love and the monotard

since i was diagnosed with Mono a month ago, my measure of success has changed drastically. today i left the house for a whole hour and, upon returning, felt completely satisfied with a full day’s worth of work. to consider: only a short time ago i was lying around. lying around was a break from sitting around, and sitting around was a nice change of pace from sleeping. yesterday, my boyfriend told me the story about a co-worker who incorrectly identified a “unitard” as a “monotard” and upon hearing it, i decided “monotard” was the perfect way to describe myself. retarded by Mono.

i am three months into a relationship and i have been unable to kiss my boyfriend for almost half of it. there are so many times we have almost forgotten, and one time – upon waking – when we both looked over at each other at the same time and accidentally touched lips. i’m not sure if you can imagine what it does to your self esteem when kissing the man you love is immediately responded to with furious wiping of the mouth; but i can assure you it’s not exactly encouraging. i have begun to feel poisonous–toxic almost, as if my kiss will be the death of him–and it has gotten to a part of me that i never supposed existed. as it turns out, kissing is a very intimate part of a relationship, and without it we seem like…chums. the kind of chums that shake hands upon seeing each other–that can still sleep with each other, but under no condition kiss.

“i feel like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman,” I joke, when i notify him of my new sex without kissing policy.

he considers what i’ve said for a moment before shrugging: “i don’t get that reference.”

joel has been ridiculously supportive throughout my entire convalescence. i mean that mostly in that he hasn’t left me for another able-bodied woman. “what do you think i’m going to do?” he asks me, “abandon you and say ‘call me when you’re better?’” If it wouldn’t break his heart i’d answer him honestly: yes.

when i told my mother my worry of being a horrible monotarded girlfriend, she reaffirmed my worry saying “well, it must get old hearing ‘i’m sick’ or ‘i don’t feel well’ and talking about vomit all the time.” but for the most part i have tried to keep my complaining to a minimum, and i assure you i only brought up “vomit” once (excuse the pun).

my first week of being sick, the worst week of all, joel was lucky enough to be at home in Massachusetts visiting his family. i was so ill i couldn’t take care of myself. i didn’t have it in me to make myself a meal or pour myself a glass of water. so instead, i didn’t eat and i didn’t drink and i got much, much sicker. so eventually, my parents had to drive all the way out to the city to come pick me up and take me home to feed me and make tea for me and nurse me back to health.

on the drive north, though i tried desperately to contain myself, i apologized to my mother, then to my father, and then poured my stomach into a plastic bag by way of my mouth. the only thing worse than having to hold a bag of your own vomit (though i suppose holding someone else’s would be even worse) is for some of it to have gotten on your pants. and the only thing worse than that is getting a nose bleed immediately post-evacuation. four days unshowered, and i was one hot mess; but the best part is — the absolute best part – is that at that very moment, plastic bag in hand and tissue lodged in nose, i received a text message from joel telling me that he thought i was beautiful, and that he loved me, and that he missed me.

my boyfriend reminds me a lot of my father: sometimes too intelligent for his own good, but excessively good and kind and generous; and while the comparison might be considered disturbing to some, i am mostly troubled by how much this relationship has made me feel more like my mother than ever intended. Love has enhanced the english in me. it is the part of me that becomes awkward and self-conscious when he tells me that he thinks i am beautiful when i’m feeling my worst, or the part of me that diffuses unease over confessions of love with an easy joke (like responding to that text message with: guess who just puked in a bag until her nose bled? your classy girlfriend.) joel has taught me many things: what a real man acts like, what a loved woman feels like, what it means to let what has, in the past, broken your heart open it instead; but i have also learned that i have spent most of my life wearing my heart on my sleeve, and my sleeve under a thick wool coat buttoned up to the neck.

but like i said: since i was diagnosed with Mono a month ago, my measure of success has changed drastically. now, every time i say “i love you” back, or graciously accept his compliments with an earnest “thank you” instead of asking “why?”, my heart does a victory lap around my life, and that wool coat begins to come unbuttoned. because the truth is the hardest part about happiness is all of the obstacles we usually give ourselves to avoid finding it; and life has enough of its own obstacles without our help. like how to convince your boyfriend that your Pretty Woman reference was actually funny, or how to stop yourself from kissing the one you love when your heart — the amateur — is bursting at the seams.

