Mammoth 2012

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Ein Augenblick

"Maybe it's not like that, you know? Maybe you don't stop looking for something better. I think it's how I felt about that apartment I saw the other day. I was like, 'Yes, I know there might be something better out there. But it doesn't matter anymore. I love this apartment. I don't care if there's a better one.

Maybe it's like that."

Throwback to an Old Journal

August 25th, 2005, 1:01 AM

I felt like the first entry should be special and resemblant (well, that's not a word) of who I am. Today, I am 16 [years] and 34 days old. I used to have a black suede journal which I had written in since I was 13 years old. I lost it on a stupid airline flight to a fucking Alaskan cruise.

Oh well. I currently believe that a journal isn't a necessity until you're 16 anyway. Maybe that's when reading this will be an actual interest. I like this journal. You can easily rip the bad pages out. If you truly, deeply regret them.

Right now, I try not to have regrets. It's easier. Right now, I'm a closet bisexual. Tonight however, that secret is leaking out, for the first time in my attention (nice grammar there, Ryan). I am not ready. I don't know when I'll be. But I know it's not now or tomorrow or next week.

Tonight, I plan to kneel beside my bed, and pray to a god I'm not sure I believe in for the first time in my life.

For my sanity. For a maintenance of order. For my reputation (There was one?). For my disease. For me, and my future.

I do feel "emo" right now (...you think?). But I am writing how I feel. Why would I lie to you? This journal feels great. Better. Right. My writing grows ambiguous. Goodnight.

September 30th, 2005

Let me elaborate on my disease aforementioned, although I doubt I'll ever forget the weeks of grueling pain (Nice use of the word aforementioned. Wait...).

I developed a disorder, HSP, where my blood vessels swell, and my joints ache, and my kidneys fuck themselves up. Fun.

This disease, however, HAS managed to fuck up my social and school lives. I need home schooling because I'm too far behind, and my severe exhaustion prevents any social outtings with my friends. Death, I know.

Guess what else? Some asshole is believed to have started huge brush fires that are currently attacking (Another winner). I had to EVACUATE my house. I packed my memory and letter boxes, my RENT shit, my guitar, and clothes. WHOO!

I'm going to sleep, but I am safe at home. I'm just wishing I'll either die or get better.

Just So We're All Clear

When I have a baby, I'll hold it forever.

And it's not going to fall off a bridge.

And it's not going to have an intestinal blockage.

And it's not going to fall from the second story of the Staples Center.

And it's not going to die at the hands of a falling toy box lid.

And it's not going to need a leash because I'll hold it forever.

And it's not going to die from SIDS.

And it's not going to grow up to resent me.

And it's not going to have an eating disorder.

And it's not going to grow up in a hostile household.

And it's not going mistrust me.

And it's going to find a friend in me.

And it's going to get everything it needs from me.

And it's going to have open arms to cry in.

And it's going to be whoever it wants to be.

And it's going to college.

And it's going to experiment, I know.

And it's going to know what's right and what's not.

And it's going to have good judgment.

And it's going to be beautiful, no matter what.

And it's going to wear baby clothes, probably from Target.

And I'm going to cook for it.

And I'm going to speak German to it.

And I'm going to guide it without being too pushy.

And I'm going to spoil it, but it won't be spoiled.

And I'm going to give it advice.

And I'm going to protect it but try not to constrict it.

And I'm going to make time for it. Always.

And I'm going to clean up its messes.

And I'm going to be so proud of everything it does.

And I'm going to cry at least 100,000 times.

Stream of Consciousness

Text Message from Ryan Roschke (8:02:49): did you make it home alright? did the crazy homeless man kill you?

sendingsendingsendingsending message sent that's fine he's fine why wouldn't he be? but i told him to text me why didn't he text me why hasn't he texted me? what's the walk like he must have been home by now it's been way more than five minutes and that walk never takes me more than five minutes it's not like he forgot in the span of five minutes

And he's stuck on the street and he's surrounded. All they want is his money. But he doesn't have any money. He just went to the gym. All he has is his student identification and his keys...

why hasn't he texted me back yet it says it was delivered i'm calling him

I open my phone and I type "JO." His name shows up efficiently under the highlighted bar. I press the send button and snap my phone shut and press it into my ear.

(RING)

He's on the ground and they're kicking the shit out of him. God his face looks so bloody... But they can't stop kicking him, they won't stop kicking him. He can't stop crying, and he can't start screaming.

(RING)

answer your phone answer your phone god damnit answer it what if someone else answers it? like someone who's attacking him right now some sort of screenplay written mockery to alert the narrator that his friend is in trouble. a sneer and a smile and the most disgusting "hello" on the other side of the phone i would just drop it and run

(RING)

i should just go should i go should i run i'm the only one who knows where he is right now

Three swift kicks and he spits up blood and maybe a tooth on the sidewalk.

(RING)

"Your call has been forward-" (god damnit) "-to an automated-" (fuck) "-voice messaging-"(FUCK) "-system. six, one, zero-"

And I hang up.

Text Message from Ryan Roschke (8:10:22): you better be dead because if you're not i'm killing you.

Fuckfuckfuckwhatdoido i'll run i can run i'll run and find him and i'll call him again

(RING)

I'm running out the front door past my smoking roommates. I probably look like a fool, but it doesn't really matter at this point. My shitty tennis shoes flop recklessly on the cement.

Another kick glides ruthlessly across John's face, catching on his jaw and releasing his crippling spine into ripples down his back. He's not even conscious anymore.

please just let him be okay please

(RING)

I skip down every other stair; it's a trait I picked up in my house back home. Usually it would be used for racing downstairs towards a warm dinner. And because I'm a little bit hyperactive. I burst out of the gate, I don't even realize how cold it is.

There's a loud crack of a rib as the heel of a boot rockets down on the side of his flank

god damnit where the fuck are you john

(RING)

And I burst out the gate, and I'm sprinting past the lazy sleeping hobos faster than they can wake up and yell drunken profanities at me.

They hear me coming and run away. John's an unconscious pile of black and blue flesh on the frigid pavement. There's too much blood and sweat and tears to tell which is which

please answer please answer please

(RING)

"Your call has been for-" (FUCK) "-ward-" (FUCK) "-ed to an-" (FUCKFUCKFUCK) "-automated voice mess-

And I hang up again. And I stop running.

this is stupid this is so fucking stupid i'm probably just crazy but what do i DO? his roommate emily his roommate i can call her

I open my phone and mash my thumb into the "E" button and then the "M" button. I scroll through the five Emilys in my phone until I reach the correct one. I mash "SEND," and slam my phone shut and press it to my ear.

(RING)

And I start walking again.

pick UP god damnit please just pick up

(RING)

"Hello?"

"Hey! (thank fucking god) It's Ryan! Are you home?"

"Yeah," she says, "What's up?"

please please please

There's so much blood soaked into his little gym tank. There's so much blood.

let him be there please

"Can you (please) tell me if John's home (PLEASE)? He said he'd text me when he got home and he hasn't yet."

"Oh yeah, of course! JOHN?" She yelled.

god please maybe it'll all be okay

John's just checking his Facebook and he doesn't hear his phone vibrating on his bed. John's body is too hard to see because he's not totally in the streetlamp's glow. He's half enveloped by shadow but I can still see it's him. I can tell it's him. I know it's him before I even reach him.

"Oh, it looks like he's in the shower!"

I stop walking.

He's not in his room and he's not on the sidewalk bleeding. He's in the showering. He's lathering soap and rubbing it on his tanned skin. He drinks water as it streams out of the shower head, just like he always does.

"Are you sure? It's definitely him?" I've already turned around and started walking in the opposite direction towards home.

"Yeah I'm pretty sure! Yes, his door's open and his light's on."

god damnit thank fucking god

His room is empty but flooded with light from the lamp on his desk. His gym clothes are strewn on the floor, his water bottle sits idly on his desk, and his cell phone sits among fluffed pockets of his comforter, blinking incessantly, engorged with my worries and my overactive imagination.

"Oh god, thanks! Jesus Christ. When he gets out tell him he's a little bitch and he should text me."

"Okay! I'm sorry you were worried!"

I can still see his broken body, I run up to check the pulse.

Text Message from John Going (8:28:02): Ahhhhh im so sorry! I was being a doof in the shower!"

Text Message from Ryan Roschke (8:30:14): i hate you so much. don't ever do that again.

