There at night, in the illumination of contrasting partnership norms, be it the seemingly liberated, “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell” policies of sadly beautiful Palm Springs marriage, or sexless lesbian bed victims who either choose to deny their ghostly existence or claw their way back toward sensation…
There in the power bottom afterglow of newly confirmed relational status and haunted by parallel love lives which will echo and color the weeks that follow… leaving overstimulated, near madness, hyper inspired unanswered inquiries and nearly celibate nightmares…
There under the weight of all that came before is where we must truly define ourselves as WE – as I reverate all possibilities and all combinations.
On Brian’s July twenty-fourth forty-second birthday I’m wearing the “Allergic to Sunlight” shirt that I bought in late summer two-thousand to wear for my beloved Shawn (F)… I include his last initial because there were two Shawns of note that year.
I switch the E & A Trains on forty-second street…
“Strike that! Reverse it!”
I almost miss that transfer as I write about my Shawn R. experiences; I was wearing the same shirt the night that I met him in October two-thousand… before we were lovers, before we were friends, and before he recently fucked me again; bringing closure and revelations, inspiration and fascination with all that this act entailed and all that lay revealed in the aftermath.
Holding him up, bare chested, helping him piss with as much dignity as we could manage in his drunken confessional state…
“Is that guy really your type?”
His dream was an unsuspected plot twist which he felt had ruined his character; an angry embarrassing accusation which left me flattered, confused and deeply protective.
His dream inspired a jealousy that I couldn’t have fathomed.
He never told me the details and I never asked.
This early stumble, an unexpected crucible which allowed for nothing less than hot hard facts inspired by revelatory dreams which haunted us both.
My ego suggests his version of the truth might have been why he drank to such excess that night… but who am I kidding?
That’s what alcoholics do.
And yet his light of day honesty united us more than any nighttime weaknesses could have shattered us… transforming anger into respect, confusion into admiration… and an unexplored threatening lust into the building blocks of a friendship long shadowed by an insistent innocent eroticism.
People tell me that I am strong, for how else could I continue after years of illness & betrayal?
I survive in pieces.
My emotional reactions are out of proportion to any given stimuli; often paralyzing.
I weigh each circumstance with fear and suspicion, even when experience should teach me otherwise; yet it’s false negative is itself reinforced through my inability to achieve normality.
My scars have faded yet they are still visible for any who have an eye for them.
I am not easily gifted.
I should be grateful for any gesture yet I’ve never learned the trick of it.
In the moment, when reaction is key, I falter.
I stumble to correct myself but fail.
Sometimes the struggle is internal and weighs on me for hours.
Other times my failure comes to me long after the fact.
Invariably I weep, though I don’t believe that anyone has ever witnessed this, or if they have, I doubt that they have interpreted my tears correctly.
My tears are not subjective.
Shame and remorse, blossoming from my eyes as I contemplate how I can possibly thank those who’ve been slighted by my wounded psyche.
From January 1994 until September 2012 I used to go dancing once or twice a week.
Well, there was about a year in there that I didn’t go as often.
I was in a relationship and I felt like going dancing was like stepping out… because the way I danced usually led to men dancing with me.
Later, I realized that dancing gave me joy, and I resumed my weekly routine.
But in the last 6.5 years I’ve only danced a handful of times.
The change happened when I moved to New York.
My mode of transportation changed from private to public… and getting around all dolled up became a slightly more frightening experience.
In 4 months I’ll be 45 years old and maybe 45 year olds don’t go dancing anymore.
People always tell me I look younger, and usually I feel younger too… but lately I’ve been feeling old.
Death has taken far too many friends and idols in the last several years for me to pretend that the time I have left won’t just continue to dwindle.
I tell myself I can decide to change. To change back.
But I remind myself that I need to be out tomorrow and Monday and I should take things slowly.
And I know that I’ve somehow gotten old, or at least that my thinking has changed over time, that I think in responsible bursts before everything blurs and diminishes… fading away into dust.
You can never set foot in the same river twice with dreams underfoot and genes that are spliced; perhaps you may try but it will not suffice…
You can never set foot in the same river twice.
People cross bridges before they arrive; they make split decisions and think they will thrive; Perhaps it’s success that they get out alive…
People cross bridges before they arrive.
When people cross bridges they often are scared; they change their positions but are not prepared; too big for their britches; too young to be spared…
When people cross bridges they often are scared.
To those who cross bridges before they can come, they seem smart for wishes when really they’re dumb; they jump out of fear because tears make them numb…
To those who cross bridges before they can come.
Those who cross bridges before they can come to them,
Those who choose ig.nor.ance rather than con.se.quence,
half-assed and shivered with current despair…
They pass over rivers that weren’t even there.
Written by Jason Wright April 14, 2019
For River Phoenix, whose death at age 23 affected the end result.
For Anna Suisebrick, who provided part of the concept.
For Celine Tobias, who has shared her fear of crossing over bridges.
and for Carol Jackson, who once shared this sentiment, which I never forgot.
All my love!
Edit: Carol Jackson passed away in August of 2024, but she definitely saw this. She had no memory of passing on this wisdom to me, but I assured her that she definitely had and she kindly took the compliment. I didn’t see her often as an adult but I’d have liked to and when we did see one another, it was always a moment filled with love.
I remember you, the you before now, the you from back then.
You were older than me but you were young when I was, glistening nakedly as you ran in for water after yearly mile run.
I didn’t know you well, though we smiled for one another; we drank and frequented the same bars… you, weaving in and out of my existence… you wrote letters from prison to my dearest of friends, and I thought perhaps you had died.
I drove you home once; but I doubt you’d remember it; you were drunk and clinging to that night’s latest trick.
I was jealous of him as I made sure you both arrived at your home safely, as I ensured your survival and my own cuckoldry… even as you stumbled from my car at gas station to vomit on the sidewalk and on my left rear tire.
You told me you were sorry and you sounded miserable… and that night’s lover looked embarrassed if no less interested in sharing your bed, not that I blamed him… you were beautiful in your blindness and completely unsuspecting.
You were already broken then, but the glinting light from those shards of self shone like diamonds in a world filled with pebbles.
That same night, I drove home alone to my little village farm house, where I sprayed the vomit off my car with a garden hose in the far too bright, sunlit morning.