2009
07/19
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you’ve got to let love rule

So the law just passed that allows the re-writing of the California Constitution to ban gay marriage. the “yes” campaign said they were “protecting family” and the church; but i think they were wrong. the church was not going to be legally affected by gay marriage. they claimed they’d be sued if they refused to perform marriage ceremonies for single-sex couples, but those are just laws we already have in place against discrimination; they claimed that kids would be taught gay marriage in school, but this Proposition had nothing to do with schools or education either, and i’m saddened to think that children being taught equality and tolerance is such a threat to the moral fabric of our society. they even went so far as to claim that two men getting married or two women getting married would be a threat to marriage as an institution. This means that men who beat their wives, parents who neglect or abused their children, or men who ordered brides over the internet would have more rights, their bond considered more sacred, than two men who have been together for over twenty years. to me, marriage wasn’t at stake here; humanity and equality was. Last night, in California, both of them lost.

There is a separation between church and state in this country, and i’m disappointed that people couldn’t make that distinction in the voting booth yesterday. i could take a man to a church. we could have a wedding ceremony with a priest presiding over us, we could drink the wine and eat the bread, say our vows and look out to see our friends and family watching; but that still wouldn’t make us married. nope, not until we went to city hall and signed that marriage certificate. that’s the law.

maybe i’m just jaded. i live in the tiny microcosm of san francisco where there are so many gay people and straight people that no one seems an outcast and no one seems unnatural. sure, there are the assless leather chaps that roam my streets, and my favorite stationary store has now become a dildo vendor; but that’s just an over-sexualized response to a society that tries to tell gay people that who they are and what they do is not “natural” (don’t underestimate the pervasiveness of straight sex in our culture either). In my community, there are also couples who are committed to each other, who have fallen in love with each other, share similar values and dreams with each other, met each other’s families and have even been together for almost as long as my parents. the fact that we will now be writing into the california constitution words that say that their love is unnatural and ILLEGAL is just so many steps in the wrong direction.

we have just made history by voting a black man as president. he won the popular vote by a landslide. in fact, he *lapped* McCain. while no one knows for sure whether barack obama can fulfill any or all of his promises, we are clearly more than willing to let him try, and god bless america for that. but for as far as we’ve come, we still have a long way to go as a society. 40 years ago, a black man and a white woman could not marry. to me, preventing a man from marrying a man he loves is the same kind of discrimination. i know that is a controversial statement for some, and i have heard the rebuttal “you can’t choose your race”. well, in my book, you can’t choose who you love either. love chooses you.

but we have to believe in the change that obama has inspired. we have to believe that we have the power to “bend the arc of justice” in our favor. so while we may have lost the fight now, i hope that we may never lose our faith and our hope. so please, stay strong and keep your hope alive. we will get there eventually. yes. we. can.

2008
11/05
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love
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the violinist and the disappearing city

On a cold Friday morning in January, a young violinist entered the Washington DC metro station during rush hour and, with barely anyone noticing, chose a wall to lean against, pulled his violin out of its case, and began to play. For 45 minutes, lost in a sea of analysts, policy managers, budget officers and contractors all on their way to work, the young man played. Nearly 1097 people passed by him. Of the thousands, only six people actually stopped to listen to him play and 20 people slowed just enough to give him money. He made $32.17.

