Family is a state of mind #2

On Sunday, we all trekked into the city for a family thing. It was one of those days, as so many of my family things seem to be lately, where I was left with a bitter-sweet taste in my metaphorical mouth. For the most part, it was a wonderful day: we heard Mass at St Marys Cathedral and then had a delicious lunch at Cockle Bay.

And the bad? The bad has to do with a metaphorical table and its metaphorical turning. Usually on these days I am wary of Aunt Agony, not wanting to have to endure any of her insensitive comments. However, it seems my fear was misplaced because on Sunday she didn't say anything upsetting. In fact asked me (sounding very concerned) how I was feeling. Maybe she's starting to realise the seriousness of my plight? I don't want to get too excited in case it was a fluke, but hey ... you never know.

But what does this have to do with tables and their revolutions? While AA toned down her condescension, my uncle -- her brother -- took up the sword and waved it around. Since we were in the city for the day, those who drove had to face the dizzying prospect of paying for their parking. Having a disabled parking permit, I didn't have to worry about this. The following is a rough transcription of what was said (I was too angry to commit it to memory).
Uncle: It's so expensive to park in the city, your Dad shouldn't park there it will cost the earth.
Me: Eh, we don't have to worry about that, we don't pay.
Uncle: Why not?
Me: I have a parking permit.
Uncle (looks at walking stick, looks at legs, looks at me, rolls eyes): All I'm going to say is no comment.
Me: Look here you arsehole. You don't have to say anything when you say that. How the fuck do you dare say things like that to me? Why can't you understand how serious this is? Do you think it's a joke? Do you think I'm a bludger or something? Why don't you come out and say so instead of hiding behind smugness and "I'm not going to say anything"? Bastard.

Ok, not really. I said nothing.

Later, in the restaurant, Uncle and Dad were waiting in line at the bar; Bee and I were standing behind them. Dad asked what I was ordering and I told him: a milkshake each for Bee and I and a lemon squash for Sister. He told the bartender to add them to his order, gave me a $20 note, and started to take his two beers away to the table. Bee was called back to the table to tend to her baby sister as the bartender made our milkshakes. I called out to her -- "Oi! Don't be too long, I only have one hand!" -- because of the stick. Uncle made some comment to Dad, something like "oh come on". I promptly jabbed him, hard, in the ankles with the stick and said "fuck you". Everyone in a five meter radius stopped what they were doing and watched what he'd do. If this were a comedy film, the sound of crickets would be heard in the background.

Ok, not really. I did nothing.

Lately I've felt like an intruder in my own family. Some disabled, gay intruder who doesn't belong to a family that doesn't want to accept him anyway. Today, Mum was talking about having them over in November for her birthday. I was less than enthusiastic. She asked why and I simply said "I don't want to see Uncle again, not any time soon." -- "Why?" -- "He was being a prick on Sunday ..."-- and with that I told her about the incidents on Sunday and other incidents that have been grating on my thoughts ever since.

Lately I feel that I don't want to spend any time with the FAL. Why should I when all I get is grief over what I can't control? It's a strange feeling, especially for one who was brought up in the European family oriented culture that I was brought up in.

They say that you can't choose your family. I say fuck that. Family is a state of mind. Blood relation is a co-incidence; actual affection, love, and familiarity are something you choose.

A lesson in logic

While reading the Gay.com news tonight, I stumbled across an article entitled "Kirby states case for gay marriage".

High Court Justice Michael Kirby, a man who is quickly rising in the ranks of my personal heroes, has spoken out about the controversy surrounding calls for gay marriage in our country. He is gay and has been in a relationship for 38 years. Gay marriage is an issue that I bring up quite a bit, on this blog and in real life; it's an issue very close to my heart.

Justice Kirby said it was in society's interest to support stable and sustainable relationships, in whatever form they may take.

"It is a source of puzzlement to Johan and me, as we go about our tranquil lives, that there are many fellow citizens, some of them well educated and very important, who seem to be threatened and upset by such relationships and who feel the need to discriminate against them by laws enacted or unenacted by our nation's parliaments."

The point that keeps cropping up by people opposed to gay marriage is that it will denigrate marriage. The logic behind this is quite beyond me. How could my getting married possibly affect anyone else except me and my partner? Unless, that is, they let it? What annoys me most about this line of opposition is the inherent homophobia -- these people don't feel threatened by heterosexual de facto relationships, only homosexual ones. If my getting married reduces the worth of my grandparents' 51 year marriage, so too should my cousins' de facto relationship shouldn't it? That is a logical conclusion to make. Furthermore, why make legal allowances for straight people who choose not to marry (and there are many places in the law where de facto couples are treated as married) when there are no legal allowances for gay couples who can not marry? It defies logic.

We live in the world of the free market. For example, a Dominoes Pizza and a Pizza Hut service a town side by side. Their products are virtually the same although some citizens prefer one over the other. They are the only fast food outlets available to the citizens of this town. Occasionally one or the other will make a pizza that cannot be eaten -- perhaps there is too much chili sauce on a pizza from Dominoes, or perhaps anchovies were put on a pizza from Pizza Hut when it was ordered without them. Is the mere fact that these fine establishments make the odd unpalatable pizza reason to shut down the pizza industry altogether? Of course not. Now consider that this same town, home only to pizza restaurants for as long as anyone can remember, is selected as the new site for a MacDonald's. Some citizens choose to dine at MacDonald's, while others still prefer their pizza. Is the simple fact that "there has never been a MacDonald's here before" a good reason to shut it down? Is the fact that "most people prefer pizza" a good enough reason? Does the fact that some people prefer MacDonald's lessen the values of the preference of others who enjoy Pizza?

