August 22, 2022

The Soundtrack of My Life – 27 – Heaven From Here

Good lawd, I am so far behind on this project. If I didn’t state it in the last one, life has gotten in the way. More specifically my own sadness and malaise keeps me from writing. Try as I might I cannot escape it. Regardless, I set out to complete a task and I shall stand triumphant in the end. I just have to double up my efforts to get back on track. Which, I know I can do.

In addition to my general lack of disinterest, I have had a hard time coming up with new and exciting tracks that bring about vivid memories. That could be due to my inability to listen to music. Lately all I prefer to have in the car has been silence. Just the thought of putting on something makes me anxious. What do I listen to? What will be brought up in the listening? When one has a habit of attaching memories and emotions to songs, it becomes a dangerous game of Musical Russian Roulette when starting a playlist.

On Saturday I was feeling calm enough to listen to something, other than my own thoughts. The song that drifted lazily out of my car speakers was Robbie Williams’ “Heaven From Here.”

I have been a huge fan of his since his first release in the U.S. “Millennium.” I went to my local target and picked up a copy of “The Ego Has Landed” and I have not stopped listening to it since. Robbie was my teen idol, my muse, my obsession so many times in my life. For a brief moment, one entire wall of my bedroom was COVERED in his posters.

Again, I have no idea how my parents did not know I was gay.

I will assure you, I am not attracted to Robbie. I love his song writing. His lyrics are just fun, and coupled with Guy Chambers music… ecstasy. Every album the two collaborated on are my absolute faves. Every track is a banger and I couldn’t pick a favorite if a gun was held to my head. The stuff since the two parted… It’s hit and miss. As I’ve gotten older, I have grown to appreciate the later stuff more than before. However, nothing can beat his early stuff.

I attempted to share this love with my husband throughout our time together but… He hates him. I have to accept that. And it is a consistent hate. Whenever I have had my phone iPod on shuffle, I will tense up the moment I hear the opening notes of a Robbie song. I sit taut, waiting for the moment my husband turns to me with disgust in his face and says, “This is terrible. Who is this?”

I cannot stress this enough, every time. Without fail. And he can’t see who the artist is on the stereo screen. So, he’s not doing a “bit.”

Regardless of my husband’s ultimate feelings about Robbie, the first song I ever gave him to listen to, because it held a “secret message” from me to him was this song. (And I hope you remember my initial post where I explain the implications this action brings.) At the time, he was indifferent about it and did not respond near the way I wanted him to. I was hoping for a: “who is this guy? he’s amazing!” or “this song is fantastic. I feel the same way.” None of that. But that’s my husband. He never reacts the way one expects. Ever. Even now, I know him better than anyone, and he still surprises me.

The one thing I remember, more than any other, was his: “I don’t like the line about our shelf life being short.”

In hindsight, I know he was speaking about our relationship “shelf-life” but with how everything has since played out… It stings. As a result, I go into a weird metaphysical headspace where I begin to believe that I somehow made his diagnosis happen by sending this song to him. Like I inadvertently cast a spell using music.

Even the title “Heaven From Here” contains a new double meaning. One that makes me very sad and I cannot bring myself to type. But I know, dear reader, that you understand what I reference.

I’ll shelter you, I’ll make it alright to cry
And you’ll help too cause the faith in myself has run dry.
We are love and I just wanna hold you near.
Know no fear we will see heaven from here.

All of this is gut wrenching for me. I think of everything I have done, thought, said, and believed over these 19 years and I feel nothing but anger toward myself. I am furious that I took so long to realize how wonderful my husband was and how I doubted what I wanted. I was so caught up in the bullshit of the whirlwind of previous relationships and it made me question possibility.

One thing I have learned is, let yourself feel these emotions. Don’t question what you want. Pick a path and go. If it doesn’t work out… It will be rough but you will survive. And you will come out stronger on the other side. Life is meant to be lived. The good and the bad. Because without the other, it would not give the significance the other deserves.

August 3, 2022

The Soundtrack of My Life – 26 – Honey, Honey

It’s time to get back on my bullshit.

The whole point of this project was to work through my trauma and rekindle the memories in my head, before they were lost in the fires of emotional scarring. Much like the infernos of California, the flames relit and blazed through thousands of acres in my head. All that is left are scorched thoughts and smoke.

Sorry to sound so bleak. It’s just part of my self analysis. Through all of this I have watched with interest to see how I respond and what effect it will have on me. What I have seen thus far is that it is undeniably morphing the way I do anything. While I am someone who will lean into change, this one is decimating my former self. And while I like to envision myself as a phoenix, rising from the ashes, I would prefer not to lose every aspect of myself.

This is, of course, not the first time. I have gone through many transitions in my short little life. Most of which were unexpected, like most things.

Sometimes, though, they were due to my own selfish actions.