When I read this story today, I thought of a tale from The Phantom Tollbooth, when the main character, Milo, visits a city called Reality. Though once an extraordinary place full of glorious things to see, the citizens of Reality eventually realized that the quickest way to get from point A to point B is if one didn’t stop to admire the things that came in between. And so they began to walk faster and faster without ever looking up, without ever slowing down, and without ever stopping. Moving as fast as they did, they got to where they needed to be in record time, but at the sacrifice of their beloved city, and of course, their own lives. They never stopped to admire its beauty, they didn’t realize as it become uglier and dirtier each day, and they failed to notice as it disappeared completely. “They went right on living here just as they’d always done, in the houses they could no longer see and on the streets which had vanished, because nobody had noticed a thing. And that’s the way they have lived to this very day.”

The story of the violinist may seem unremarkable, and you may even be wondering why I’m telling it to you; except that that violinist wasn’t your average street musician. He was Joshua Bell, one of the most famous violinists in the world. The violin he played is almost 300 years old and worth over $3.5 million; and three days before that cold Friday morning in that subway station, he had played a sold out show at Boston’s Symphony Hall, where tickets go for a minimum of $100 each.


The land of the in-between, tucked neatly between where we are at this moment and where we need to be eventually, is absolutely pulsing with life. Let us take heed, therefore, that we have the wisdom and the courage to slow down just long enough to see it.

2008
07/18
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the birth of genius

my early work is really quite remarkable. packed with passion and emotive description was i, at the ripe and prodigy-esque age of six – maybe six and a half. my first “short” – as us literary novices say – was entitled “why water’s great” and was a creative nonfiction piece about my family’s brand new hot tub. it was written for a class project on the conservation of water and, in words too well put together to paraphrase now, i wrote “i like water because it goes in our hot tub and when my daddy sits in it he says ‘ahhhh‘.”

thus began my career as a literary genius.

i was always very good at telling stories. i often spent the entire forty-five minute car ride home from school everyday telling my mother vital life lessons like how to tell time or how to make a hamburger. she never seems to sound inspired when she reminds me of that instance, but i am sure that that has nothing to do with the length it took me to describe one simple action, and everything to do with the fact that my father was more of the chef in my family. yes, looking back on it now i realize that my story was too much for my dear, barbecue-ignorant mother.

my literary pique, however – my joie de vie, if you will – came when i was seven years old after a rather painful incident involving a doorknob, my eye, and the simple act of walking. after months of self-reflection and the healing all too necessary to cope with the emotionally and physically tumultuous experience that is the black eye that followed, i did what any other great writer of my generation would have done and turned to pen and paper to express my pain. the words came easily to me, as they often do. it was as if the tears translated instantly to poetry as they hit the page, transforming a once-blank and stark white piece of paper into the photograph of a young girl’s tragic life: “my eye was really puffy and black,” i wrote. “it hurt bad.” my prose forthcoming, my pain clearly articulated, i added a lifelike illustration – courtesy of crayola – and handed it in, head bowed, to my third grade teacher.

it should be automatically assumed here how well-received my piece of work was. my father even went so far as to display it proudly on the wall inside his cubicle at work. i can only imagine it was so co-workers, as well as mere passersby, could stop, read and admire. he never told me its display was his way of showing off the unmistakable talent which he could then brag had sprung forth from his loins – but i knew that was why. no, instead, my parents told me that i never did in fact walk into a doorknob; that my black eye was merely a detail in a dream i once had – so vivid that, upon waking, i believed it to be real. their commitment to the lie was so steadfast that they even told every dinner guest invited into our home, every cashier at the grocery store, even every teacher i ever had. if it weren’t for my keen perception and superior intellect, i would have been humiliated and offended by their denial of such a traumatic experience; but i realized they were simply trying to lessen the devastation, so as not to take away attention from or threaten the soft, young egos of my two, less verbally-gifted siblings.

it is to both my mother and my father that i owe my humble disposition.