Justice Kirby told the conference he and his partner of 38 years, Johan van Vloten, had considered marriage but it was not a priority.

"Naturally, we recognised that this was hardly the relevant question - the issue is not whether marriage is wanted by everyone but whether ... it should be available to all citizens who feel the need for that form of public affirmation of their relationship," he said.

This argument annoys me the most: that because not all gay couples wish to marry, it shouldn't be made available. What annoys me the most is that this is an argument used by gay people themselves. Where is the logic? Not all straight couples choose to marry either, should we do away with marriage altogether? Of course not! Then why do these arguments get used against gay marriage? It defies logic.

A small ice cream shop serves a small community. They serve a variety of flavours, the most popular two being vanilla and chocolate, although there are people who prefer strawberry and lemon. While placing orders each weekend, the proprietor takes the popularity of each flavour into account, but he still orders them all. Would it be fair to all the lemon fans to discontinue their ice cream of choice just because others prefer another flavour? Furthermore, would it be fair to them to discontinue it because others dislike their favourite ice cream? Does the fact that strawberry ice cream is consumed lessen the pleasure a child gets from his chocolate ice cream? The fans of vanilla would be up in arms if this skewed logic was used to take their ice cream away!

So whether you like vanilla, chocolate, strawberry, lemon, or any other type of ice-cream, you are entitled to exactly the same right to consume it as the next person. If you prefer pizza from Pizza Hut, pizza from Dominoes, or MacDonald's, you should be able to have the choice, and the option, to legally eat your favourite fast food.

Can't we all just eat in peace?

The big questions

When did businesses put profit margins before providing their customers with superior products and/or services? Who was it that decided that olives were no longer to be a staple of the supreme pizza? When did thin crust pizzas become standard?

These questions have been plaguing my mind tonight.

I ordered a pizza tonight. It was a throroughly unfulfilling pizza. When ordering the pizza I had the familiar clash with the operator, this time a girl who was probably only 15.

Me: Hi, I'd like to order a pick-up thanks.
Girl: Ok sir, how many pizzas would you like to order?
Me: One large pizza thanks, and I have a voucher for $5,95.
Girl: Ok sir, and what would you like on your pizza?
Me: I'd like a large supreme with olives, but no cheese.
Girl: A large supreme with olives but no cheese, that will be $7,95 and should be ready for pick up in 15 to 20 minutes.
Me: $7,95? I have a voucher for $5,95 ...
Girl: Yes sir, but the extra olives have a $2 surcharge.
Me: Oh, I see. Well can I get a discount for the cheese then please?
Girl: Um, sir, we don't really give discounts for that.
Me: Well, usually I wouldn't worry about it, but if your company is going to be so picky about it and charge me $2 for a handfull of olives, then I'm going to be picky and charge you for a handfull of cheese.
Girl: Uh, ok sir, I'll just check with my manager.
Me: That's fine, I can wait.
Girl: Ok sir, that will be $5,95.
Me: Excellent, thanks very much.
Girl: Have a nice night.

This is a conversation I have every time I order pizza. This particular pizza parlour, one of the larger chains in Australia, stores customer's details on their computer, so I'm surprised that they don't have a little note on my account saying "don't argue with this guy, give him the discount for the cheese".

I had forgotten to ask for thick crust so I was stuck with a piece of glorified pita-bread with meat and veg on it, the topping tumbling off when I picked up the piece of limp pizza with no cheese to secure it. I was sitting in the car feeling thoroughly deflated and I started to think about these big questions.

Why are pizza chains so stingy? Why do they charge nearly twice as much for delivered pizzas? Why do you have to pay 10c for extra sauce on pies and wasabi for sushi?

What is this world coming to?

How was your day, sir?

Today I had to call the bank to ask about a transaction I made a few days ago that hasn't showed up on my statement yet. While waiting for the transaction history to load, the guy asked me how my day was.