My hands are covered in his blood. It's caked under his fingernails.

if i have his blood on my hands it could never wash off i'd always see it and god all the things i've never said that i wanted to say what if i'd never been able to say them i'd never forgive myself

Text Message from John Going (8:32:30): I'm sorry! Haha i'm fine! Nothing to worry about! I won't forget to text you next time!

Text Message from Ryan Roschke (8:33:29): you better not. you scared me.

Post Script

I'm really sorry that a lot of this blog is based solely on these grand generalizations or these greater implications everything has for me. I don't really know how to change it. But maybe it's something that will evolve over time. Or maybe that's just how I write and you should get over it. Maybe it's just backlash for all the generalizations I'm not allowed to put in my scholastic endeavors.

Maybe I just over-think things too much.

Maybe even this post script has a subtle hint of generalization in it.

Maybe I'm just generalizing about how much I generalize.

Damnit.

Why I Do Vinyasa Yoga

"Pigeon is my favorite pose," Simona said. "It doesn't flow, it lasts a long time, you are forced to confront it."

Simona is on the short side, average body type, short springy brown hair, an indelible happy disposition, figurative blushing rosy cheeks, and some sort of foreign accent I can't place. I'm not particularly fond of Simona as a yoga instructor. I don't think she's quite grasped the necessary flow, the wax and wane of pushing students with instructions and letting the yoga do the teaching. Plus, she's incredibly young. Her voice is immature, and her instruction skeletons seem too contrived. Every once in a while, though, she leads a great practice, and I know she's just a little farther along on the same path I'm traversing.

It was the first time I had done pigeon with Simona, and also one of the first times Simona said something worthwhile. It was something along these lines:

"Pigeon is a difficult pose. It's uncomfortable. There's a lot of sensation, and many people often confuse it with pain. After a while, your body grows uncomfortable, and wants to shift, wants to move out of the position. But you can't listen to yourself. Your mind will tell you all sorts of things to get you to move out of the pose. It will tell you you're in pain. It will tell you you can't handle the sensation. But the most important thing to do is to stay there. You must focus on your breath, and you must breathe through the discomfort."

It's true, too. It's not some bullshit courtesy of another brainwashed yoga instructor. Pigeon is intense. I'm so antsy whenever I practice it. I constantly shift positions. But not matter what, I try to never exit the pose.

Simona continued, my mind tried to force me to outsource my focus. "This is my favorite post, because I like to apply it to my life situations, too. Just because something is difficult, doesn't mean I need to escape it. I must face it. I must breathe through it."

A little platitudinous, sure, but it still resonated with me. Maybe just because I eat that double entendre bullshit right up. Last time, I wrote about why Bikram's heated yoga carried these cathartic implications with me. Hot yoga could transport me back to my weakest, most vulnerable moments. But this yoga, with moments like this, this yoga is a constant struggle and an embedded reminder of the fact that I can't control everything. Sure, I can fall to the side on my hip and release the deep, muscular stretch that the pigeon elicits, but it's not going to help me if I do. Because you can't always just rock off onto your hip and release everything.

It just got me thinking. I still have hard times. I still have weak days, I still feel ashamed of my scars, I still thirst to prove myself stronger than ever. And these vulnerabilities will probably always be a part of me, no matter how small I make them. I'll have to encounter them though. And I'll have to encounter bigger things that will be beyond my control, and I just have to remember to breathe through it and know that there's an end.

And I guess if I took deep breaths and got through everything I've already been through, I can breathe through anything else, right?

It's moments like these though. That's why I like doing yoga. Some days it's such a struggle, but it's worth it to learn these basic life rules occasionally along the way. Even the simplest sentence, like, "Just relax, and your muscles can stretch even farther," even that means something to me.

Classic Example #3

So here we are again. Just another example of a moment where one shelf fell and the other ones did too, either because they wanted to fit in or they just wanted to spite me. Last Friday didn't start out bad either! In this case, the new joke at my expense was set into motion by one single unfortunate decision on my part. And then the cataclysmic chain of events transpired, relentless, until I was in a puddle on the floor. Or maybe just until I was sitting in my car screaming until my lungs grew hoarse and the windows vibrated.

I was pretty excited that day. The sun was shining, if I recall correctly, and everything was fine. I was going to go to Denver, Colorado for the weekend. I wanted to visit my cousin Kyla, but I also was using it as a means of escape; Berkeley feels stifling this semester. Everything was going according to plan, I packed my bags ahead of time, I left for the airport with a decent time cushion, etc. I called my mom to tell her I was on my way to the freeway, and then I had the sudden thought that I didn't have nearly enough time to get to the airport. Just a few blocks from the bank, I turned around and headed for the freeway. And this one decision is what lead to the day's unravel.

It didn't hit me until I saw the sign that said, "LAST OAKLAND EXIT," and I thought, "FUCK." I didn't have money for the bridge toll. This had been the whole reason I was going to go to the bank in the first place. And now I didn't have bridge toll. I couldn't rely on luck, I couldn't hope that a benevolent toll taker might allow me to slink by without giving money. I pulled off into the LAST OAKLAND EXIT, and decided to try to find a bank to withdraw some money.

Now, as you may or may not know, the most westward point of Oakland is a huge industrial area filled with groaning machinery and gargantuan gnarled metal structures. It's right on the bay, and there's no sign of civilization beyond the titanium heartbeat of the endless trucks, boats, cranes, and lifts. Everything seems to operate by some sort of mechanical will. There wasn't a person in sight the whole time I was down there. That is, until I found the one person I'd never want to find.

I pulled off the freeway, trying to keep my calm. This would be easy. There would probably be a gas station within a block or so and I could just get some cash and be on my way. Turned out to be much more difficult than that. I drove along the confusing, circular roads, all the while feeling as though I was passing the same industrial yard over and over again. My tiny Scion tC was a small guppy among the myriad whale-sized 18 wheelers. I swerved around the trucks, irritated, trying to find the smallest sign of convenience. Nothing. Nothing. I turned around, angry, annoyed, and desperate just to make it to the airport in one piece. I thought I was going back the exact way I came, but everything looked as foreign and familiar is it had looked before. I began to panic. I just wanted to get out in one piece. And that's when I got pulled over.

Fuck. Was I speeding? There's no way he caught me speeding. What the hell does he want I just need to get to the airport God I just have to cry maybe if I cry he'll let me go

I rolled down the window.

"Sir, you were stopped on the train tracks. I'm going to need your license and registration." I started actually shaking. The rest was a little bit of an over-dramatization. I was struck with the fear that I wasn't even sure if I had replaced my registration with the new one my mother mailed to me. I grabbed the "expired" registration and frantically and exasperatingly rummaged through my car, desperately in search of another registration sheet until the officer interrupted me. "What are you doing?"

"Trying.... to find... (I added a shaky composure to my voice and the quavering of a throat on the brink of tears) ... my registration."

"Aren't you holding it in your hand?"

"It's... I think it's expired (sniffle)."

"I think it's fine, just give it to me."

I had to act fast. I had to do something. I started to "break down" and fumble with my words, entering into a delirious, run-on sentence that bordered on dribbling and blabbering. It sounded something like, "I just... I... oh God, I don't even know where I am and I have to get tpo the airport and I just wanted bridge toll and I don't have cash and I don't know where I am I'm freaking out I just want to get out of here.."

The officer paused. "Where are you flying today?"

"Home. I need to go home, this week was so hard and I had a breakdown, oh God oh God oh God..."

"Where's home for you?" He was holding my license.

Fuck. "Boulder, Colorado," I lied.

"Alright, let me see what I can do." I played my part well, I pretended to have some sort of manic episode while he went to his squad car. When he came back he started to give me directions to the bank, and then he stopped. "You know what, what's toll right now? Five dollars? What if I just give you five dollars?"

I'd rather suffer and find the bank if it meant you not giving me that fucking ticket in your hand. "I... uh... no, I couldn't do that."

"No it's totally fine." I took out his wallet, and handed me five dollars. Then he asked me to sign my ticket. I think it's the only time I've met an oxymoron in person. So then I continued on my tumultuous quest to get to the airport in time for my flight, five-dollar bill clutched (semi) triumphantly in my hand. I followed the super nice asshole's directions to the freeway, and made it to the tollbooth.

So... between the hours of 10:00 AM and 3:00 PM, the toll to cross the Bay Bridge is exactly five dollars. And then, at 3:00 PM, the fee increases a dollar. Bitches need to make extra money as soon as rush hour starts. Guess what time I made it to the tollbooth. 3:06 PM. All I could do was proffer my five dollars and hope for the best.

