I got Aaron to watch the 1997 film “The House of Yes” a long time ago. It’s a favorite of mine, based on the 1990 play “The House of Yes: A Suburban Jacobean Play”, by Wendy MacLeod.
Yesterday, knowing my love of the film, he took me to the Mannes School of Music to see a workshop of a new opera adaptation of the same work, which was a fascinating experience. The performers were students; they were all great. And I got to meet many of the creatives in passing. I also spoke briefly to the 2020 Pulitzer Prize winning Michael R. Jackson, who wrote the book, music, and lyrics for “A Strange Loop”, which I had loved when we saw it on Broadway – but I didn’t realize who he was until after we left. No. I talked to him about John Carpenter and the film “They Live”, which was on a shirt that he was wearing. lol
Years ago, also in part based on my love of “The House of Yes” but also my fanboy crush on Ewan, Aaron also took me to see “The Real Thing”, a play that then starred Ewan McGregor, Maggie Gyllenhaal, Cynthia Nixon and Josh Hamilton. I met them all briefly after the show and they were delightful; we got all their signatures on our poster – and I told Hamilton that I was a huge fan of “The House of Yes”, in which he played Marty – and thanked Ewan for “Velvet Goldmine”. <3
It’s nearly ten years later when a misspoken quote from a movie review, ironically for 1985’s “Consenting Adult”, inspires a stranger to ask me:
“What could you have done sexually, at such a young age?”
That’s a really personal question to spring on someone without even saying hello, but I directed them to my previous essay on the topic, and reading it over for the first time in a long time, I realized that it has indeed been nearly ten years without another entry.
As for what I wrote back then, I actually still like it. I’m satisfied that most of it holds up quite well, with the possible exception of something I wrote about damnation, which was entirely factual, and yet not wholly representative of the truth. It was no lie when I said “I knew early on that I’d rather be who I was and be damned, than live a lie and be saved”, because I longed to be known for who I was. And I came to know that it was far better to be truly known and hated rather than be loved for what I could never be. Love without knowledge is the worst kind of torture. It is illusory, false. It is hatred disguised as acceptance.
What I wrote was entirely factual. On the surface, this assertion seems profound, honest and almost suggestive of heroism. Don’t heroes stand up for what is right and speak truth to power despite the personal cost of doing so? But there are layers of meaning there, which can now be peeled back and examined. Analyzing the substance of those statements brings significant conceptual interpretations to light. Vital and astute characterizations which must be acknowledged if we are to move forward. For there is a profound depth behind those words which I feel to the core of who I am, which could not possibly be expressed via those words alone.
The words were factual. I thought about those things. I said those things. But the words always felt a bit hollow to me. I stood up. I spoke. I spit facts at those who would see me be something other than what I was, but I never felt like I truly existed in any kind of actual gay reality; feeling more like a fan on the sidelines than the star of my own show; a placeholder while the the ones before me were buried, and until the ones who came after had time to fill my spot. Coming of age in a conservative household during a life threatening sexual pandemic was like living in a crucible which burned away everything that wasn’t legitimate, with only essential elements surviving the conflagration that ensued. The problem being that fear in such an environment was a lifesaving gift; a substantially required skill, an indispensable all important necessity for my survival. Eventually the fire died. The smoke cleared. And I was myself. Gay and afraid.
The fire made me what I was, but it also altered my behavior, my ability to act on my physical instincts, in ways that still reverberate to this day. I tried to tell myself that if I became infected and died it would be well worth the sacrifice to be who I was, who I wanted to be – that if the combination of truth and lust led to my annihilation, so be it. I knew many others who felt this way and acted accordingly. I read books, watched movies and loved music that celebrated this philosophy of conviction leading to self destruction; which seemed a greater cause, a higher truth of purpose which was both beautiful and horribly tragic. Except I couldn’t ever quite convince myself that the end justified the means, which prevented me from acting on what I was thinking and feeling, making me feel like an abject failure and a complete and total coward.
Others cruised, hooked up, fucked their brains out, and many, many of them died. Growing up in that tiny village, I was literally surrounded by family, but could ask them for nothing. There was no internet. There was no bulletin board for little gay boys growing up in my neck of the woods; no source for reliable information that might spare me the fate that I feared so very much. I was gay. But I couldn’t enjoy it because I couldn’t relax. I waited. I read and studied. I educated myself as best as I could and I managed to stay alive. But if I was cruised at a record store or the county fair, I never followed where these men wanted to lead me, and where I desperately wanted to follow. And I’ve been told that this is understandable, commendable, impressive & smart, to prepare for the future so that the present couldn’t kill me, and I get that, but to my way of thinking it also feels like this plan of action was a failure on my part; I stood in line and waited for the ride to come, but when push came to shove, I couldn’t ever bring myself to just close my eyes and leap.