Long before I realized I was not built for monogamy, I was a cheater. I found myself in precarious situations often and ended up acting on impulses that didn’t represent how I felt. Yet I did it anyway. As a result I hurt my husband countless times. But he would always stay with me.

There was one point in our lives where we had just grown apart emotionally. Why, I don’t know. I think he was working out of town or he was just sick of my bullshit. (I sure was.) So, we decided to “break up” for a little while so I could work on myself. Is that what happened? Not at all. We continued to share bills, a bed, and a life together. At the time I didn’t know that what we had created was an “open relationship” without calling it that. We were so hung up on “labels” and what they reflected onto us that we would rather be “broken up” than be stereotypical gay men.

As we have seen from past posts, I don’t do life “alone.” I immediately found myself with someone new. (And as did he, for the record.) This song is connected to one of the strangest and most beautiful times of my life.

It’s mind-bending that this happened 14 years ago. It feels as if it was yesterday. I still remember my husband and I going to see “Capote” with Philip Seymour Hoffman and the box office clerk who gave us our tickets was so gorgeous. It’s strange how taken I was, and when I found him on Myspace (yes, myspace) it didn’t even occur to me that these two men were the same person.

It was Aaron.

Aaron was my shadow self. We held so many shared experiences: raised deeply religious, only children, and born to women in their 40’s, and both recently out of long term relationships. However while I had parted from the church some time ago, he was doubling down and fully intended on becoming an Episcopal priest even being a homosexual.

At the time he worked for United Artists and one of our first dates was to see the movie Mamma Mia. Afterwards, I fell in love with the song “honey, honey.”. Every time I heard it, it made me think of him. So, I dubbed him “honey, honey.”

I have this weird quirk where I designate a nickname to someone. If you are lucky enough to receive one that means I really like you. (My husband is “punkin” and Josh is “sunshine.”)

For the longest time I hung onto this relationship, even though I was the one that let it go. Regardless of this fact I would continue to check in on and virtually stalk him. What I have realized now is that what I did was cruel. I should have left him alone. I think it made the act of getting over me more difficult, because just when he may have moved on I would pop in with a text or a vague Xanga entry.

Aaron is the only person I have ever felt like I knew in a previous life. Being in his presence felt so familiar. Inexplicably comfortable. It was like we had done this all once before.

I find this entry difficult to write, because for a very brief moment I debated leaving Charlie and going with Aaron. And in that, I feel so much guilt and shame. What if I had and I wasn’t here to care for him? Who would have done it? What would have happened?

I also feel terrible because he told me he was falling in love with me and I could not say it back. In that moment I didn’t feel the same. Even now, when I ruminate over this exchange and how I felt over the entire relationship I felt something of love, but not a romantic one. But at the same time, I did. Maybe I just never allowed myself to really feel it and risk losing Charlie.

Despite that deeply rooted guilt, I do look back on the relationship with deep fondness and joy. Aaron became the ultimate muse. I wrote our brief relationship into my first finished novel length work of fiction. In it I got to tell the cute wonderful moments that burned like hot coals, only to have me ruin them by ending it. Even in the narrative I got to make myself the villain.

One day I hope to polish this bitch up and share it with the world. Share Aaron/Oren with the world.

July 23, 2022

A Son’s Eulogy to His Mother

It’s truly an overwhelming task to write a eulogy. One wants to pen something that encapsulates everything about that person. Their strengths, accomplishments, joys and what their presence meant to those around them. The thing that inevitably happens is it is filtered through the writer’s personal prism and one’s own experiences. As a result, some things get lost or not told at all because of limited knowledge. Or even worse it becomes about the author and how that person effected them. But My mother meant so much to so many people that, to do so, would be a great disservice to her memory. For that, more than anything, I don’t want to fail.

This is my 4th draft. Every time I write one I sit there thinking that it just isn’t good enough or that I’ve missed some crucial part of who she was. Like her undying faith in Christ, even at the very end. Or how she exemplified what it was to be a true Christian. My mother was someone who lived with an open heart and an open hand to to help all who crossed her path.

In one I tried so hard to focus on the fact that while she wanted to be a stay at home mom of 7 kids, like the wonderful woman from which she got her name, she got more than 7 instead. She got them in her nieces in nephews. From the moment they came into her sphere they were everything to her. She took them shopping, trips to theme parks, and was an ear to bend when they felt like no one was listening. And I couldn’t bare to leave out how at times, for some, was another parental figure. When life took very unexpected and cruel turns she moved into their homes to help care for them. Family was of the utmost importance to her. And to leave that out would have been a sin.

Then there was the draft where I talked about how her life didn’t turn out the way she had planned as a housewife. I tried focusing on the beauty that comes in the unexpected. Like when my father noticed her from across a bar. The two hadn’t been what the other was looking for but the two turned out to be just what the other needed. They complemented each other in the most beautiful broken symmetry. She wanted to be needed and he needed to be loved. I wanted so much to impart how much they each loved the other. Even when things seemed so rough. They held onto each other ever tighter and merged that brokenness into a whole.