2008
04/03
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and wear sunscreen…

when my father was 60 he was arrested for a crime he committed nearly 50 years earlier and sentenced to death. it seems unfair that at such a late stage in his life, when he had fully atoned for his sins, that he would still be held accountable for actions he committed so long before. at 14, he was young and careless and did things without fully realizing the consequences of his actions; simply put: he didn’t know any better. by 60 he was a professional man, had served in the army for his country, raised three morally-sound children and had a wife he looked forward to growing old with. now, because justice apparently had to be served, growing old seemed unlikely. that’s the funny thing about cancer: it can lurk forever beneath your bed like some disastrous boogie man just waiting for you to fall asleep.

as a teenager, my father and his family used to vacation up at the russian river, lathering baby oil on their pale, irish skin until it turned a crisp and oaky brown under the summer sun. his parents never yelled at him because back then, they didn’t know they had any reason to. cancer waited until life had settled down and had finally become enjoyable before it cast its shadow across my father’s face. and just as quickly, it made its way underneath the surfaces of his skin.

my father has been sober for 15 years. the only thing cancer granted me, besides an increased appreciation for my father’s life, was the chance to see the effect a substance of any kind had on my father. to go from zero to morphine in less than a month was quite a sight to see. there was the trip to the hospital that resulted in my father performing an impromptu song he had written for his doctor; there was the trip to the hospital where, tired of the repetitive question “reason for visit”, he began to answer “hysterectomy”; and most notably, after his first surgery, where we learned that the cancer had already spread to his lymph nodes, there was the ride home in the very somber car when my father announced he had two, very pretty anesthesiologists.

“did you hear that barbara?” he slurred to my mother, “i had – not one – but TWO women on me.”

a cancer diagnosis finds you at a fork in the road, where you have two paths to take without any indication of street name or destination. it is another cruel trick cancer plays on you that you only know where you are going when you’ve actually arrived there. my father’s path miraculously ended at Recovery; you can guess where the other road leads.

i go in and out of believing we have any control over our fate. i keep expecting the winds to carry me to europe where i can write all day long and learn a language that makes my tongue move in ways it hasn’t before (well, unless i’m trying to impress someone); but inaction doesn’t do much for you either. all i can say is that we must always be in constant pursuit of our own personal happiness, provided it never steps on the toes of someone else’s. without us, it has no chance to survive.

so fall in love when the mood strikes you, even if it goes awry–start with yourself and work outwards. signal when you’re changing lanes and ignore rude waiters–or, for that matter, rude people. have good table manners and keep your kitchen clean. own at least one house plant, even if you can’t keep it alive, and always call people back. eat lots of vegetables and send someone flowers when there’s absolutely no reason to. send your mother a post card next time you travel.

i don’t mean to sound like i know it all, because lord knows i’m figuring this stuff out as i go along; but if there’s anything i’ve learned in my short time here, it’s that it’s important to give yourself a break once in a while. because the road ahead may present to you its own direction, in direct contrast to all of your intentions; and so you must live in such a way that upon arriving you can say “i have lived, and i lived well.”

2008
04/02
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love in A#

“what the hell was that?” i ask eric.

it’s 10:30 at night and we’re making our way towards the bay bridge heading into san francisco. we were, up until two seconds ago, sitting in complete silence. then suddenly, out of nowhere, we both sang the exact same note for the exact same duration of time. the radio is off – there is no song to sing along to. the highway is deserted – there is no visual cue to start us singing.

“i have no fucking clue.” he replies.

not yet able to comprehend what just happened, all i can think to do is laugh so hard my eyes tear and i’m sure i’m going to crash into something and kill us both.

“your period isn’t due soon, is it?” eric adds. “because if our menses is also in sync, i’m going to freak.”

this has only ever happened once before. in ireland of all places. mona, a fellow cellist, and i decided to sit in the audience to watch the piano soloist perform. he is a young italian who doesn’t speak english and tried to make out with gabi who was roughly 13 at the time. he is an incredible player. as we sit there listening to him, i am moved by the fluidity of his technique. his sixteenth note runs are so smooth i can’t shake the image of ice cream from my head – rich, creamy vanilla ice cream (or, i guess, because he was italian, gelato). at the end of the piece, when we stand to clap, mona looks at me and announces “this might sound really weird, but his playing reminded me of ice cream.”

when we told the others, they either didn’t believe us, or are less amazed and more concerned. “you guys have been spending too much time together.”