"Hi, um... I only have five dollars."

"The toll is six dollars."

"But I don't have-"

"We accept anything. Pennies, nickels, dimes, quarters, toll is six dollars."

"Fine." I started digging into my little stupid ashtray change dish in my car's console; at this point it only contained pennies and foreign coins. I started counting one by one, just because I wanted to be extra annoying. Cars began to cluster behind me and honk angrily. I kept counting. Seventy three cents. I gave it to the toll man. "That's all I have." He gave me a skeptical look, and I dug like, three more pennies out of the ashtray. Then he begrudgingly let me go. Awesome.

By this time I was already incredibly defeated and on the verge of actual tears. I drove as fast as I could toward the San Francisco International Airport, and somehow, with the aid of some confusingly placed signs, merged onto the wrong freeway. This was the breaking point. I pulled off the freeway to turn around and head back toward the airport, and stopped at the red light. And that's when I screamed. Not a scream of horror or excitement. Not a scream of shock or dismay. It was a pure, savage release of horrific emotion. I let out a carnal throb of complete and abject anger. I screamed until the light turned green, about four or five times.

Turns out long term parking is off-site, and you need to take a shuttle to the airport from there. I parked my car, got all my shit, started to run, realized I forgot my cellphone and retrieved it, and made it just before the shuttle left for the airport.

I rushed through security, throwing my possessions around with as much precision as I could muster, and rushed up the escalator to my gate. I reached the gate at 3:50 PM. My flight had left at 3:45.

Moment

"You know what I just realized? You're going to miss my dance recital this year..."

"Oh my God, you're totally right. I will. I didn't even think about that."

"Yeah... don't leave!"

"Ha ha ha. I guess that means you'll have to buy that whole crappy DVD for like $900.00 just so I can see how your performance."

"Yeah... no."

"Or Dad can film it all secretively like he did that other time! With the Mission: Impossible theme and everything!"

"Oh yeah!"

(laughing)

"I miss him sometimes. Sometimes I really miss the old dad."

"He's still there though, isn't he? I mean, don't you see glimpses?"

"...I don't think so."

Platitudes (and Some Non-Platitudes) About Love

I think the thing about love that angers me the most is its lack of closure. And I'll tell you what I mean, because I recently had an experience with it. Actually, no. I've been experiencing it since I was sixteen. And I guess I don't really mean that true, ever sought after love that coils around your heart and catalyzes some sort of dormant or fateful catharsis. I just mean any sort of cultivation of a romantic connection between two people. There's always a remainder, I think. There's always leftover pain and longing. I don't really think it ever goes away either. Not unless you happen to find that one person you're "destined" to be with. The perfect "fit." The "missing puzzle piece." Your "soul mate." Or, as Stephanie Meyer, the author of the famous Twilight quadrilogy so famously stated, the person you're "unconditionally and irrevocably in love with." But we'll talk about that completely theoretical and highly idealized individual later.

Since I came to terms with my own sexuality at age sixteen, I'd say there have been three significant romantic endeavors. Of course, there a a great number of flings and things sprinkled and mingled in between, but they can all be arranged around these three greater happenings. And these three men have all changed my life in such profound ways, without either of us even realizing it.

The first boy I ever found involved myself with was EP. I walked into my Tap Dance Class one day (you think I'm joking) to find him sitting in a chair expectantly watching. I think I must have known he was gay immediately. Either way, he was unbelievably adorable. He seemed to me to be an escape from everything in Oak Park, and I took solace in the fact that no one could know him unless I let them. It didn't take long to find he had come to the class with my Tap Friend, JJ. And it didn't take much longer after that to find out that EP was brought to the class for the sole purpose of sniffing out my homosexuality. Needless to say, a tall, lanky dancer with long blond hair and a flair for broadway shows and the dramatic isn't very hard to sniff out. But hey, I'm not complaining. EP and I exchanged AOL Instant Messenger screen names and talked almost every day after I met him. It wasn't long before I asked my father to drop me off at the Topanga Mall under the guise of meeting some friends from the valley. Little did he know it was my first "date" with my first ever boyfriend," and I only use scare quotes because my first relationship merely lasted the better part of three weeks.

It was so short, but everything happened in those three weeks. Hands slipping into jeans, the minted taste of his mouth after he had just chewed gum, meeting his mother and his sister, playing Evanescence for him on the piano, coming out to my friends and introducing them to him, panicking when people began to find out about him, trying to hide myself from my parents, hearing my first "I love you.", and feeling I had no choice except to return it. And suddenly, I had gone on a cruise to Alaska with my family and it was far, far away. I never saw EP again after I left for that trip. I always blamed it on my getting sick. But that didn't happen until well over a month after I got back. I guess in the end I just got scared, overwhelmed. It's true that my illness officially prohibited me from ever reaching out again once I was ready. The last few threads of out connection were severed in there moment.

And I still think about EP. Almost every day sometimes. He still seeps into my dreams when I least expect it. These crisp and vibrant images of our sixteen year old selves endlessly reaching and yearning for each other. And I don't know if it will ever go away. I don't know if I'll ever stop wondering about him.

Then, in my freshman year of college, I met MH. Online. And he unleashed a whole box of crazy on my life. Strangely enough, I think I'm most thankful for what MH has given me. Our relationship stretched a little beyond the appetizer that I enjoyed with EP: two months. It was so passionate and desperate at the same time. I found myself incredibly attracted to MH at the time, but things got bad, fast. His insecurities unraveled the secure self he projected for everyone else to see. And I found myself in this nightmare of accusations and picked fights and instability. I found in MH everything I didn't want or need, and that having a boyfriend didn't make me feel any better about myself. That's my job, not someone else's.

MH and I had an explosive break-up, to say the least. It ended in the most ridiculous fight I've ever participated in, and I still believe to this day that he had so many underlying issues to work through, and they were surfacing in the most illogical and unreasonable ways. No matter how far away I get from that incident, I still can't see MH's side of the story. It just leads to absurdity. We literally haven't spoken, or even corresponded, in over a year and a half, and I have no desire to find him. And yet, there's still something lingering. I still wonder where he is or how he's doing. I still wonder if he's crazy or if it was perhaps just me who brought it to the surface. I wonder if he's happy, or what I would do if I see him.

And the same goes for my most recent relationship with JG. Our relationship was the longest and most passionate I'd ever experienced. It wasn't something I sought out. It finally felt like I had attained that organic connection that just sort of happened. And I learned a lot and grew up a lot the entire time. It doesn't matter that I have a lot more growing up to do; I treasure everything this relationship gave me. I thought I had made the right decision in ending the relationship. And now I'm not sure. All of these leftover feelings materialize, as if from nowhere, and suddenly the feelings and thoughts from yesterday seem no longer valid. As if they just vaporized off the surface of my brain.

And it's frustrating to me. It's overwhelmingly frustrating because these relationships all bring new revelations to my conscious mind, but they leave in their respective wakes more and more leftover feelings, and less closure. Is it possible to ever get this closure? Could I settle down with someone completely different, only to have my whole world deemed irrelevant in a single moment with someone I was once involved with? And that's what brings me to the notion of a supposed "soul mate."

Maybe it's because I've been experimenting too much with cooking lately, but true love seems to me like that perfect recipe you're searching for. There's this precise combination and measurement of ingredients to make your own tailored recipe for love, and it's going to take forever to get the recipe right. And every person you meet is a different combination of the ingredients you need for this recipe. The people you don't connect with are a completely different dish altogether. And the more you connect with a person, the more proper their ingredients are for the recipe you seek. And maybe it's possible to find that person who is the exact combination of ingredients you need to make your own love dish. But if it's meant to work out that way, does that mean you have all the perfect ingredients for their recipe as well? I want to believe that this person exists so bad. That one day my master recipe will be complete. I believe if I find that person, all of my loose ends and past relationships will suddenly dissolve. Because once I taste that perfect dish, nothing else will compare. There won't be room for doubt.

It's such a time sensitive situation, too. If I truly want to unearth this mythical recipe, I'll need to experiment so much. And the more I experiment, the more unsatisfactory leftovers I'll leave in my wake. And I can't hope to absolve all of these failures until I find that perfect recipe. The farther ahead I forge, the more faith I have to place in my ability to find this recipe. In a perfect world, all of my ex boyfriends and I would find it. And in that one singular moment, that moment where dinner is ready and everyone's tastes are so succinctly met, the moment where we all have found our true loves, maybe in that one singular moment we'll find closure. Of course I won't know if they ever find their recipe. I'll only know if I find mine. At least I hope I will. Because if I find the perfect recipe, crumple it up, and throw it in the trash, it will be an incredibly grave oversight on my part.