Part of me knows that my guilt and shame aren’t that simple but that’s the problem, isn’t it? It’s complicated. The feelings of my own inadequacy and loss are there despite knowing that my fear more than likely kept me alive, back when sex could kill, and often did. And no one, except apparently myself, could blame me for my reaction; not to a plague that wiped out most of the generation that came before me. And maybe I could fully embrace my seemingly insufficient carnality, were it only a symptom of my past, like a bad dream that has faded into the light.
I suppose that my dilemma is that all of that which came before and served to keep me alive has never eroded, despite the circumstances that inspired my responses having long been cured or defeated. What good is a placeholder after the place has been filled by countless others who have no fear of something they never experienced? That I’m aware enough to ask these questions suggests possibilities, but is that awareness also part of my problem? And whatever the answer to that question, for what can I use my awareness so that it better serves my needs and wants? How do I harness what I have, to achieve what I lack? I can’t help wondering, if I were to be infected now, would that make my denial in the past that much more pointless and my present all the more tragic? Or has my survival somehow balanced those scales? Do I strive to finally conquer the fear that saved me or does it simply forever haunt my existence with its often unwanted but factually useful protection? Am I even capable of feeling one without the other?
In the last 24 hours, I’ve had two close friends tell me that they hate how they look because they have aged. These people were not joking and these people, IMO, are also not unattractive. I don’t always think I look that great, but something I try to keep in mind is that when I look back on pictures where I thought I was ugly (most of my childhood) and in times when I thought I looked really terrible, I find that I was never as bad looking as I feared that I was. I’m sure some might disagree with my assessment, but I’m also keenly aware that we can’t please everyone and that trying to do so is a fool’s errand. Also, aging is a privilege. There are downsides, because there always are, but surely, for most people there are at least as many positives. Many people that I’ve known didn’t make it to 30, or 40, or 50. None of us have a guarantee for more time. That sometimes weighs on me, but I try to let it inspire me to be more active and to enjoy the time that I have, which isn’t always easy for me, but is definitely better than the alternative.
I spend a lot of time thinking about death. I’m fine. Really. But, if one is lucky enough to age, invariably, people you know will die. Sometimes it is expected. Sometimes it is surprising. But stuff comes up. Like, how I’m now older than people that I used to know, who were my elders. Omni. Kelli Parker. Aunt Shawn. Johnny Vaughn. Just a few. And boyfriends. I’ve now outlived 4 boyfriends. And many others that I flirted with and had wanted to date. And then there are the many, many celebrities, who I never met. Brandon Lee. Freddie Mercury. Judy Garland. Kurt Cobain. Michael Jackson. River Phoenix. Scott Weiland. Steve Mcqueen. Tupac Shakur. Whitney Houston. I could go on; probably for hours.
As I posted the other day, I found out on Friday, that my old friend Brian had died the week before. I met him on March 19, 1992, which was a very memorable morning for me. That same morning I also met a whole host of other interesting people, including Rachel Lynn Burleson Eanes. I could never remember her last name but in an odd conversation at the time, it came up that we both had the middle name Lynn and that we had the same birthday – only she was exactly 2 years younger than me, less than a month younger than Brian. This morning I realized I might use her middle name and birthdate to help me find her. Only she died on September 29, 2004. Fuck.
I used to keep a blog. And I wondered if there might be an entry for that day which could clue me into what I’d been up to, only to see that on September 29, 2004, I was attending the funeral of my friend Kevin Clark. I had only met him a year or two before but he’d been struggling with kidney issues for a very long time. He died on September 25, 2004. Here’s what I wrote the day of his funeral:
Wednesday, September 29, 2004
I didn’t get much sleep last night, getting ready for Kevin’s funeral. The car ride was horrible, and my head still aches; but I just woke up from a dream in which Kevin survived, and the world was as it should be.
He was still in a hospital, but there were no terrifying machines to keep him alive, and Kevin’s Grandfather was there, playing with a baby, at the foot of the bed. Laurie, Mark & Mollie went out to take in the incredible view of the mountains, and Kevin said I looked sleepy. Kevin looked relaxed, healthy, but concerned about me. He pulled back the sheets and invited me to lay down in his enormous, comfortable looking bed, and I cuddled in and he laughed.
It was like one of the hugs we’d given each other in these final weeks, given in a hospital bed, only this one was under the best of circumstances, and made us both smile. Phil was there too; also playing with the baby, and he agreed with Kevin that it was too hot for blankets; saying he almost melted when Mark & I took care of him at our condo last summer & that he’d almost drowned in sweat under all the blankets. Kevin laughed, & I woke up hugging my pillow, hearing Kevin’s laughter, and I thought: We never took care of Phil, did we? It didn’t hit me for a few seconds that Kevin was dead.
