I slept well. I made good time on my way to my doctor’s office. I took the A train from 181st to Columbus Circle (59th), then I walked to 55th and headed East to the Preston Robert Tisch Center for Men’s Health, where many of my doctors practice, including my G.I. Specialist (who I saw today), my therapist, who I generally see weekly via telemedicine / video chat, and one of my two primary care physicians. I’ve also seen migraine specialists there, one psychiatrist appointment and a few other odds and ends.
A man exiting the building as I entered complimented me on my Concrete Blonde shirt. I’ve gotten several compliments on the shirts I wear at this location, often by doctors. Aaron had a doctor there that helped him with some back problems; his doctor approached me when I was there on my own (and didn’t know that I even knew Aaron) and complimented me on a vintage Hellraiser shirt that I had worn that day. Anyways, the compliment surprised me and made me feel good. The doctor I saw today always amuses me. He’s very funny, very fast, and he thinks and speaks very quickly – which he knows and and has used to his advantage in is career. He’s quirky. I like him. And he’s friends with my therapist who works on the same floor.
I took a slightly different route home, walking along the bottom of Central Park. I spoke to my grandmother on the phone and tried to describe the park and the buildings I was walking by. I took photos. When I got home I chilled, hydrated and had a couple of fun conversations with my cousin Katie, and I traded texts with Nathan. I was going to go to choir tonight but I’m getting a headache and my stomach is not great, and Aaron just left. Maybe if the headache and stomach issues improve I’ll catch a train down to the practice, but I’m not sure if Aaron has my music or not, so maybe it’s best to just stay home – but I would have liked to have seen everyone.
Oh. And I’ve now been outside 17 days in a row!
Today’s title quote comes from “Don’t Wait For Us” by the French indie-pop band BLOW. It is the second track on their self-titled debut EP.
Aaron leaves before me for his meeting and he kisses me goodbye.
Other Aaron, the Aaron that we share, that Aaron messages us both about loneliness and homophobia.
Mark messages me about my Aaron’s former employers.
I see that Michael is in town and let him know I’ll be in the village around nine, near Stonewall, on Christopher Street.
Christopher calls me on the train and though the timing is down to the wire I tell him I’ll stop by if I can.
Poetry pours out of us in faster than usual process.
Michael can see me but I meet him at his hotel near Times Square to be closer to Chris’s Washington Heights.
We go to Blazing Saddles, Rise past Posh / Industry to Ivy because the straighter crowd isn’t obsessed with RuPaul.
He drinks margaritas. I drink whiskey. We talk about our decade old relationship; how he had fallen for me before I had fallen for him, only much too late – such terrible timing, but at least we’re friends now!
We talk about Mark, who messaged me earlier, how our relationship / friendship extends over years, and I told him about Aaron / Aaron & Christopher.
I walked him back to his hotel with a quick kiss and a big hug before catching the A train (from 42nd to 175th) where I stumble sleepily to Christopher’s new apartment and we crawl through someone’s bedroom window to take in the remarkable view.
Later he tells me about life and we trade stories before I stumble home in the dark Friday morning.
Saturday, Aaron drives Michael & I to the New York City AIDS Memorial.
Michael saw “Afterglow” the night before; a wonderful play filled with naked men, and believe me, I’ve seen them.
We walk to the Stonewall National Monument in Christopher Park, the Stonewall Inn, past the Ad Hoc Collective Cafe (where my poetry meetings are held), past PIECES and then catch a train down to Chinatown & Little Italy so I can get some jewelry.
Later we head to Central Park by way of Marvel headquarters and the Columbus Circle Shops to meet some of his friends who we somehow never connect with.
We walk to the Bethesda Fountain which we love because it’s in “Angels in America” and it’s where the Avengers parted ways… before heading back to Columbus Circle so he can attend “Naked Boys Singing” and I can catch a train back to the Heights so I can shower, put on something warmer and go meet Aaron and several of our friends for a birthday celebration in Jock Douchebag Heaven which as it so happens, ends up being in the Meatpacking District.
The rain on the leaves and the wet sidewalk were like one of my favorite paintings.
The fragmented message coming through was a surprise and a new opportunity – new experiences and new destinations – all that I wanted this day to be about, only brought to perfection by sharing it with you.
Your voice was distracted… maybe the slightest bit annoyed.
Maybe that’s not quite right, but there was something going on beneath the surface.
Maybe you dreaded hearing from me now. Maybe you didn’t want to have this conversation. Or maybe you were just distracted by your students. I don’t know.
The show I’d read about was at 7:30; you thought I couldn’t be there in time but I was only 6 blocks away.
You thought I wouldn’t want to go, so why the offer? I find so much of it confusing.
You said the ticket was mine until 6pm, but at 6:02 (when I finally got through) you were taking someone else instead.
Should I ask you to ask them to relinquish their ticket. The ticket that was mine…except that it never was.
You ask if I should ask them to relinquish the ticket.
Relinquish is a verb that means to voluntarily cease to keep or claim; to give up.
So the ticket was given but not to me; it was not mine to keep or claim despite the promise of 6pm.
And now I would have to beg someone to relinquish what should never have been theirs so that what never was mine could fulfill the promise of last night’s imaginings.
Standing there, in the rain, cold and wet in that beautiful painting I wept when you said you’d call me back.
I wasn’t sure where I should go. Maybe there was still a chance? Coffee shop on the corner. Hot food and cold peppermint. And the return call letting me know that you couldn’t reach her.
She was on her way with the ticket that I’d been promised on a rare day when I wasn’t vomiting too much and had travelled through tunnels to reach the famous Central Park.
Did I want to meet her? You asked me. No. I didn’t want to meet the woman who would sit with you 6 blocks from where I sat in the coffee shop. No. That would hurt too much. I didn’t want to cry in this crowded little beverage store.
I walked back to the park. I called friends but almost nobody answered. I spoke to my mother… trying to get back in the painting but I’d been locked out.
I left voicemails and texts but there was nobody there to console me.
I took the train home. I walked to work and got my money. I smiled and I tried to get back in the painting but it was so far away that it was all but faded now.
I came home. I found some amount of solace here. I found peace in Facebook posts that I wouldn’t tag you in. But when I went to text you that I loved you and that I hoped you’d had a good time I read the rest of the texts you’d sent me on the train home… and then I was angry and hurt again.
I don’t have a ticket to give you. I can’t even offer it to the bitch you went with because she had every right to go; far more right than me. Because she had a ticket, you see.
I’m angry. I’m hurting. I’m angry that I’m hurting and hurting because I’m angry.
The lie of 6pm hurts me. And the thought (before the truth) that my being there so close to the opera house meant something; that light hearted faith hurt me too.
I don’t have a ticket. But I have something more valuable. I have forgiveness.
Forgiveness for the lie of 6pm can be yours if you tell me you’ll never again put me in a position to beg for someone else to voluntarily cease to keep something you offered me first.
I need forgiveness too. Forgiveness from you for being so caught off guard again that I refused to answer.
I should have demanded that fucking ticket, as you’ll likely tell me.
Forgiveness for myself for allowing my belief to hurt me. I can do that. I’m in a strange painting of my life after all.
I’m self aware on a level I’ve never been before. And I can forgive myself for thinking there was something waiting for me at the opera house door.
The painting of my life is wild and vivid and it clashes with the world around me, and it illuminates my every flaw and finds them beautiful.
Tell me you love me I say to you and the reflection before me. Tell me you respect me. And tell me there will be no more broken 6pm promises.
Tell me that and I will relinquish whatever you like.
