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Family:
I finally decided to come out to my cousin, Becky. She is really one of two people I haven’t told since coming out to my friends in 1997. She means a lot to me and I really think that it will devastate me should I ever lose her respect and friendship. Over the past few years I have started to tell her on a number of occasions, but have always chickened out. I must now do this, as the secrecy is pulling us further apart. I will keep you posted on what happens. I told her best friend, a coworker of mine, but she already knew. *Click here for he letter I sent to Becky*

Friends:
Nobody understands me. Not that it is anyone’s fault but my own, but I feel like people treat me like the wallflower who likes being that way. Sometimes I do. But what my friends do not get is that I take a long time to warm up to people (weeks, months, years sometimes). They all end up giving up on me. I have stories, thoughts, opinions, concerns. It just feels to me like it all has to be about everyone else all the time.

Possibilities:
This is what I wrote to the guy I am into that made him want to meet me(I had said his recklessness was sexy; he questioned it):

“Sexy? Certainly… There is a boyish charm… a carelessness that reminds me of boys I’ve loved, dreamed of loving. There is a certain nostalgia that lives in you. The memory of bicycles, summer afternoons, snowcones, and friends you seemed to only know then because they were from the neighborhood. There is an impetuous nature that causes memories of things that have not yet happened. I can picture the impulsive way I’d be kissed or my hand grabbed and we’d run through a field for no reason other than the act itself. And how I would bring breakfast in bed because someone won’t listen and hurt himself… again! And I would nurse your wound, which would hurt longer because you’d want to be taken care of. And I’d be woken up at 3:00 a.m. some January night to be dragged outside to dance in the falling snow. Yes, it is sexy.”

Just wanted to share that because I was proud of it. Plus it is all true. I tried to write a poem about the same thing while I was on lunch today at work. I am still blocked. I have decided to rejoin pathetic.org. I will post a link when it is up.

Money:
I need to stop spending money. I am so scared of financial things right now. I would have been more vague about that if I could.

Me:
Big Friday plans: Haircut, clothes shopping (if I don’t have anything suitable for Saturday & Sunday), dinner with Dad & Lori, call Mom, call the guy, watch Six Feet Under Season 1, Disc 2. Big day. I may have caused a bit of a rift between myself and a good friend because of my funk. I hope he doesn’t hate me. And I hope I can learn to not hate his boyfriend (I am not there at this point). Forgive me T.Continue Reading

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Hymn III: Birds & Vapor

Before knowledge, peace existed.
Innocent children don’t long for the touch of others.
I’m reflecting on bird calls,
sorting out in my mind the ones that seem familiar
from the ones that are new.
Except for the mockingbirds —
their song has changed as much as I have.
I can barely tell the difference between
childish pursuits and adult desires.
Except for skin.

I find myself a poor litmus test of what I want,
what I remember wanting.
Whispers in my ear from the past — or is it the future?
I’m forgetting things I thought were important.
I don’t remember the smell of skin pressed against
my face as I sleep.
I’m trying to remember how close I can get to the sun
without tumbling to the ground.
Have I reached that limit?
The men are turning to vapor, mists deposited in a wizard’s pensieve
filled with what I choose to remember as unbridled passion.
I’m searching through windows for faces,
for quiet morning sun spilling in through panes,
spotlighting the drifts of dust as they dance
like a great flock of tiny birds.

It feels like he’s still standing there, if he was ever standing there,
eating cherries on the front porch,
spitting the pits out into the garden.
I am thinking about fruity cereal.
I am thinking about the taste of cherries lingering in his mouth and the taste of mulberries lingering on mine.
I am thinking about birds and music and sex and dust.
I am thinking about the faces, the many overlooked faces.
I am thinking about vaporizing.

Softly and tenderly Jesus is calling,
calling for you and for me;
see, on the portals he’s waiting and watching,
watching for you and for me.


Notes

Written 2 November 2001 in Tulsa, Oklahoma.Continue Reading

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Hymn II: Reading Tolstoy Naked

My reality merges with memories, with desires,
is there a reality? Have these lives been mine?
Events appear in my mind, translucent and ethereal.
A lanky man in the doorway, light spilling
around his silhouette, casting him as a sort of deity,
a cigarette hanging from his lips
like he’s come from a previous century.
A burly man, his chest a thicket
of soft hair for fingers to explore,
reading Tolstoy in a dimly-lit living room, still naked.
The lamplight shines on his skin, casting strange shadows.
Is he really there?