“they’re just jealous,” mona will tell me later.

“that’s exactly what i was thinking,” i will reply.

i had a cello teacher that hated me; she hated me because every time i saw her i was physically incapable of playing the cello. i would have forgotten how to ride a bicycle around her. when she told me i had perfect pitch, i actually disagreed with her.

“say the first thing that comes to your head,” she told me, playing a single note three times on the piano.

“F” i said, just to shut her up.

“and this one?” she said, playing another note.

“i don’t know,” i sighed, “…B?”

she left the piano and came back to sit next to me. “F# and B♭”

you know what they call perfect pitch that’s a half step off? not perfect pitch.

the four years i studied with her, she accused me of studying with another cellist behind her back (false), called me a “money player” (true) and told me i was funny and should “concentrate more on that”. she only once said anything nice to me, and amazingly it’s probably one of the nicest things anyone has ever said to me. in the middle of playing for her in a lesson, she stopped me to ask if i’d ever been in love. i was fifteen and pudgy at the time, and, embarrassed by the question, shook my head.

“well,” she said finally, “you play like you have.”

ever since i got back from barcelona, i have done nothing but write and play music. as cheesy as it might sound, i think that when i am so filled with love it only makes sense that it would come out of me as music; music is, after all, love. isn’t it? and i am lucky enough to have people in my life with whom i make music, whether it’s the way we tease each other, how much we discover we have in common, or those moments where we’re so in sync we even share thoughts. that night in the car with eric, if only for a split second, we were exactly on par with each other, and so together, we made music – we even had the A to prove it. or, because i’m a half step off, an A#.

it’s late and this might not make any sense, but i’ll say it anyway. i feel as though, in a way, i was unlocked by Barcelona.

oh españa…what an awfully long journey i took, just to come home.

2008
04/01
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friendship
love
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to rufus, wherever you are

yes. yes it’s true. i killed rufus the pigeon. rufus wasn’t his christened name, unless it counts that i was the one that christened him (posthumously, of course), but it is how i remember him fondly, pre getting stuck in the grill of my car.

i woke up thursday morning without blood (of any kind) on my hands; had my tea, ate my eggs, and made my way to work. on my way, however, around 16th and Valencia, i had to make a detour so as to avoid a truck that had decided to park perpendicular to the road, blocking all traffic. making my way down the side alley to 17th street, free spirited and gay (in a happy way), i came upon a mound of feasting pigeons in the middle of the road. now never, in my entire life, has a bird not flown out of the way of my approaching car; but as my mother always taught me — and what i know now is true — there is a first time for everything.

rufus didn’t see me straight away. he was too busy eating whatever was smooshed on the road. his friends, as they flew to safety, squawked at him, but he was too hungry and it was no use. and while staying completely still would have saved his life — for my car would have gone over him without contact — his little pigeon instincts kicked in and he flew at the sight of me — straight into the front of my car. moments later, in my rearview mirror, i saw the fluttering carcass of my feathered friend and i knew — in my blood and guts — he was gone for good.

a crowd of pigeons stalked my vehicle like a cloud of gray fury. they squawked and descended, then just as quickly dispersed. i imagined rufus’ pregnant wife at home, getting the phone call whilst packing lunches for their other three children: sandy, gertrude and bruce (2, 4 and 5, respectively). a plate would slip from her grasp and shatter as she slid down the oven door until she was slumped on the linoleum floor. slowly, her children would come to her, none of them making a peep until she looked up — pale as paper — and opened her wings to them. they would nestle into her and sob, without yet knowing what they were sobbing for. i thought of the christmas — now one month away — that rufus would not be able to celebrate with his family. i thought of the daughters he would not be able to walk down the aisle when they were old enough to get married. i thought of jerry, rufus’ best friend, deleting rufus’ phone number from his cellphone in an emphatic sign of finality.

i immediately called my sister to tell her i’d be going away for a while. and when the cops came to get me, to make them a cup of tea — they were, after all, just doing their jobs.