(In)visibility

The first time I realized I wasn't the only person my age who had experienced something devastating was only a few years ago. It was a moment crystallized in the loneliness of my room, reading the tiny, pixelated letters on my glowing computer screen. And I guess it was normal of me to think I was the only one suffering. I had experienced the kind of reversal that people couldn't have experienced like I had. I was physically withdrawn from those I loved most, and that literal separation was the one thing I couldn't help but focus on in the worst moments of my illness.

What I failed to realize, however, was that people can be scarred in too many different ways to count. That a person's health isn't the only thing can can crumble within them. That the skin isn't the only part of the human body that could hold scars. Until I realized these scars existed, I couldn't see them. And to this day I still can't see them sometimes. But they usually end up surfacing, one way or another.

Ariel Price is a person I hold so close to my heart. I wasn't even close to her for a long time, but I still decided to come out to her (via AIM) before a lot of other people. It's remarkable how much of our friendship was kindled and nurtured online, but it worked for us somehow. It didn't really numb the interactions online. I think we just function on this weird level where we can really easily feel out what the other is saying, even with the liminal tonality and expression that communicating online elicits.

One day, Ariel asked me to read her speech for a senior retreat that our high school organizes three times a year. It's kind of this rude awakening for the students that says something along the lines of, "life can suck sometimes, but that doesn't mean you shouldn't embrace it and love it with all your might. So love hard and live strong." Anyway, people who have been on the retreat before give speeches about life, and Ariel was selected to give a speech and tell her story.

Minutes later, the email patiently awaited my eager eyes in my inbox. I opened the attachment, and the thirty page composition filled my screen, and I began to read. The thirty pages of typed text seemed so daunting, as I had never written something so long myself. But before I knew it, I was entirely engrossed in the story of my close friend. In that half hour, I simultaneously realized that Ariel Price was not only an incredibly talented writer, but she, too, was a person with a scarred soul, forced to grow up faster than pace of life's natural rhythm. And I finished her speech in awe. Half in awe of what she'd gone through, and the other half in awe that I had no idea until she told me. It was unreal how much closer I felt to her once I had seen those scars, and how much more I appreciated her now that I could see her scars.

It happened again a little while later with Michelle Wicklas, another person I can't imagine life without. I don't remember quite as vividly how she showed her scars to me, but I was again floored by her revelation, perhaps even more so this time because I had known Michelle for almost ten years when I found out. And suddenly so many things about her made sense to me, and so many mysteries about her were put into context. It was like that moment in a movie with the plot-twist, and it flashes back to all these tellings moments in the movie that you couldn't possibly pick up on without foreknowledge of the ending. And then you can't watch the movie again without seeing the signs. And Michelle and I had that moment, and again we connected on this somber level of dull, painful remnants. But I clung to that connection because I had never felt so close to or so strongly for Michelle before.

It felt so good to see that I was surrounded by people who had been through just as much as I had all along. But I couldn't help but envy their ability to conceal their scars until they're comfortable addressing them. I have these scars inside and out. And they're there for people to see. I don't feel inclined to lie to people or brush it off when they ask about them, but sometimes I wish I could show them my scars on my own terms. And the visibility of my scars, I don't know if it helps or hurts me. Whenever I see outside scars on another person, I'm scared of offending them when I ask about them. I see them differently before I know them. I associate their scars with who they are.

And there's some degree on unavoidability in that, of course. My scars have shaped who I am, and I can acknowledge that. But there's a line between being defined by your scars and letting your scars define you. Sometimes I wish I could wipe away my outside scars, just so I have a choice of when I want to show my inside scars. Sometimes, I'm afraid of seeming too candid when someone asks about them right away. I'm afraid I show too much of myself, more than the asker bargains for.

My outside scars are the only thing that stops me from feeling like I'm 100% normal, or like I'm better than ever. They mark my weakness, they put my insecurities on the outside. Maybe it's a blessing of some sort. Maybe the more I'm forced to talk about them, the less they'll matter. All I know is that sometimes I get tired of looking like the boy with a story to tell. I've got a story to tell, all right. But I want to tell it on my own terms.

Why Jesus is Funny

I signed on to "jack'd" again. I was bored, avoiding my homework, and I'd already refreshed Facebook like 36 times. So I signed on to "jack'd." "jack'd" is a homosexual iTunes application. All it takes is a profile with some flattering pictures and decent statistics. You sign online, find a Prince Charming in your area, and he'll come over and plow you into the wall. People sign on to these applications so they can feel loved. They want that Prince Charming to come, and cling to the feeling until it's real. Consider it a really grown up yet fucked up fantasy. We fuck and get fucked until we find that one person it feels magical with.

I mean, that's the primary use for it, anyway. There are plenty of stages and variations; the older man who's likely married and permanently locked into his closet by his oblivious wife, the predators who just want to feel young again, the straight guys who can't come to terms on the outside with the person that lives on the inside. They're all on there. And then there's me. I've never pursued a disposable, one time use person from this application. In fact, I rarely do anything at all with it. Sometimes I answer, but it's only when someone really sparks my interest. My primary criteria isn't a big dick, or a six pack or a golden chest. I look for someone who stands out among all the "ur hot"s and "let's fuck"s. I guess my Prince Charming doesn't need to put on a glass slipper and fuck me to show me he's the one. I just need some sort of thoughtful or intelligent provocation that shows me that maybe there are other people on these sites who function on a level higher than sexual pleasure.

I rarely ever find them anyway. I guess the difference between me and other people is that I'm looking for a real Prince Charming, not a single-serving throw away.

Well, it appears that I have finally found my man. Last night, I got an incredibly profound and meaningful message from one Jesus Christ, and he penetrated my heart and soul with his eloquent and brilliant speech. I love nothing more than to hear about the damnation of my soul. It really gets me hot, let me tell you.

All joking aside, I'm used to the antigay enthusiasts. They don't even bother me in the slightest, vaguest sense. I actually just thought this was completely and totally hilarious. First of all, let's actually pretend that this is the Jesus Christ who has reached out to me on this fine evening. This must inevitably mean that Jesus H. Christ has purchased an iPod Touch (or even better, an iPhone 4). After his brand new purchase, Jesus eagerly unwrapped his pristine and innocent toy, and proceeded to download the "jack'd" application. Then he sought my profile out, and messaged me.

Jesus's profile wasn't the most well executed endeavor, but you know, I can't expect my dream man to be absolutely perfect. His only pictures are of cross with lightning bolts shooting down behind them. And don't get me wrong, I'm not against the appreciation of powerful imagery, but I just would like a visual of who I'm talking to you know? Who knows how Jesus looks nowadays? Also, since you're all curious, Jesus currently lives in Modesto, California. He's 99 years old (not too shabby), 8'2" (love me some tall guys), and only 200 pounds! Damn, I bet Jesus is in pretty good shape. Like, he probably looks slammin' in some skinny jeans.

So I got an email from Jesus. It was like a sign from above. Who cares if the words were anally raped in a grammatical sense? Who cares if most of the message was completely and totally misspelled? Jesus spoke to my heart. I opened the message, hoping to get a "Ur cute," or a "Hi ;)," but instead, I got something much better. Something that changed my life forever:

Jesus Christ

2010-08-31 01:00:31

REPENT THE is hope for your soul. it's heaven or hell after you die. JESUS CHRIST IS COMING BACK EVRY EYE WILL SEE HIM EVERY KNEE WILL BOW & EVERY TONGUE WILL CONFESS JESUS CHRIST IS THE KING OF KINGS LORD OF LORDS! REPENT AND BELIEVE IN THE GOSPLE. GOD BLESS YOU

I know he's Jesus and everything, but does he really have to refer to himself in the third person?

Ryan Roschke

2010-08-31 01:01:32

Thanks Jesus! You're the best!

Sadly, I never got a response after that. I guess I didn't have everything Jesus was looking for. And it's sad that I'm not Jesus's Prince Charming. But it's okay. Jesus will find someone someday.

In all sincerity though, who's better off here?

Brb, I'm gonna go convert to heterosexuality.