And with each of these drafts I had to mention her dedication to her job. She started working at State Farm in 1964 and stayed there until she was forced into early retirement in 2005. She would have kept working to this day if she had had the opportunity. Her work gave her such a sense of importance and held so much of her identity. Even when words and thoughts were difficult for her to convey she would somehow manage to talk of her 40 years of work.

And then most importantly I could not leave out how much she had wanted me. But that one was difficult for me to write. I never could include that in any of my drafts. I felt like it took the spotlight away from her and onto me. But I know she wouldn’t have been upset at that, because I was what she had wanted. While I may not have turned out entirely as she had planned, her and my father both never missed an opportunity to tell me how much I was wanted. Or to share how much they loved me, how proud they were of my accomplishments and my sense of self.

But try as I may in each version of this eulogy I could not capture who my mother was. She was so much more than just anecdotes or bullet points. She was love made human. Any would have known that the moment they met her. She may have been shy, but it was only because her love was so great she was worried that it would be dismissed.

I will leave you with some of the words that inspired her:

1 Corinthians 13:4-7 says “love is patient, love is kind, it does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not dishonor others, it is not self seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no records of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil  but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.”

July 13, 2022

The Soundtrack of My Life – 25 – Dream a Little Dream of Me

I am so far behind on these posts. I had finally caught up but then life got increasingly complicated.

We recently went on a road-trip to ultimately end up in Denver, Colorado, to see Chris Stapleton. This was my husband’s previous birthday gift. On the Thursday before the concert, and literally packing up our belongings to head to Denver from Rapid City, South Dakota, I got a call from my mother’s hospice nurse. In a calm tone she informed me that my mother was no longer able to swallow. The plan going forward was to stop her medications and give her only small amounts of liquids using a lollipop style sponge.

Not even five minutes later, the BF got a phone call from his grandmother that his grandfather (who had Parkinson’s) was refusing to eat. Since he made it clear he didn’t want a feeding tube, he was starting hospice care.

The whole drive to Denver I debated with myself, and for those around me, whether I should cut the trip short and go home or continue on. As it was, we either rushed home to see my mom before she passed and miss out on seeing Chris Stapleton (one of my husband “bucket-list items”), or continue on to the concert and miss a chance to say goodbye to her. I ultimately felt that the concert was more important. Life is for the living, and I had said goodbye to my mother many times before.

The universe decided my decision was the incorrect one.

The Friday before the concert the brother-husband asked me what time the event started the next day. I opened up the app and discovered that Chris’s concert had been postponed to the subsequent weekend. Four days after we were scheduled to be home in California. Shoot me. We had briefly, briefly debated staying the rest of the week, but the financial pressure that would have put on us would have been entirely too much. Sure it would have been fun, but ultimately would have left us scraping by. Also, it would have potentially made saying goodbye to mom impossible.

With that final hiccup, we packed our shit up and headed home.

The moment we got back into town I visited my mom and would every day after. I sat in a wheelchair, at her bedside, talking to her and rubbing her arm. For about 75% of the time we spent together she was out cold. She would wake up intermittently, look at me, and then go right back to sleep. At this point she was mostly non-verbal and could barely mumble out a coherent phrase. She did, however, manage a “I love you.”

Two weeks to the day she could no longer swallow, my mother passed. I got the call as I was heading out the door for my workday.

I don’t know if it’s because I saw this coming, a mile away, or I’m just a monster, but I have barely cried in the wake of her death. In comparison with my pop’s, this fact is deeply troubling to me. With him, I could not stop myself. Every thought or relatable song caused me to breakdown. However, now, all I want to do is hide away and sleep. But the responsibilities of my life keep that from happening. Which is a good and bad thing.

Since I got the news, I have been listening to two of my mom’s favorite singers: Anne Murray and Mama Cass.

I wish this song didn’t say the mama and the papas. The song is Mama Cass (aka Cass Elliot.) Anyway, I think my mother enjoyed her so much because, like my mom, was a bigger gal. It showed that the world wasn’t entirely body obsessed.

Saying that though, my mother’s was healthier than a horse. We had opined a few times that she would have survived the black plague, her immunity was so strong. The unfortunate thing is that her mind wasn’t included in that level of health. All of this unbelievably cruel, but that is life.

While I haven’t cried… I am deeply depressed. And perpetually angry. (But I have discovered that I tend to route my sadness into rage.) I just don’t want to do anything. Even writing this is agonizing, but I can’t let myself get so far behind that I can’t keep up.

This song is one of those that will forever make me think of my mom. Hearing it I am back in our station wagon, with the gray interior, on our hour long drive home. She’s singing along in her falsetto, bouncing to the beat.