What I wanted to say:
Long. I was woken against my will at 9,25 by my sister, who wanted to print something on my printer so that she could read it on the bus. She left it too late, however, so the time it took for the computer to turn on and log onto the network was too much and she would have missed the bus if she waited, so she left without the printouts. So I was woken early for nothing. The reason that she had to wake me up to use my printer is because the other printer - also on the network - wasn't connected because it's computer was dead and in pieces on the loungeroom floor. Furthermore, my mother threatened me with bodily violence if the mess wasn't cleaned up by this evening. The computer was, as I said, in pieces on the loungeroom floor because despite a new motherboard, hard-drive, processor, and RAM, it still didn't work. I was confident that I had done everything right but still there was nothing doing so I wasn't quite so sure. I was about to call the computer doctor but I decided to give it another go just in case the little fucker decided to make a liar out of me. The first try yielded the same results - zippo. I lay down on the floor next to the tower - splayed for my viewing convenience - and had another look at all the connections. I thought it might be worth removing the internal modem since it was the only original piece of hardware left in the computer. In my early-morning haze I unplugged the wrong cable instead of the power cable, meaning that when I removed the modem and checked all the connections the computer was still live with 240v coursing through it's veins. Luckily I wasn't shocked and electrocuted. After removing the internal modem I tried to boot it up again with baited breath. It worked. I then spent the rest of the day installing windows, office, norton, and various other software packages. Then I had to reconfigure the network: the new computer (whom I named Greer - after Greer Garson, one of my favourite actresses of all time), the two laptops, the two printers (one of whom I named Mrs Miniver, after one of my favourite movies of all times), and finally the broadband connection. While installing software I was chatting with friends online. Once this was done and the 5GB of personal files were transferred I went to town with my dad to go to the post office and the bank, it was at the ATM that I realised that the transaction I'm calling about hasn't gone through yet. Then we went home, stopping at my friend's grandmother's to pick up her newspaper, since she is on holidays, and then picked up milk and beer from the liquor store. When I got home I showed mum the new computer setup and gave her a tutorial in "Web surfing 101" after which I made a few phone calls and cleaned up the remaining mess on the loungeroom floor so as to avoid my untimely death at my mother's hand. I then picked up the phone, dialed the number of the bank to ask about this transaction and was put through to you. You asked my name (for security purposes) and I explained the problem. While waiting, you asked me how my day has been, and I answered you.

What I actually said:
Long. Good, but long.

The Pop

I stayed with my Pop last night, as I do every Monday night. When I got there at 7,30 he was sitting in his chair listening to his audio books as usual, only tonight he was in his robe with a bandage on his right hand. My aunt greeted me and told me that he'd had a fall on Sunday. There were no broken bones, but he did have a skin tear on the arm which he used to break his fall. I swear the man has bones of iron - or rubber - they never break when he falls.

Note: When I refer to "Pop", I'm talking about my grandfather: my dad's dad to be more specific. I don't know if it's an Aussie thing or what, but there seems to be some confusion so consider it un-confused.

Because of his lively personality he's never seemed all that "old" to me, at least not in the strictest sense, although he was 70, grey and balding when I was born. But he's always been full of life and laughs and because of this he never seemed as old as he was.

Let me say right here that I don't consider 70 to be "old". There seems to be a common understanding among kids my age and younger that 40 and 50 is old. If they are old, what does that make a 92 year-old? To my mind, 40 and even 50 are still young; 80 and 90 are creeping towards "old", but I really don't give a shit either way. I just wanted to point that out in case I offend any of my readers.
Back to the story:

In many ways he's a contradiction, my Pop. He's very "old school" in some ways and not at all in others. He was a draftsman and engineer by trade, so he continues to be very mechanically minded - always wanting to know how things work, always wanting to fix things rather than replace them. It is because of him that I do all my measuring in inches and feet, despite metrication occurring well before my birth. Because of his mechanically oriented mind, I have successfully been able to explain ebay and email to him using simple machinery analogies. Draftsmanship being a precise vocation, he still talks with a preciseness that at times irritates me, the hurried gen-Y boy that I am.

Yet in other ways, he doesn't act or think anything like you would expect a 92 year old to act or think. He is a staunch advocate for cohabitation marriage. "Try before you buy" he calls it - figure out if you are compatible before signing a marriage certificate on the dotted line. I remember in eighth grade when we did sex ed, the teacher said that "your grandparents' generation probably wouldn't approve of sex or living together before marriage" and I remember thinking, at 14, what a cool Pop I had. Although I'm sure that part of it is the fact that practically speaking break-ups are considerably easier when there is no marriage involved, I'm also sure that part of the reason is that he thinks everyone should get laid as much as possible.

Exhibit A: I called him one day in summer a few years ago. I had been to the beach the day before and gotten horribly burnt all over my chest and back. I looked like a man in lobster's clothing. We were chatting about various goings on and I mentioned I hadn't slept well:
Me: I had a terrible night's sleep last night, kept tossing and turning.
Pop: Why's that? Bad dreams?
Me: No, sunburn. We went to the beach and I got a bit too much sun ... My chest and back are burnt. It's so bad I had to sleep naked with only one sheet on because it hurt too much from the weight of the blankets and stuff ... I just couldn't get comfortable.
Pop: Well nothing wrong with sleeping naked is there? Who did you sleep with, that's the question?
Me: No-one, just me.
Pop: Well then that's no fun. No sense in sleeping naked when you're alone is there?

Exhibit B: For his 90th birthday we had a big party with all the family and friends invited. We set up a marquee in his backyard and had a barbecue. He was seated at the head of the table, my uncle brought over a plate of food for him, my aunt brought him a drink, another aunt helped him into his seat, someone else brought him the salt and pepper. I was sitting beside him, having got my own plate, drink, and condiments myself. I remarked that he was being treated like royalty:
Me: Wow, it's like you're royalty isn't it? Everyone waiting on you hand and foot. All you need now is some virgins to fan you with palm fronds and the scene would be complete.
Pop: Did somebody say virgins? (big grin)

Being that he's never really seemed that old, on account of his youthful spirit, it was a little weird seeing this frail old man sitting there quietly in his chair, nodding off every now and then. I realised this morning, while sitting at the bus stop on the way home, that he is old and probably won't be around much longer.

This is why I love children.