Grasping for a Metaphor (As Usual)

So I tripped and fell on my face. A mouth full of concrete and everything. I don't remember why I was in such a hurry. Sometimes I just run home from places, so I can get home faster. Either way, I was running, and I ate shit. My iPod clattered to the ground with the pronounced skid of scratched metal. My backpack threw itself off my shoulder in desperate hopes of avoiding impact. And everything tumbled to the ground right in front of these two girls, who of course asked me if I was okay. Embarrassed and unwilling to show any vulnerability or pain, I quickly scrounged up everything I had dropped. I gave the girls a nod of, "Yes, I'm fine, I'm alive and breathing so please stop looking at me with that horrifically pitiful look and just pretend that this singular encounter never happened," and ran all the way home. Brushing the dirty and leaves from my chest, laughing at myself, ignoring the dull moan of pain from my wrists, arms, knees.

The incident was a lot of things to me. It wasn't a surprise, that's for sure. I've always been too clumsy and gangly to control all of my absurdly long extremities. It was a little embarrassing. But luckily, I'll never have to face those girls again. And even if I do, I take comfort in the distortional quality of the darkness. We probably wouldn't even recognize each other. It was painful, but what's life without a few scrapes and bruises anyway?

Most of all though, it was damn exhilarating. And, to me, it was a moment that reaffirmed a lot in my life. It made me remember how hard everything worth fighting for is. And how much strength I possessed, with which I could fight in the first place. And what was WG to me anyway? Literally speaking, it was two horrible years of bitterness and anger. But in the grand scheme of things, it might as well have just been a trip and a fall (a bad fall maybe), on my way home. And no matter how banged up or bruised I was as a result, look at how quickly I could pull myself up and dust off the incident.

I wasn't strong, but now I am. You can throw what you want at me. You can push me down and spit on me. You can say mean words, or throw punches, or try to tear down my resolve. But I'll always get back up and dust myself off. I'll always keep fighting and running and pushing.

I used to be weak and vulnerable. I used to lack hope and resolve. But look at me now. Now, I feel impenetrable.

Tigerheat Regulars

The funny thing about the anything involving gay culture is that it grows very redundant, very fast. And so do the people. I feel like every time I go to Tigerheat or another club in a specific area, the same people are always there. Sure, there are people who come and go. Newcomers are always filtering in, and sometimes (not always), the older members phase out. But the gay communities everywhere are always so concentrated, so small. Everyone you meet is somehow connected to everyone else. It's inescapable. It's like a bitchy suburban community of soccer moms that drink too much coffee and talk too much shit about each other.

Anyway, I went to Tigerheat again quite recently, it it was only then that I realized just how recurring all the characters around me truly are. For me, some of them are a really specific person, but others just refer to a type of person I happen to see there almost every time I go. Before we get started though, I want to familiarize you with a few terms:

Group Savior: A member from the original group of friends in attendance for the night. The Group Savior can be more than one person, but the role is the same: to separate the victim (usually from the savior's core group) and the attacker (usually someone creepy or not very attractive), usually through the execution of a smooth dance move.

Bruno: A safe word my friends and I have adapted to signal when interaction is not desired. The term originated from a quite assertive gentleman who got a little handsy with an individual in our group. As soon as things get this out of hand, mouthing the word "Bruno" is immediate grounds for separation via Group Savior.

So let's get started.

You know those people who just can't take a hint? Like, for some reason, they have this overwhelming amount of confidence, and it's hard to tell where it all comes from. This duo is toxically confident. They're not particularly unfortunate looking or anything, but their actions slowly degrade their looks anyway. Earlier this Summer, my cousin Cory was victim to the Gum Twirling Twins. They move swiftly and efficiently. Their moment between absence and presence is so small that they seem to materialize out of nowhere. And so, they appeared. They surrounded Cory, slithering and slinking around his body with attempted sex appeal. Gnashing their gum like a native New York mother on a mission. It doesn't usually take long before the victim pulls away in flustered dismay. At this moment, the twins stand their ground. They slink back on to their supporting hip, hook their scrawny fingers into their mouthes, and twirl their gum with pungent attitude. It's only a matter of seconds before they try again, and it takes either repeated rejection of a Group Savior to shake them off permanently. And by permanently, I mean that they might leave for a half hour before trying again.

A Close Proximity Stalker is a person who really wants to dance with you, but either lacks the confidence or motivation to do so. You can sense these guys very easily, and once you notice them, they're hard to ignore. There are two subspecies of C.P.S.: the creepy guy, who likes to stare at you and graze against your skin regardless of how awkward it is for you or your group, or the shy boy, who thinks you're incredibly beautiful and can't help but be frozen by his own attraction to you. And sometimes it's hard to tell them apart. You have to be careful with these guys. It's hard not to look for them to make sure they're gone, but make eye contact too many times, and you'll send the wrong message. Beware, though. Close Proximity Stalkers are not afraid to grab your ass when you're not looking.

Although Tigerheat is principally a gay club, heterosexuals sometimes tread the story for one reason or another. Sometimes straight men are really open-minded about their gay friends. They'll go with the gays and the girls to dance and have fun. Sometimes straight men are dragged in by their girlfriends. But the most dangerous straight man of all is the straight man who attends primarily to find the straight girls that come with their gays. The defining factor of the Aggressive Creeper is the forceful dancing and aggressive touching. I swear they must come in packs, because there are so many of them. And they are usually gross. These men are often in their mid to late thirties. They wear baggy jeans, white crew necks, and open button-up short sleeve shirts, most likely from Pacific Sunwear. They wear sunglasses inside. Oakley Sunglasses. More often than not, they have a ponytail that runs down most of the length of their back. This is a standard creeper, who unleashes himself on the innocent straight girls who just want to dance and have fun. They usually reach straight for the legs or hips, violating their victim as fast as possible. It only takes a frenzied look or an outstretched hand to signal the desire to be saved.

Aggressive Creepers come in other forms too. Really young straight guys who don't know better and are extremely horny, and even gay guys too. Gay guys are the worst. They usually shove their tongue down your throat, and their hand down your pants. In fact, that's where the term "Bruno" came from. Guess what he did.

There's a group of really pretty boys at Tigerheat. They're there every time I go. Judging everyone from the confines of their tight knit, beautiful group. I like to call them the Tigerheat Plastics. They don't really do much. They don't even sweat through their beautiful hair. I had the unfortunate experience of trying to dance with one once. Before I labeled his group the plastics, or even realized he was part of them. I tried to spark his interest with fun dance moves and smiles. He just stood there, texting. Come to think of it, I don't really know why the Tigerheat Plastics bother going to Tigerheat at all. I don't think I've seen them have fun once.

I've only seen one Middle Aged Man Just Looking to Have Fun. That being said, I see this guy a lot. He seems like a lost soul, mostly because I know there must be other places he can go to have fun without feeling embarrassed. But then again, maybe he doesn't feel embarrassed at all. I always see him wearing those very light shaded 80s jeans, with a white sweater on. His white hair is pushed back off his face, and he wanders through the crowd aimlessly. When he stops to dance, he usually raises his arms over his head, and swings them back and forth repeatedly. Sometimes there's some hip action, too. I always see him dancing on his own, and never with a friend. It makes me wonder if he ever finds what he's looking for.

So, not everyone's beautiful at Tigerheat. It's a pretty obvious statement, just because everyone wants to dance and have fun, and the Avalon doesn't refuse creepers as long as they pay their share. The thing I've noticed about less fortunate gay men, however, and that they're always the Gratuitously Shirtless Ones. These men must be self conscious about their looks. As soon as they start dancing, they take off their shirt and tuck it into the ass of their pants, usually revealing absurdly thin or muscular bodies. Lots of people are gratuitously shirtless too, and I've found it's usually to distract from something else. Buff older men want us to see their muscles and tan skin instead of their age. Small twinky boy want us to worship their slim and toneless bodies instead of their faces. And you know, I don't mind dancing with guys I'm not attracted to, as long as they have their shirts on. They're still fun and happy. But those poor men with their shirts tucked into their sweaty asses. They're usually slippery.

And don't even get me started on those GoGo Boys.

Three Years and Going Strong

It was the summer before my junior year of high school, and it finally felt like everything was falling into place. I turned sixteen, and I was practically an adult. I was growing taller, thinner, and more attractive. I thought my hair was perfect. I was finally moving past all the petty drama with my group of friends. And I met a boy, and it just felt like the whole world was on my side. Don't you know that feeling? Where you feel like everyone's rooting for you? Even the people you don't know? I was going to be an upperclassman, and no one could stop me.