The dream was comforting, and it was painful to wake up from; because Kevin isn’t in this world any longer, which made me cry. The first time I’ve cried about Kevin’s death. I was prepared for it, and it seemed like the best thing for Kevin at the end. I didn’t cry at the funeral home, because Kevin wasn’t there; his body lay in the coffin, but I couldn’t believe it was him; Kevin never sat that still. And I’d told several jokes to make my friends smile while we were there, and the thing pretending to be Kevin just lay there, which was the real tip off; Kevin always laughed at my jokes; never misinterpreting them as anything more than my own way of dealing.
I only saw Kevin in person, something like 8 times; and the last few of those visits was in a hospital room within walking distance of my condo. I always made sure to hug him, and be direct, and try to make him smile.
Monday May 20th, 2004, the last time I saw him, Mark & I told him we would bring him anything he needed; a laptop so he could write or check his email; a video camera if he wanted to record a message; or we could fly anyone in that he wanted to see a final time. We all knew that his chances for survival were slim, and I wanted to be clear about how cool I thought he was, and if there was anything he wanted in those final days, I wanted him to know that we could provide them. He said no to all of that; he said he was tired, and that he would soon be dead, or he would be better, and he would welcome both at this point. He told us to tell all his friends that he loved them. And then I hugged him goodbye, and I kissed him; the whole time worried that I was going to accidentally rip out some tube or device that was strapped on or into him; which again made him laugh in my ear when I whispered my concern, before he hugged me again even harder.
I hugged his Father goodbye too; amazed yet again by his family’s strength & support. People say that Kevin was a fighter, and he was. I’ve known so many others who were so opposite of him and I believe it has something to do with Kevin’s family and friends. His family was so loving & so supportive & so THERE, that Kevin was gifted with a home in which he could grow to be such an amazing person; and we all reaped the rewards of that love. Every time I’ve hugged his family since I’ve met them; every time I’ve looked at them, I’ve silently thanked them for the environment they provided, which produced such a loving friend.
The end, right? Only it wasn’t. Kevin e-mailed me the next day. I don’t know how he got to a computer; or why he changed his mind. I had written him some email in the past; 3 or 4 messages to find out how he was but he had never responded; he finally did, and this is what he wrote:
this you jayson?? i just a have a shprt time, checking adressess tanks for all youre help
love kkevin
I got to tell Kevin how I felt about him, & let him know how much I cared, and that I would do anything I could for him. I got to hug him goodbye, and he hugged me too, his grip was so strong though his body was so frail. I guess I haven’t been feeling sad so much as lucky, that I knew him at all, and that when his time came, we had those moments, and this goodbye, and the circle was complete.
And now I have this dream in my head of Kevin, happy & healthy, and making all his friends smile, and I choose to feel lucky for that as well.
The person who gave me directions to Kevin’s funeral, was Jason Lyons. I met him through the same circle of friends who had introduced me to Kevin. We hung out twice on our own, but never for long. I can’t remember if I ever asked him out, but I had wanted to – I do remember the timing was never right. When I met him, I knew he was kind and that he had great friends. But when I actually spoke to him, which took a long time because he was often very quiet around me, I knew he was something very special. We chatted online for hours. We spoke at a bar when we ran into each other there; he was on his own that time, and it was nice just being with him. We had very different tastes in music. lol But nobody’s perfect. Jason died on December 4, 2017. He was another one I found out about after the fact. Partially because while we had friends in common, I don’t think anyone realized we ever spoke. And partially just because I was pretty distant from everyone we did have in common. Geographically, at least.
Anyways, my mind searches for patterns, even when there aren’t any. But having lost Brian, I searched for Rachel. But Rachel died the day I was at Kevin’s funeral, by way of directions from Jason. And of the five of us I alone live to tell the tale. And that’s really fucking surreal.
This is Brian. I met him on March 19, 1992. We were pretty close for about a year and then fell out of touch for several more. I called him on his birthday in (I think) 2003. We were friends on Facebook but never really talked on there. Just one of those people I see scroll across my feed. Our lives just seemed so far removed from one another. I saw his final post on February 27. Something about a car, which was pretty typical for him. I smiled and kept scrolling. He died on February 28. A heart attack, according to a tribute on his obituary. He would have been 50 in July.
I don’t have any photos of us together. I took some of him with another friend of ours in the fall of 1992 and I posted them here years ago. The photos above aren’t mine per say. One of his ex-gfs reached out to me many years ago (in late 2002) and these were her photos that she shared with me. I don’t know how to get in touch with her. The e-mail address I had then is long gone. I saved these at random and never bothered to do anything with them, so I’m sharing them now.
This is Brian William Lounsberry. Born July 24, 1976. I always remembered his birthday. I have lots of memories of him, which I have always been grateful for. We never fought. And though we fell out of touch, when I did know him, I loved him very much. I hope he was happy until the end, and that his soul is at peace.