• "When someone loves you, the way they say your name is different. You just know that your name is safe in their mouth." (4)
• "Love is when a girl puts on perfume and a boy puts on shaving cologne and they go out and smell each other." (5)
• "Love is when you go out to eat and give somebody most of your chips without making them give you any of theirs." (6)
• "Love is what makes you smile when you're tired." (4)
• "Love is what's in the room with you at Christmas if you stop opening presents and listen." (7)
• "If you want to learn to love better, you should start with a friend who you hate." (6)
• "Love is when you tell a guy you like his shirt, then he wears it everyday." (7)
• "Love is when Mummy gives Daddy the best piece of chicken." (5)
• "Love is when Mommy sees Daddy smelly and sweaty and still says he is handsomer than Robert Redford." (7)
• "Love is when your puppy licks your face even after you left him alone all day." (4)
• "When you love somebody, your eyelashes go up and down and little stars come out of you." (7)
• "You really shouldn't say 'I love you' unless you mean it. But if you mean it, you should say it a lot. People forget." (8)
  

The journey

"Hi, I'm Dan" I say.

"Hi Dan" says the group in front of me, as one.

This gives me more confidence. "I've been out of the closet for 279 days" I say proudly.

Ripples of approval move through the crowd: some say "you go boy", others say "good onya", a cute boy in the second row smiles at me. I blush.

"Sorta ..." I add.

Before I go any further in this missive, can I just point out how much I hate the term "come out". It just sounds stupid to me. Ok moving on.

I've been meaning to figure out exactly when I came out to Liz, the first person I told in real life that wasn't my dog (who, incidentally, just looked me in the eyes and continued not giving a shit - a precursor for what was to come). Luckily Liz is so much more organised than I am, and actually saved the conversation. And no, she didn't have a dictaphone in her pocket when I told her, it was on MSN. I hadn't planned on doing the "MSN confessional" thing, but we were talking one night and one thing led to another ... So while I was staying with her yesterday I emailed the file to myself.

On the evening of Sunday the 15th of January, 2006 we started chatting, as we often tend to do on evenings when we are both online. I don't know what we chatted to begin with because the chat archive begins at the moment of revelation:

Dan: ok here goes. something i want to tell u... i'm gay
Liz: i know
Dan: good
Liz: lol

I won't post anymore since it was a fairly intense and private chat, one which would likely be unintelligible if you aren't us. Hold on, one more funny part:

Liz: I'm sorry - i'm just having hysterics here...
Dan: good hysterics?
Liz: eyrn always used to say that she'd marry me if i grew a penis.... lol
Dan: so would i. you walked into that one
Liz: that's what i was laughing at!

It was a little anticlimactic to be honest. I don't know what I expected but awed silence would have been nice. But then who was I kidding? I mean really, it's difficult for me to pass as straight. How the FAL hasn't figured it out is beyond me.

But then when I told Lala, about 3 weeks later she swore black and blue that she hadn't figured it out. I guess family are too close to see what's in front of them, mistaking gayness for uniqueness.

Cal, on the other hand, figured it out fairly quickly. Which is funny, cos he has a shocking gaydar. For example one day the cute guy taking our order at Hungry Jacks was flirting quite noticeably with Cal (who in his naive way just chatted back all smiles). The cute boy could be forgiven for thinking he was flirting back. I was in silent hysterics. When we got to the car one of us said "Um.. Cal, that guy was flirting with you". "No way" he said. "Yes, baby, he was" Lala said. "He was just being friendly... right Dan?" I shook my head. "Oh well."

Reading the archive again, I remember how I felt at the time. I was petrified my family would find out. Now I'm just a little nervous but itching to get it out of the way.

Give me something to blog about ...

Upon waking yesterday, I checked my mail and got this email from Liz:

So I was thinking ... do you want to come over tonight – James will be working from 4 so I will be bored. Your presence would have a few purposes – one to help me not go crazy with all these assignments and two to make me do at least some work and three – and I’m sure this one might appeal to you the most … you will be out of your house! What do you think?

I fully concurred.

I gave Liz a call and we agreed that she would come and get me at 2pm. At 1,55 the doorbell rang. I opened the door and she said "The world is going to end!" -- "Huh?" -- "The world is going to end, I'm early." Luckily I hadn't packed my bag yet. Ultimately, the apocalypse was avoided by our searching the house for my stick and (fruitlessly) for my open can of coke. Fresh cokes in hand, we left at 2,05.

We arrived at Liz's and put on Everwood. We watched Everwood, cooked dinner, ate dinner, watched more Everwood.

This morning we got up and drove down to Penrith, making a pitstop at Maccas for breakfast. James and I got out while Liz and Carbi stayed in the car. We walked into Maccas and were greeted by a throng of pink women. Everywhere we looked there were women of varying ages, wearing blouses in varying shades of white, festooned in feather boas in varying shades of pink, and all of them prattling. Remember that Maccas stops serving at breakfast at 10,30am (and not a second after in my experience), so I had just gotten up hours earlier than usual and had not had my morning shot of caffeine and a bunch of prattling flamingo-women was getting on my nerves.

We continued down the mountain, windows open to disperse the poo smell issuing from my sausage and egg mcmuffin, arrived at the hardware shop. We bought some stuff and went home. I bet you thought there was an interesting story here right?

Hold on, one thing exciting happened. We went through a drive-through car wash! My first time in one. When the tri-coloured soap was shat on the windshield it was quite something.