And it's funny too. I swear to fucking god this happened. One day, I was feeling this way, and I stopped to think: Wow. I'm so lucky. I don't even know how I got this lucky. I'm healthy, pretty good-looking, I have parents who love me, and a roof over my head. I have friends and people I can trust and rely on. I wasn't really born with any disadvantage. I'm so happy too. I'm so happy nothing bad happened to me. And I took a moment to say thank you. And I don't really know what prompted it. It might have been something really stupid. But it still happened.

You know what though? I wasn't that great of a person. I was quick to hate and slow to forgive. And I was spoiled. I think I was. Sometimes I could be sweet, but I think deep down, all I wanted was to be popular. I didn't act out too much, or do anything outlandish, but I didn't truly appreciate life. I really don't think I did. I'm a believer in the idea that you can't really appreciate something unless you've experienced the exact opposite first. And that's exactly what happened.

Five years ago, I got sick. My kidneys shut down. People told me I was the bravest person they knew. I always thought, what other choice is there? I can give up, or I can keep trying.

Four years ago, I was diagnosed with an illness called Wegener's Granulomatosis.

And three years ago, my brother stepped forward. And my life was saved.

Everything got started at 8:00 AM. I don't think I have ever slept so terribly in my life. It was like trying to sleep on Christmas Eve, except one thousand times more intense. Finally, it all started happening. And they wheeled me downstairs, and they prepped me for surgery.

"Alright, careful," the nurse eyed me with a smile, "This is going to feel like you drank a whole six pack all at once." I laughed.

"I think I can handle it. Bring it on." They gave me the injection, and it all hit me like a sack of really comfortable pillows. I laid back, and my head fell heavy on the bed. They wheeled me into the operating room. I don't remember anything else.

And then, it was like no time passed. Not even a split second. But in that lapse of a moment. In that span of no time whatsoever, everything happened. My entire life was given back to me, more or less. It was going to be a long road to recovery, but everything started that day. My brother was the catalyst for the moment that everything started to go right.

It's kind of surreal to think about the operation itself. I just have trouble imagining that I was open on the operating table. Of course I have the scar, and I see the evidence. But it's too weird to imagine myself exposed on the table. To have doctor's sterile hand digging inside me. To have live tissue implanted into my system. It's hard to believe it happened.

And all of that happened in less time than it takes to blink, from my experience. It's funny though, the farther away in time you get from something, the more like an eye blink it seems like anyway.

And from there, it only got better. It was a hard recovery, but I pushed through it. It was like the end of the most exhausting and difficult race ever conceived, and I knew it wasn't the time to give up. And I pushed. Hard. And I learned so much about myself, even after the transplant. And I made it. I finally got back to where I was when I was sixteen, but I grew exponentially more on the inside. And I could feel it. I didn't need to be popular anymore. I needed to take good care of myself and feel good.

And now, here I am. I can't believe it's been three years already. It feels like no time has passed. Not even a split second. All I know now, is that I value everything so much more. I'm just thankful to feel normal. Shitty days happen, but you can go to sleep and wash them off in the morning. When you feel like shit, there's no escape. You want to wish it's a dream every single day. But it never is. Shitty things can happen all the time, but it's not an excuse to stop feeling great. And why focus on what's wrong when you can focus on what's right? Something may go bad, but it can go so much worse.

I learned that I'm a strong person, but I'll always need the love, the help, the support of my family and friends. You're not going to go anywhere unless you have people to carry you when you get tired. I honestly don't think I could be happier right now. I feel so surrounded by positivity and joy, from the people I know and love the best. I feel the sunshine. I'm taking the best care of my body, and my body is taking care of me back.

Right now? Everything is love. Every moment is love. Even when it doesn't feel like it.

Communication (Or Lack Thereof)

I saw "He's Just Not That Into You" with my crazy boyfriend on Valentine's Day, 2009. No, he's not my boyfriend anymore. Yes, he's like, actually crazy. I'll tell you later. Anyway, the preview always showcased this one quote said by renowned actress Drew Barrymore. Despite its context, I always thought it was a pretty good quote, and effective in its simplicity.

So I logged on to IMDb to find the quote, and kind of discuss its greater relevance to my life and everyone else's. I entered "He's Just Not-" into the search bar, and much to my dismay, the movie was already in my search history. Anyway, I found the quote:

"I had this guy leave me a voicemail at work, so I called him at home, and then he emailed me to my BlackBerry, and so I texted to his cell, and now you just have to go around checking all these different portals just to get rejected by seven different technologies."

I heard that for the first time and I thought, Damn. That's a pretty spot on commentary about our generation. Okay, wait, another quick side note: Where's the dividing line for our generation anyway? I mean obviously, family generations are very easy to define, but what about social generations? Apparently, I'm a member of generation Y. I guess it's pretty easy to see the generational differences between say, you and your grandma. But like, what about someone who's 30? Are they in our generation or the older one? I find it hard to believe that you can say babies born in the 80s are members of Generation Y and babies born in the 90s are members of Generation Z. Think about it. It's not like a baby born on December 31st, 1989 is going to have a propensity toward political neutrality, off the shoulder sweaters, passive voice, game shows and leg warmers, and a baby born on January 1st, 1990 is going to prefer extreme liberalism, laziness, reality television and 3-dimensional and digitally animated movies.

And yes, I know there are exceptions, and yes, I know it doesn't really work like that, but still. It just goes back to our compulsive need to label everything without it serving much of a purpose. But I guess that's another rant for another time? Oh, and also, decades are funny to me too. It's not like on January 1st, 1990, everyone stopped teasing their side ponytails and wearing neon, and opted instead for offensive prints, mom jeans, sneakers, and crop tops.

Also, at what age do we "define" our generations anyway? Teenaged years? I mean we grow out of that stuff, right? Our generation will always change how we do things. And if we're always changing, I guess it's just funny that we need to categorize generations in the first place.

Alright, where was I? Oh right, Drew Barrymore. I heard that quote, and a lot of thoughts clicked into my head right away. I guess what made me think about this quote again in the first place, was the way I was talking to my cousin Cory the other day. I don't remember exactly how it started, but I think he texted me, and I decided to respond to him on Facebook Chat. I mused, "I wonder how many different ways we can contact each other electronically." And so he sent me an instant message on iChat, and I called him on Skype. He replied to me via Twitter, and I sent him a response from my Livejournal inbox. And then he emailed me from his school email account, and then I posted a comment on his profile on another networking site, and he left a comment on my profile picture on Facebook again. And it was just too fun to me! We went through a myriad of different technology, an electronic roll call of every possible internet medium, and managed to complete a conversation without sticking with one or hearing each other's voices. Or seeing each other's faces.

And no wonder our generation is full of so many shut ins, and loners, awkward people who don't know how to socialize, and some other generalizations that aren't really founded on anything! We're so obsessed with conversing with each other through these networking sites and social crutches, that we forget life exists. We forget how fulfilling it is to see someone's face and hear them laugh. So many things get lost in textual translation. Why are we so afraid of real interaction?

…And yes, I’m aware of the hilarious irony of me whining about this on a blog. Online. If you can’t beat them join them. Or something.

And it’s especially relevant in the gay world. Allow me to draw you in again. As I may have slightly alluded to in my entry about Tigerheat, meeting a gay man who’s attractive, smart, and into you, is exceedingly difficult. And you can’t just walk up to a cute guy in a coffee shop and assume he’s gay and drop your number. First of all, if he’s not gay, he’ll probably get offended, and you’ll also reaffirm the stereotype that every gay man hits on every straight man. And you’ll look creepy. And if by some slim chance he happens to be gay, you’ll be lucky, but he’ll also probably think you’re not hot enough for him or something stupid like that. And yeah, we have “gaydar,” but in my experience, I don’t have the best gaydar. I mean, I can pick out the two extremes, like the homophobic football player who’s overcompensating for a small penis and trying his damndest to impress his father, and the exceedingly flamboyant glitter queen who has an affinity towards bleached hair, spray tan, make up, and throwing up his lunch in the toilet. But that’s only going to get me so far, because almost every gay man falls somewhere in between. Not to mention all the hipsters and indie kids nowadays that trick drooling gay men into falling in love with them.

