Rumours of my death have been wildly exaggerated. I’m still around and kicking. To some extent, I’ve said what I have to say. It’s all here for you to read. The gory detail. The past in vivid color. It is the future I’m most worried about, yet efforts to foresee it have largely failed.
My parents had warned me that life gets more complicated the older you get. Damn if they weren’t right. I long for the simplicity of a day job where I wasn’t the least bit concerned about being let go, little kids scampering around, the sizzle of the BBQ and a ready drink on the patio. I am in full buzz mode, back on the road tomorrow for 2 weeks. A 27 yo boyfriend calling at all hours, yipping about something. Financial concerns. My son announced he’s planning to go to MIT with Yale as his alternative. I asked what daughter of some African nation president he was planning to get married to pay for school.
I continue to read here and there Velvet Rage. Jerry (the reader who wrote me about it), it has been helpful. It answers the questions why homos are so often fucked up. The answer isn’t complex, being radically different is not the way to fit into society. Each homo deals with it different. Some go all out to be “all out” hiding in the open. A pink boa and short shorts. Others try and hide. One near friend of mine has photos of himself with girls all over his Facebook page in an attempt to fool his family and family friends. A scant few just accept it and get on with life. Good at it I say.
Me? I hide as well. Keeping secrets, re-arranging stories. Not only does it get old, but it gets tiring as well. No wonder queers don’t live to a terribly long age. The stress ultimately takes it’s toll.
But you cannot change a fact and thus we all must play the cards we’ve been dealt. So I play on. $5 tables. Hoping not to squander my chips before the games is indeed finished.