Ok, excitement over. I should go and give Liz her laptop back so that she has no more excuses for procrastination.

Like I can talk.

Oh, and T. R. King (pictured) has come out! Woohoo. And can anyone guess where the inspiration for the title of today's post comes from? I'll give you a hint - it's a song.

Diagnosis: f***ed

Computer is fucked.

It is unfuckable.

This is war.

But I still have Chris Carrabba, lead singer of Dashboard Confessional, and my new "favourite hot guy".

Love/hate ... again

I've written before about my love/hate relationship with technology:

It loves to piss me off and I hate it for that.

Last night Dad turned on his PC and it fizzled out and restarted itself of its own volition. Once restarted it did the same thing. I started a virus scan but halfway through it restarted. I could see this going nowhere.

I gave Dad the bad news: "It's fucked."
"Can you un-fuck it?"
"Well yes and no. I don't think I can fix it, but I can wipe it and start again."
"That sounds time consuming."
"It is time consuming."
"Right. Fuck."

Last night I started moving all the personal documents to my external hard-drive. I was about halfway through when the power went out.

So today I'm reformatting his PC.

Why does technology hate me so??

Random ramblings #10

I'm in a lot of pain today. I think I forgot to take my pain medication last night, which could explain it. Although with my memory being like it is it's entirely possibly I did take it and this is something else entirely. I did do a lot of walking on Tuesday. So yeh. Anyway some disjointed thoughts:

Firstly, most disturbing of all: has anyone seen that ad on TV for mentos chewing gum with the guy with the weird pointy nipples? Does that grose anyone else out? I'm lying here enjoying the superb televisual feast of eye-candy that is Home and Away when the ads came on and thoroughly freaked me out. The guy isn't even that good looking. I know, I know, I'm being incredibly superficial, but that is what advertising is all about isn't it!?

Secondly, and equally as disturbing (in fact, I would have put this first except that I didn't discover it until after I'd written the above paragraph): I am so sick of people who talk about the "homosexual agenda". Every couple of days I log into Gay.com's news section to read about what is happening in the world of gaydom. I was disgusted with a story called Vic Schools Accused of 'Gay' Plan. The Victorian government has introduced an anti-bullying program that includes anti-homophobia and "family" groups are saying that it promotes homosexuality to children and "foists" it upon them. I am so sick of these nutcases who think we have some kind of master-plan of world corruption and domination. I'm fuming over here.

And lastly, on a much much nicer note, the kind people over at Best Gay Blogs listed me on their "newbies of the week" section, saying my blog is a "Wonderful blog by a 22 year old gay guy suffering from ME/CFS". Yay me. Wonderful. Well I never. Shucks.

Ok dinner's ready.

Old friends

I caught up with an old friend on Monday. She goes to my uni although we've never had a chance to catch up until now. I sent her an SMS on her birthday last week and she called me and said "Thank you for the message although I'm kinda annoyed at you for not calling or wanting to catch up and come over for dinner like you said you would do you not want to see me or something and how are you anyway are you feeling any better I'm actually at work at the moment can you hang on a minute?" You'll notice there is no punctuation in that sentence. That's because she talks so quickly that it would be inappropriate to write it with punctuation. Luckily, since she speaks so quickly I didn't have to think of an answer.

The truth is that it's not that I've been avoiding her, nor is it that I don't want to catch up with her; it's that I haven't really thought of her much this year. I know that sounds terrible but the truth is I've been too busy coming to terms with being gay, coming out to my friends, studying, and worrying about getting better (or sicker) to worry about her as well.

So we set a time to meet. I was to meet her at 3.30 on the library steps. 3.30 came and went and I sent her an SMS saying "I'm here, ready and waiting." I was really nervous because I still haven't told her I'm gay yet, although I have it on good authority from a mutual friend that she is adamantly suspicious (she called this friend after talking to me on my birthday and said "he's gay isn't he?"). It's not that I think she'd be upset, shocked, mean, nasty, or anything negative, but just that I know she'd make a big deal out of it, and about how I hadn't told her until now.

She called me at 3.35 and told me she was in the library writing an important email that has to be sent now and that I could come in and sit with her while she wrote it. I'd by lying if I said I wasn't upset that she couldn't spare 15 minutes for me, but on the other hand I hadn't called her in months so I accepted it.

I was expecting (naively) that she'd be the same as she was the last time I saw her -- which was when I was in high school -- but she wasn't. She seemed so unhappy. It broke my heart. She was the mostly bubbly person in the group at high school. But hearing her speak about her life, watching the way she acted and spoke, just being with her was difficult. It broke my heart to see her so unhappy. I'm sure she doesn't even realise it. But as I haven't seen her in literally years I could see it.

It got me thinking about how my other "friends" (and I use the term loosely) from high school are and what they are doing. I wonder if they're happy. Although many of the relationships were ended in one ugly fell swoop, at my own hand no less, I wish them all well. I don't want to see them again necessarily -- it would be way too awkward after everything that has happened -- but I wish them well nonetheless.

"Meanwhile our friends we thought were so together
Left each other one by one in search of fairer weather
And we sit her in the storm and drink a toast
To the slim chance of love's recovery."

-- Indigo Girls

What is it about the memory of high school friends that can make me feel so inadequate? They are all the same age as me and yet by all accounts (and it's not like I follow up on them with any great deal of dedication) they are doing well, all graduated, earning a living. And here's little old me, still living at home, haven't started a degree, not working, not paying taxes, still just as sick as I was in high school if not more so.