Because it’s so hard to just assume someone’s gay, homosexuals rely heavily on the internet for a lot of their matchmaking. There are so many sites and so many levels of degradation. There are sites which serious gay men actually use to pursue a boyfriend. These sites sort of function as a gay Myspace or Facebook. You make a profile, and email and comment on and instant message, and if you dig what they dig, you set up a meeting at a local café. The next level down, there are trashy hook-up sites (and even iPhone applications). And these are exactly what the name infers. Sites where gay men go to… relieve themselves. They have places for very personal sexual information, and let’s just say, the more trashy the website, the more shameless the users are.

And it’s so hard to meet men in real life, unless you’re at a gay club or party. And those environments aren’t usually places to get to know someone. So it’s hard to get along without using the internet. God, what would we do without it? And of course, I use these sites too, how can I not? It’s sad, too, being a hopeless romantic on an electronic, gay, social networking, website. I’ve honestly never had a one night stand. I try to find a real connection with someone. Because it’s so hard to do that in person. And I do all these things that I complain about because I don’t want to do them. I continue to use them though, clinging desperately to the hope that somewhere out there, there’s a guy who is perfect for me, and who is using that site too.

It makes me wonder. Would Prince Charming even sign on to those sites in the first place? Is it a lost cause? To be a romantic fish swimming in an epic ocean of horny fish?

So here I am, endlessly in search of that person, that perfect fit. In a world of people who rely on Facebook, Skype, iChat, Twitter, Tumblr, texting, missed connections of Craigslist, what if my Prince just gets lost in the electronic whirlwind? What if we’ve already talked, and somehow those perfect components that pair us together better than anyone else were lost in translation?

The best I can do is keep swimming, and hope I find him.

The Language of Music

John Morris Going has inspired me to write an entry about the magic and the language of Music. John seems to only be slightly conversational (if that) in the language of Music, so I thought I'd give a shot at expressing what music means to me. And, as you have seen from the previously posted song related entries, I love me some music, and I read into songs more than I read into what people think about me.

...Anyway. I really think there's something completely special about music. The origin of music is in millions of different cultures, countries, languages, instruments, states of mind, feelings intuitions ideas modesmoodswordsthoughts... they all mash together into this world of expression and profundity, and in the end it all translates to the same beautiful language. Instead of using a tone of voice to express an emotion, it's built into the song itself.

Music is something beyond what we can hold in our hand. And yes, music is inherently intangible, since it never takes a physical form (except in music videos that attempt to translate songs into visual forms of understanding, but even those are just pixels moving on a T.V. / iPod/ Laptop screen. There's still a barrier between the song and real life). The strangest part for me is the prolific effect music has on my life without ever truly being there. It effects my moods, amplifies my emotions. My state in life directly affects the music I listen to. And it's a reflexive process too; new music I encounter translates into new found perspectives on things. The insight that others invest in their music becomes an insight in my own experience. What else can do that?

And there are breeds of music. I've found solace in a specific pocket of music I really enjoy, and I call it sunshine music (no correlation to my blog's title). It's that music that fills you up. It's happy and alive. Ukuleles, acoustic guitars, or just computers, anything really; synthesized happiness. It's that kind of music that I love to blast on a gorgeous and sunny day with my windows down. The music that puts the hop in your step. The music that appreciates life as much as you do. And then there are the dark and twisty pop songs. Heavy on bass and drum machines, with auto-tuned vocals and electric heartbeats. These songs energize me, they fuel my nights; these songs give the dark, sweaty, neon clubs a deadly pulse. Sad songs go well with rainy days. When I'm depressed or feeling down, or when the grey sky stretches farther than my imagination, sad ballads in a minor key fit perfectly. And sometimes comfort rises out of that beautifully miserable sound. And only music has this quality. We can't really assign moods to language or clothes or movies or books. I guess we can, in some sense. But these things don't modify or mold to our lives as perfectly. To me, these things aren't quite as alive.

It's funny how music is such an important component in movies, too. The images themselves cannot accurately portray real life situations. But the addition of music somehow allows the movie to breathe. Only when we hear a musical score can we feel a movie. And when we're not seeing the movie, just listening to the soundtrack, we can still feel those moments, without the images in front of our eyes. And have you ever seen a scene in a movie that lacks music? All the time. It's a notable decision, because a scene without music in a movie full of scenes with music marks a devastating moment. And an audience member can feel that void, whether or not they're conscious of it.

Music adds meaning to life. When life and music overlap, something inexplicable happens. A few weeks ago, I was listening to my iPod while I was walking to class. At that moment, the enveloping bells of the Campanile pierced through my music bubble and into my chest. And the moment was perfect. The bells, the song, and my feet all shared a moment of synchronization. And it may have lasted only thirty seconds, but while all of these separate components became simultaneous, I felt like I was more than just existing. I felt greater mechanisms at play in my life, and it felt strong, symbolic, transcendent. Of course, the moment passed and I went to class, but there was still the lingering of something special. It happens to me in the car too. When I'm playing a song and the people I pass seem to be marching to the beat of my car's music. It just feels like something coordinates that connection. And I happen to catch a glimpse of it.

Eject, Wipe, Play, Rewind

I'm sitting on my bed, and he's on a chair in front of me. It's hard to believe it's all happening, and it all feels normal. Except for this one second. Now that I stop to think about how normal it feels, it almost freaks me out a little. Sometimes you spend so much time wanting something that you don't even know how to act when you get it. The first instinct is to pinch yourself.

I'm probably staring too much. Then again, it's not my fault his eyes intoxicate me. Maybe he doesn't notice. We've been keeping a pretty healthy conversation. And almost as if he heard me think it, those chocolate brown eyeballs shift my way and weaken my knees. There's a pause. Not an awkward one, though. Just a passing moment of body language. Body conversation. Body talk. I've also been smiling like a huge dork for the past 30 seconds. I'm pretty sure. But when that smile creeps across his velvet lips, it makes sense. His eyes light up, his teeth grin, and I'm way too invested already. I've fallen on my face, and there's not a good chance of recovering.

He reaches his golden sculpted arm out and puts his hand on my leg. "Let's play hide and seek." His smile widens, his chocolate eyeballs shimmer. I can't even focus on anything. I manage to somehow fire a a few stray neurons, and my head bobs dreamily up and down. I'll count first.

And then it all happens at once, except it feels like it never happens at all. Like I only imagined it. I close my eyes and start counting:

One. I hear him stand up from his spot on the chair, but I don't hear the usual frantic footsteps that accompany a hider as he hurriedly conceals himself.

Two. And then I feel it. I can feel him close to me. Breathing with me. I feel the occupied space seeping into my skin.

Three. He runs his finger along my jaw brushing up my numbing cheek. His cologne seduces my heightened senses. I'm frozen. I don't dare open my eyes.

Four. His fingers brush through my hair. My breath is deepening, my heart is floundering, palpitating, perspiring in my chest. All of the air between us vaporizes.

Five. And then I feel those velvet lips on mine. The lightest, most delicate grazing, followed by more and more pressure. My shaky fingers clutch the comforter and I melt into the kiss. He puts his other hand on my thigh again, but I'm too dizzy to notice. All I want is for this kiss to last forever, but it's over before I even finish wishing. I still can't open my eyes. I have to let the moment linger. It can't be over yet. I hear him smile under his breath, and laugh at his own boldness. I'm trying to find the words, grasping for anything to say. For anything. I laugh a little and smile under my breath too. The connection lingers so heavily in the air, that it's hard to speak into.

The only way the moment could have been broken was by the loud buzzing of his cellphone. We lock eyes one more time, and he reaches into his pocket for his phone, but freezes before he can get it out. And the buzzing continues. Growing louder, angrier, more incessant. The buzzing is so potent I can smell it.

It was only then that I finally woke up, and actually opened my eyes. My phone alarm was buzzing on the shelf by my bed. My feet hung off the end of the bed. My left arm was still fast asleep. I groggily lurched for my phone with another arm, straining my eyes through my blurry vision. I sat up, turned off my alarm, and flopped back into bed looking at the ceiling. I swear to God I could still feel that kiss on my lips. As I kicked my legs over the side of the bed and sat up, I found myself wanting the same thing I had always wanted.

Fuck. I should have pinched myself.

Wait...

Is there like a Pause button or some cliché device for stopping time around here somewhere? Because I swear to God, Time really greased itself up with some butter. And everyone knows attempting to apprehend an escapee drenched in butter is like, the hardest thing on Earth to do.