“courtney,” she’d responded. “what the hell are you talking about?”

“rufus!” i sobbed. “i fucking killed rufus!”

“who the hell is rufus?”

his death was coming back to me in slow motion like polaroid pictures developing behind my eyes: “a pigeon. a poor, defenseless pigeon.”

“oh courtney…” she sighed. “a felon…and so young, too.”

when i said goodbye i told her i loved her (it might have been my last chance to do so). she cooed back “see ya george manson”. as she hung up, i didn’t have the heart, nor the energy, to tell her that it was, in fact, “charles manson” and she was, in fact, retarded.

the universe has a weird way of balancing itself out. only earlier that morning i had been notified that the company that manufactured the microphones i used to record my CD had heard my project and wanted to sponsor me for the next 15 months. perhaps it was that elation — that euphoria — that intoxicated me; that caused me to drive so carelessly that fateful morning.

whatever it was, rufus: if they have internet access in bird heaven and my blog is saved under your “favorites”, please hear me when i say that i am truly sorry for what i did. you were a damn good pigeon, a damn good father, and a damn good american.

don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.

in other news, two days later a pigeon shat on me. fuck that shit.

2008
03/22
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god walks among us (on one leg)



yesterday on my ride home from work, i boarded the empty N train and sat down next to a seat that was occupied by the current issue of Advocate magazine — a magazine dedicated to gay-related issues. as my train ride progressed, the train grew more and more crowded, and still, the seat remained unoccupied by actual living flesh. people pushed their way through the crowd towards us (me and the mag) only to discover the seat was “taken”. others stared at it and then quickly looked away, as if to avoid the magazine catching their eye. no one wanted to touch it, no one wanted to move it and no one wanted to read it; and just as quickly as the train was moving, this little-gay-magazine-that-could began to represent society’s interpretation of its target audience: it could board your train — hell, it could even sit amongst you; but if you sat on it or showed any interest, it would instantaneously make you gay.

i found the environment to be an odd study in human psychology and social interaction. jokingly, and under my breath, i scorned the magazine for stealing our women (or men i suppose), taking over broadway and drinking from our water fountains. but as much as it was feared, it held an undeniable power over a train car packed with people too afraid to move what was essentially a stack of shiny paper.

then, jesus appeared; well, actually, he looked more like gandalf — but i considered him a “savior” of sorts, nonetheless. he appeared at the train doors at powell street station and the way the florescent lighting descanted uponst his own deformity made him seem so powerful and majestic. (by majestic i mean he had long white hair and a bright white beard; by deformity i mean he had a prosthetic leg). he hobbled his way towards me, and without hesitation picked up the magazine with his righteous hand and sat down. i half expected him to toss the magazine on the floor and damn the shark (which i conjectured had taken his leg back in the days when he was an avid surfer) for not robbing him of his hands as well; but instead, with such curiosity, he opened the magazine and began to read. such bravery, i thought; such nonchalance for the opinions of others. i quickly ordained him god of my new religion and prayed to him that his example would be replicated and admired.

and then, just when i thought the esteem i held for him could not be held any higher, the train stopped, the man stood, tucked the magazine under his arm and exited into oblivion.

inspired by every teen movie ever made, i began to clap. slowly at first, but then much faster. people looked at me — sure. but then they came to their senses and accepted the power of the statement that had been made: that we really do have nothing to fear, but fear itself. and in that moment, though all-too-brief, we were united. united as one, big, gay-loving group of strangers on a train, making our way home from work.

2008
03/03
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humor
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