But all that means dick if you aren't happy.
And on the whole I am happy with who, and much much more importantly what, I am.

I think I'm getting gayer

I just stood in front of my wardrobe and tried to work out what to wear tomorrow. I considered what shirt will go with the pants I plan on wearing, decided which shoes (I only own two pairs!) would go with any prospective shirt choices, pulled a few hangers off the rail and held them against my chest, closed my eyes and visualised how I'd look tomorrow if I wore it.

This is a little scary.

But fuck it... like Uma says, "If you've got it flaunt it".

Random Ramblings #9

My friend Lou was leaving a comment on a blog the other day and the word verification was:

ARSNIF

Say it out loud.

My friend Calla, whom I know in real life, left a comment on a previous post that said:

My heart is crying :(
(so much as one can without tear ducts etc)

On reading this, I spend the next five minutes trying to remember if I'd ever seen her cry. I think I have. This was perplexing because without tear ducts one cannot cry. Then I realised that hearts have no tear ducts and it was to this, and not herself, that she alluded. I felt very silly. Then laughed.

We had two rotten eggs that had to be disposed of. Rather than put them in the kitchen bin and risk them breaking and smelling all over the place, Dad put them into a plastic bag to put in the bin outside. Being the ever-present force of hilarity that he is, he tied the bag in such a way that it looked like a scrotum. He was telling me this and for a second I thought the word "scrotum" referred to each testicle and not the entire scrotumatory package. I said to him "two scrotums hey.... is that scrota? You know, like the plural for bacterium is bacteria." The look on his face was priceless.

Lastly, if anyone has requests for pictures to accompany posts, send them my way... I'm running out of ideas.

Personal growth, through song

When you are going through a bad time music can be an eerie oracle. Over the last few days, while the subject of coming out to a hostile Sister and unreadable parents has loomed at the forefront of my consciousness, certain phrases from songs have stuck out to me. These are songs I've heard many times before, but never realised their significance until now.

Ever conscious of how "13-year-old-teeny-bopper-girl" it is to reproduce lyrics on a blog, here's the few snippets that grabbed me.

---

Words, they meant nothing
So you can't hurt me
I said words, they mean nothing
So you can't stop me
I said your eyes, they see nothing
So you can't fault me
I said words, they mean nothing
So you can't hurt me.

The Doves

---

Does it scare you that I can be something different than you?
Would it make you feel more comfortable if I wasn't?
You can't control me. You can't take away from me who I am.
You can't change me. You can't break me.

Lifehouse

---

When you learn to love yourself, you will dissolve all the stones that are cast.

The less I seek my source for some definitive, the closer I am to fine.
The hardest to learn is the least complicated.

Indigo Girls

Hope from tragedy, eight years on

Yesterday marked the eighth anniversary of the death of Matthew Shepard. He died in hospital on the 12th of October, 1998, after being beaten and left for dead on the 7th of October.

I was 14 when it happened. Being 14, I was oblivious to the world around me. I don't remember anything about it from that time. I read about Matthew about six months ago looking for articles on coming out to my friends. What I read made me cry.

I couldn't retell it and do it justice, so I have reproduced the following text from www.matthewsplace.com:

Matthew was lured from a campus bar shortly after midnight on October 7 by two men (Aaron McKinney, 22 and Arthur Henderson, 21) who told him they were gay. He was driven to a remote area near the Sherman Hills neighborhood east of Laramie, tied to a split-rail fence, tortured, beaten and pistol-whipped by his attackers, while he begged for his life. He was then left for dead in near freezing temperatures. A cyclist who found him on Snowy Mountain View Road at 6:22 pm, some 18 hours after the attack, at first mistook him for a scarecrow. He was unconscious and suffering from hypothermia. His face was caked with blood, except where it had been partially washed clean by tears.

Matthew died at 12:53 am on Monday 12th October 1998, at Poudre Valley Hospital in Fort Collins, Colorado, with his family at his bedside. Hospital officials said Matthew had a fracture from behind his head to just in front of his right ear and a massive brain stem injury which affected his vital signs, including his heart beat, body temperature and other involuntary functions. There were also approximately a dozen small lacerations around his head, face and neck. He was so badly injured in the attack that doctors were unable to operate. He never regained consciousness after being found, and remained on full life support.

I signed up for the email list and received and email today about the 8th anniversary of his death. His parents, Judy and Dennis, set up the Matthew Shepard Foundation. They run education and advocacy programmes in the USA. If you have a spare few minutes, check it out, take out your credit card and donate to help them in their important work.

I can't imagine what they went through that week back in October 1998. I commend them for turning their tragedy into something beneficial to ensure it doesn't happen again.

The die is cast

I was going to write this entry in third person, like the previous one, but I don't have the energy or the will to do it; it's surprisingly exhausting writing it up like some detached story, rather than just saying how I feel.

We were in the car -- Dad, Sister and I -- driving home after picking Sister up from the train station. I asked her about her day. Big mistake. She told me that in her ethics class the debate topic was "Should we allow gay marriage?". The class has been doing a series of ethics debates, designed to get students to think and articulate their views coupled with learning the ethics of the various situations. Sister did hers on euthanasia.