Okay, you know when you're watching a movie, and your friend says something to you? You have like a 30 second conversation, and then suddenly you've missed like, HALF the plot. Or you know when you're reading a book and you let your mind wander for a couple seconds? You find yourself lost in the middle of a page on which nothing looks familiar. You just almost glazed your way through a full chapter. You know what I'm talking about, right? That's the feeling I feel right now. I'm less than an hour from my twenty-first birthday, and I feel like I missed some major plot-points. Or maybe I zoned out and glazed over for a few chapters without realizing it. Either way, regardless of the fact that I can't keep my metaphors straight, regardless of the fact that you might not even know what I'm talking about, regardless of the fact that I turn twenty-one in fifty-three minutes, I feel like I missed something.

Like a father who's in the shower when his son takes those first few precious steps, I missed out. When I turned sixteen, I thought, "Look at that. I'm just a hop, a skip, and a jump away from being seventeen. And right after seventeen comes eighteen. Nineteen and twenty will blend together into nothing, and before I know it, I'll be twenty-one." Who was I kidding? I had 5 whole years before I could walk into a bar and drink myself into a coma.

The funniest part is, I was right. My juvenile naïvety turn out to be some sort of redundant, archaic wisdom. Somehow, I let my mind wander, and I glazed over five years. And so much happened in those five years! Everything happened. Everything that shaped the Ryan Roschke today happened between then and now. So why do I feel like I only turned sixteen yesterday? Why do I feel like I'll just turn thirty next week?

I'm sorry I'm being vague and not really elaborating on anything. It just feels like too much to type into one little white electronic space on website with hundreds of thousands of other little white electronic spaces on a laptop in my room. I guess what hit me is this: I spent so much time looking forward to my twenty-first birthday, and now it's finally here. And what now? Big deal. Should I find something else to look forward to? The thing is, we spend so much time looking forward that we miss everything that happens. We spend so much time looking forward that a 30 second conversation results in missing half of what's going on. And when we stop running out of things to look forward to, all that we have left to look forward to is death. And at that point, we've missed the point of living.

But how can I even begin to train myself not to look forward? Focus. Presence. Even then it's still too hard. In the words of my mama, it's always just about living one day at a time. Today this is happening. And what else matters? I guess we look forward because we are often disappointed by today. If you can't live in your own now, you have to look forward to a better future. At my worst point, all I could think about was how badly I wanted to feel better. How badly I wanted to be anywhere else but in the now. In the end, my mama always told me to live one day at a time. That's all you need to do. And eventually, baby steps lead up to an entire journey. It was only in my last few moments before I fell asleep that she'd say, "Tomorrow will be a better day." And I found that tomorrow when I got my transplant.

So here I am. Twenty-one years old. Two decades and some change. And what else matters?

Six Month Check-Up

So, we're about halfway through 2010, and I think it's been a fantastic year overall. I mean, there's been heartbreak and sadness, but laughter and smiles, and overall it just balances out and it adds up to life.

So much has happened already this year.

I experienced genuine happiness and love with another person. John taught me so much about myself and who I want to become. I learned how to be with someone else, and how to put that person before me, when it came down to it. I learned that I can commit if I want to, I just have to find to perfect person to commit with. I learned how to be more patient, but I also learned how far my anger can push things. I also learned that I have a lot more to learn. Maybe John wasn't the love of my life, but he made me realize so many things. And now that he's here, I hope he never goes away.

I grew closer to home friends too, this year. My friendship with Cory feels like it's stronger than ever. It's funny, I used to think you can't be best friends with someone in your family. You see them enough anyway. You're obligated to be with them. They don't need to be your best friend because they'll be with you, whether you like it or not. But the more I live, the more clear it seems that Cory and I are best friends. We have so much in common, and we get how the other feels sometimes. We have these 20 years of baggage together, and it helps us understand each other better than anyone else (we have the same brain, I promise). But also, we're close enough friends now that he can call me out on bullshit (gently), and we help each other grow in the process.

I've also learned so much more about Ariel Price this year. I've seen sides of her I never would have imagined existed, and I can sense that I've only chipped away at the top few layers. I can feel more that has yet to come, and it makes me happy. We're still basically new friends (in comparison to my friendships with, say, Cory and Michelle), and we're building this organic trust that just sort of happens. I really love it. We have this sort of silent acknowledgement that there's a no bullshit rule in our friendship, I think. We don't lie or cheapen our thoughts, we just let loose. I can't tell you how many conversations we've had that begin with, "Okay, so, this conversation doesn't leave the car," and then we just go. It's beautiful. And yet, I know there's things she still has yet to tell me. I guess it's all about finding the right moment.

And then there's Michelle. Michelle and I have had the weirdest, most troublesome relationship, and I feel like it's riddled with the most ridiculous traces of baggage. We just have such a complex history, it's almost too hard to believe, and too fucked up not to laugh at. Michelle is one of the few people who makes me hesitant, worried, and vulnerable. And I don't think it's a bad thing. It's just something I have to learn to get over. I'm always paranoid about texting or calling her or making plans. Sometimes I psych myself out, and I let my imagination get the best of me. But, in the end, I have to remind myself that we're old enough to communicate if something's really long. It's a hard thing to learn, and it requires a good deal of repetition. But I'm getting there. All I know is I could never bear to lose what I have with her. Michelle makes me laugh harder than any person in the world. How many times has she left me breathless, gasping to turn oxygen into laughter, my sides hurting, my smile hurting? Too many to count. We're both ridiculous together, and we know it. And we love it.

I finally got a wake up call to change my body. At the beginning of the year, I was unhappy with my body. I ate everything. I had two of each meal, so much McDonalds, copious amounts of In-N-Out, and every french fry I touched was unceremoniously dipped into ranch dressing and shoved down my hungry (or sometimes not even hungry) throat. I tried to lift weights every once in a while. I tried to run here and there. But in the end, I still felt gross, unhealthy, and uncomfortable with my body. And now, I'm an organic vegan. I do yoga or some form of exercise daily, and I cook for myself. Every day, I feel more and more comfortable in my scarred traumatized skin. What the fuck, guys?

I went through so many stages of growing up without even knowing it. And yet, I know I'm still not fully mature. Isn't that weird though? How it takes a mature person to acknowledge their immaturity? It's just about being aware of the relative balance, too. You can't just go around saying you're mature. You'll look like a fool. Maybe no one ever really finishes maturing. And that's what we have to tell ourselves. There's always room to grow.

I guess you might be wondering what prompted this entry. Well, I found my New Years Resolutions today. And I thought maybe I'd stop, take stock, and see what's up. Here's the list I wrote on January 1st (2nd?), on the way to Hawaii (and some change):

10 New Years Resolutions for 2010:

1. Write something once a week (Getting there)

2. Keep a sketch diary (Maybe my drawing class will kick my ass into shape?)

3. Try one new recipe a week (Or at least every two weeks [What a cop out, right? But hey, I've been doing pretty well at this one.])

4. Workout four times every week.

5. Don't text and drive (Drive better).

6. Get a 4.0 at Berkeley (I was so close this semester!).

7. Listen to others. Listen to yourself.

8. Work hard for the body you love. And then love it.

9. Learn how to be wrong (I'm really trying on this one. It's so hard though).

10. Be grateful! Breathe! You're alive.

And then there's an attempted drawing of Lady GaGa. Perfect. You know, I'm taking inventory of this list right now, and it's pretty strange how well it relates to growing up in general. Like I was saying, you can't ever really say you're mature. And will I ever really say I've accomplished these? I mean some things are finite. Like, I'll be able to say I got a 4.0 at Berkeley if I do, indeed, get one. But even after that, it's not an excuse to stop trying. I'm still going to have to try just as hard the next semester.

We get a chance once a year to revamp this list, to make new New Years Resolutions. But do they ever really change? Sure, we might rephrase them, or focus on a different resolution each year, but it doesn't mean it's not there anymore. I'll always want to cook new things once a week. It seems to me that this is just a reminder to work and love the results. We can make New Years Resolutions, but they'll always just be Life Resolutions to me. Some of them are silly, but some of them aren't. And no matter what, I don't think you can ever really check something off the list. You just acknowledge it and keep doing what your doing. There's always room to improve, right?

I'm pretty happy with the direction I've been going in this year. My Life Resolutions are coming along quite nicely. How's your list coming along?

... And, on that incredibly cheesy rhetorical question where I break the forth wall and address the reader in a kind of stupid but hopefully sort of effective way, I should go have some fun. And, you know, enjoy life or some shit.

But really though. Be grateful. Breathe. You are alive. And that's something.