as half-lived, and daydreams about having said yes to the cocktails, the drugs, the men, the sex (all the sex), the danger and the adventure.

Fool am I.

MCO 2006

I have an announcement. If you're a gay man in Los Angeles looking to fall in love, this is how you do it. Date me once a week or so for a couple of months, then wait a couple of weeks, and the next man you meet; BOOM, that's your new lover. Oh, and the better the sex we have, the more likely it will happen. And if you use the term "emotionally unavailable" to describe yourself and to reassure me that your desire to keep it casual has nothing to do with me, then I can virtually guarantee you will soon be on the road to conubial bliss in no time.

The exact scenario has occurred in my life twice in the past year, first with Boy Charmer, now with PFAR (Periodic Friday Afternoon Rendezvous). I know the psychologically enlightened approach is to not take it personally, but frankly I do. I wonder what the hell seems to mark me as the best friend you laugh with and even have sex with but you wouldn't consider seriously dating, much less marrying? I used to joke about it when it happened (more than once) when I was still drinking and using--that I was the last piece of the puzzle men needed in place and then they'd be ready for the real thing. I tried to be proud of this "catalyst" role, but I secretly ascribed the failure of these relationships to my my drinking and/or using. Now there is no such cover-- in both cases these were also men in recovery.

I just don't get it. I don't know who PFAR'S new beau is, but frankly, I could not see for the life of me what Boy Charmer's beau offered that I didn't--and more. He even smoked. And both B.C. and P.F.A.R. shared the news of their new love interest with me in a way that indicated they expected me to be happy for them. Well, I don't wish ill on anybody, of course, and am happy for them in the abstract, but I found it pretty galling. I guess I did the I-have-no-agenda-let's-just-enjoy-each-other's-company shtick far too convincingly. You know why I did? It seemed so uncool to want something more. I bent over backwards not to appear needy--the worst of romantic crimes. The irony is that I don't have a pretermined agenda, I simply would like for the door not to be closed on anything ahead of time, for the quality of our chemistry to determine the next step. What is intensely irritating is when they insist the door is closed to anyone, and a mere few weeks later, "discover" to their supposed surprise, that in fact, it was just closed to me.

MCO 2006

If you are brand new to the blog, refer to the entries of February 16th and March 1st for the first two installment of Oscar and Me.

Dear Silmorn:

Thanks for getting back to me, even though, indeed you almost gave me a heart attack—as you imagined you might.

I’ve been thinking about what you wrote and how carefully it was phrased. You didn’t actually shut the door on the idea of taking me back in time, in f