She was telling us about the various arguments brought up in class: "they should be allowed to have the same rights as heterosexual couples", "but marriage is a sacramental covenant between a man and a woman", "they should do this", "they shouldn't do that", they, they, they. It's us against them in her mind.

Whoever said "sticks and stones will break my bones but words will never hurt me" obviously wasn't gay and didn't live with my sister; they were full of shit.

But unlike every other time the topic has come up, this time I didn't, couldn't, remain silent. I just quietly said "I disagree". She asked me to elaborate. I said "I hate the argument that 'allowing gay marriage will destroy the fabric of society'. If marriage is the building block of society the its just another marriage. Who cares if it's two men or two women or one of each?"

She said "I can't believe you think that way!" My father, who up until this point was silent just quietly said "yes it will". That gutted me.

She talked about marriage being a sacramental union. I said that I don't believe the Catholic Church -- or any church or religion for that matter -- holds the patent on marriage. It existed before they did.

At this point we arrived home and I walked inside, she followed me around telling me that two men or two woman can't have real love, because real love can only exist between a man and a woman; that sex between two men or two women isn't real sex, real sex is a man and a woman; that a marriage can't be a marriage without consummation and consummation means a man a woman sharing their love and their souls; that when a man and a woman fuck they face each other, signifying their love and sharing, whereas when two men fuck they don't (she hasn't seen much gay porn obviously lol); that gay marriage is a mockery of real marriage and "why should they force themselves into a heterosexual mould when they don't fit?"; that she can't believe I disagree.

I wonder if this will get her thinking about my motives for feeling this way. I suspect Dad's mind is going to be turning over and he'll figure it out.

The die is cast. I have a feeling that they will find out I'm gay very soon.

We're reaching a point of no return here. That scares me.

He won't do it because he loves her.

The girl walked into the house, talking quickly to her father about her day. She walked into the lounge room and her brother, who was lying in bed in his room, caught snatches of their conversation. His interest was piqued when he heard the word 'homosexual'.

"What's all this about?" her brother asked.

She came into his room and started recounting the day's events to him: "At the talk today at uni -- Cardinal Pell was talking about terrorism -- these two girls called out to him saying 'The Catholic Church are the terrorists! They oppress gay people!' After the talk they were talking to him personally. He was trying to explain that the Church doesn't oppress homosexuals. It teaches that gay marriage is wrong and homosexual acts that are wrong, but it doesn't oppress them, you know?"

Her brother nodded imperceptibly.

She didn't wait for a reply before talking again: "They were saying the Catholic Church is to blame for homophobic violence ..." He wasn't listening anymore. Inside he laughed; saw the truth in what she had said. She couldn't see the truth in it.

She had hurt him and hadn't realised. Inside he screamed at her to shut up; outside he lay in his bed, mutely pretending to listen, willing her to finish and leave him alone.

* * * * * *

She uses the word homosexual with such clinical coldness that it cuts her brother like a knife. He would've preferred that she used faggot, fudge-packer, pillow-biter, arse-fucker; any other word. Those words show passion; when she says homosexual with such aloofness it shows no passion, no feeling. It shows that she has no idea what she's talking about.

She talks to him as if he agrees with her. She doesn't know that her brother supports gay marriage; she doesn't know that her brother is gay. He's sure she doesn't. She wouldn't talk to him like that if she knew; she is naive, not cruel.

He doesn't begrudge her the right to her opinion. He knows he would be a hypocrite if he did that; he knows that telling her "you can't believe that" is as bad as her saying "you can't get married". He believes everyone has the right to their opinions, even though hers hurt him so.

He knows that when she finds out that he is gay -- and he knows it is only a matter of time -- that she will feel bad for the way she has spoken to him in the past. She won't change her mind -- her ideas are set -- but she will feel bad. Part of him wants to tell his sister, just to make her suffer as he has. Sometimes he wants to shout it at her: "I'm gay! I'm one of them!" He wants to make her feel guilty for making him feel dirty all this time.

He won't do it. He won't do it because he loves her.

Fleeting encounters

Two girls walk towards the back of the bus, where I am sitting, my backpack at my feet and my bookbag on the seat next to me. The bus is full. They are looking for spare seats. One looks like she will sit next to me so I begin picking up my bookbag to move it to my lap. She falters, and I think she has chosen another seat. I put the bag back as she sits. Instinctively I put my hand on her back, as if protecting her. Her skin is warm beneath her shirt. We both apologise at the same time. I move the bag and she sits.

Five guys - all in their mid-twenties - sitting at a table outside the cafe at uni. One calls another a "fat shit". He isn't fat. The insulted one has a wry smile on his face. He stares at the first guy. They are all really hot. The first guy gets up, hugs the one he has just insulted, says "I love you, man". The other guy says "Yeh, I love you too". I walk past and get into the lift.

A middle-aged man - greying, tubby, wearing braces to hold up his pants - stands at the front of the classroom organising papers before the lecture. His hair is thinning, the bald area covered in a comb-over. His brow is damp with sweat. We call him Professor Cuddly-Bear; it is a term of endearment. I walk up to him and say "My name's Dan. You got an email about me?" It is not a question - I already know the answer. "Ah yes, Dan, I remember." He reminds me of Harold from Neighbours, only less annoying. "That's fine, Dan, all set." He smiles at me. I take my seat and wait for the lecture to begin.