I’m searching through faces,
longing for the smell of cigarette
smoke rubbed on my back as I’m
pulled toward a mouth still tasting of tobacco.
Or maybe I’ll find myself coyly asking about Russian literature,
massaging muscular shoulders, satisfyingly corporeal.
I’m distracting him and pretending not to be distracted by him.
I’ll kiss him until everything is wet and beautiful.
Imaginary friends rarely press their lips back,
and never with such force.

I’m searching through faces,
watching men sleep for hours.
Eyelids dance as they dream and I wonder
about the wide-eyed boy, belly full of mulberries,
a face on fire from the attention of adults, strangers.
He didn’t know about men and the uncontrollable smiles
of the attention of adults, strangers. I miss him.
The nights are filled with breathing and rustling, peaceful.
The mornings are filled with coffee and cigarettes
or the pungent sweetness of a joint
which I pretend to enjoy because he does.
Weekends are a tangle of arms and legs, old movies,
sweaty and lazy afternoons.

It is well
It is well with my soul

I stay, huddled on beds or floors.
I don’t tell stories about playing in the woods,
or about finding an armadillo skeleton,
or about my preschool teacher.
I’m searching through faces
for the man who wants to know.

Notes

Written 29 October 2001 in Tulsa, Oklahoma.Continue Reading

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Clubs:
I went dancing on Saturday night. I keep forgetting how much I love doing that! I went with this girl Elisabeth from work and I am afraid that I wasn’t very talkative to her. I just wanted to Dance… We went to the Star — the only club to go dancing. I imagine that if people would go to Club NVS it would rock too, but not yet. Awesome music at both — but Saturday night they did not play a single Madonna song. I thought it was illegal to leave Mo out in a gay club…. Sunday was my Wunny’s birthday and we went to Arnie’s — an Irish pub — to celebrate. Let me just say this, I don’t get straight people. They sit around and drink and make bad jokes… that is fun? Oh well… It was fun because Sarah is fun when drunk. I have got to get out more often!

Family:
I have been giving a lot of thought to the anniversary present my brothers and I have planned for my parents next year (their 25th). We have 11 months, so I guess we need to get busy on it!

Self:
I have decided that 2002 is going to be my year!! I have so much that I want for next year, so I preparation I have started adjusting Brian to make room for all that I want. Not that I will be terribly dissapointed if none of what I want happens… that will be alright. I mean, yes I will be somewhat upset, but there is nothing wrong with just a decent year. I am hoping for GREAT though.Continue Reading

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Hymn I: Mulberries

I didn’t know then what I didn’t know,
what I wanted to know.
Desire was reserved for cartoons on Saturday morning
and drinking our bowls of fruity cereal flavored milk.
My bowl would be abandoned next to those of
brothers, and we would go outside for the day,
exploring the spaces already familiar.
We would eat mulberries until we felt sick,
or we would run down to the
wooded area where ours met the adjacent street.
My days were spent being alone in groups,
keeping to myself and drifting off in to the clouds,
thinking about how beautiful everything is.

A smell wakes me from the foggy daydreams
of childhood. The ends are pulling at me,
I’m remembering experiences I haven’t had.
Leather and old cologne… and sweat.
Absence and anticipation compete for the space,
waiting is agony when the body has been
unlocked, when the ignorance melts away.
I’m searching through faces,
looking for cowboy boots (I think)
or the smell of fruity cereal and milk.
I’m waiting to feel hands on my skin,
imagining them rough and gritty, remembering
a feeling I’m still anticipating. I know these things now,
I feel them in my heart and in my groin.

Amazing grace
How sweet the sound
that saved a wretch like me
I was once lost
but now I’m found
Was blind
but now I see

I want to conceal the existence of my youth,
but I want to share stories about morning cartoons
on exhausted weekend mornings when he and I
would rather stay in bed than face the lives that existed
before one another, without one another.
These days before him are long, full of longing.
My skin is eager for the feeling of another’s skin. I’m searching through faces,
forcing myself into crowds,
looking for the boots, cologne, memories, dawn.
I am looking for a man with bad habits,
who I can grow to resent, a person who doesn’t want me.
I can still taste the mulberries
and I can already feel his body.

Notes

Written 28 December 2000 in Tulsa, Oklahoma.

Brian Fuchs, “Hymn I: Mulberries” from Okie Dokie (Scissortail Press, 2019)