I get on the bus - backpack on my back, book bag over my shoulder - walking slowly because my legs hurt. The driver smiles at me. She is thirty and pretty. She takes my money and gives me the receipt and I take a seat. She looks in the rear-vision mirror and checks I am seated before she drives off. I think that is very kind; other drivers don't do that.

Two guys - in their twenties - wait at the library counter. They are filling in forms to become members. They are impatient, shifting their weight from one foot to the other. The two librarians are serving other customers: one is having problems with the photocopier, the other wants to use a computer. One of the men says "excuse me". The librarian helping the woman with the computer finishes and comes over to him, takes his form and starts reading. She says "there's no need to say excuse me, I know you're here." Her polite voice betrays annoyance.

An old man - maybe 70 or 75 - sits next to me on the train. He doesn't have that "old-person" smell; he smells of aftershave. He is wearing a deep blue jumper. His wife is sitting in the seat in front of us. She reaches back her hand to her husband, clasping a ten dollar note. He reaches for her hand, pushes the note back into her palm, attempts to close her fingers back around the money. He doesn't want it. Their hands argue, he pushes her whole arm forward, away from him, I think it might have hurt her. I say "Excuse me, sir, may I have a quick look at your timetable?" He falters, hands it to me. I open it up and he says "See across the top there?" - indicating the to the timetable, to the top of the page - "that tells you the direction." He notices I am looking at the Lithgow-Central, Weekend timetable. "The one you want is further on in the book." I already know this but feign surprise. "Ah, yes, of course." I find the page, the information I wanted, hand the book back. The man asks me where I'm going and I tell him. He says "Let me see ... That would be about 3.20?" I say yes. He tells me he is going further up the mountain. I smile. I put the headphones back in my ears and he says something, I smile at him. He keeps reading his book. Soon after he and his wife find a seat together.

A woman and two children sit in the seat in front of me on the train. She was about sixty, the boys three and five. The boys fought for a position to see out the window as the landscape rushed by. I leaned forward, spoke to the woman, "Do you want to flip the seat over? The boys can have a window each". She smiled, "Are you sure you're ready for that?" I laughed. I nodded. She told the boys to stand up while I flipped the seat over. I moved to the aisle seat. The older boy sat in the window seat opposite me, the younger across from me. The woman asked him if he wanted to sit by the window. He said no, I think he didn't want to sit next to me, a stranger. Five minutes later I saw another seat free and moved. The woman thanked me again. The little boy sat in the window seat once I'd left.

There are two women - in their fifties or sixties - in the lift at the train station. They both smile as I get in. I see someone else walking towards the lift and press the button to keep the doors open. The woman enters the lift and I recognise her, she owns a second hand bookshop in town and has known me since I was ten. We are on first-name terms. I say "hello", friendly, but she ignores me. The lift descends and everyone walks out. I say "hello" once more and she recognises me, her face brightens. "What are you doing walking with a walkingstick?" she asks. "It's the fibromyalgia", I answer her, "makes my legs weak." She nods solemnly. "Is that part of the ..." she falters, trying to remember the name of the illness. I finish her sentence: "CFS. Yes." I ask her "It's your day off today isn't it? Were you in Sydney?" I know it is her day of already, her shop is closed on Tuesdays. "Yes", she answers, "I spent the weekend in Sydney." I say "cool". We've reached the top of the small number of steps at the street. She starts walking in a different direction and I say "see you later". She doesn't reply.

Acceptance

Today a friend asked me if I wished I was straight. It got me thinking.

I'd be lying if I answered with a categorical "no".

* * * * *

Pre-acceptance:
I pray: "God, make me be normal. I don't want to be ... you know ... one of them. I like girls, really I do. You know I do. Please, Lord, make me normal, make me straight."
I say to myself: "I don't want to be ... you know ... like that. I am Catholic, Catholics can't be ... umm ... can they? Maybe they can, but that's beside the point, I'm not. Really, I'm not. I like girls. Why do I have to feel this way? That's not really a crush on that boy. He's my friend, nothing more. I enjoy his company, that's all. I can't be ... that ... I'm normal, I'm normal."

I was in denial. I didn't, couldn't, accept that I was gay. I couldn't even think the word let alone say it. So in a way wishing to be straight was mooted by the fact that I didn't accept I was gay. But on the other hand I knew I was something that wasn't normal, and for that I wished I was straight. Totally straight.

Acceptance:
I pray: "Ok Lord, so I guess you aren't going to make me straight. I know the bible says you answer every prayer you receive, so I guess my answer is no. But I don't want to be gay. So what does it mean? Does this mean it's ok to be gay? Help me understand Lord. Please. Help me."
I say to myself: "So I guess that means I'm gay then. I'm kidding myself to think I'm not. I don't like girls, not the way the other guys do. I like boys. But I'm Catholic, how does that work? Can you be both?"

I started to realise that it was ok to be gay before I started to accept that I was gay. It was a slow introspective process. It took me forever to type, let alone say, those three little words "I am gay". It took me by surprise in fact. I was on a gay chat site and someone asked me "are you gay or bi?" and I answered, without thinking, "I'm gay". Then I freaked out, logged off and cried. The process had begun.

Post-acceptance:
I pray: "Thanks for the help, Lord. I couldn't have done it without you. I'm so glad I'm not stuck in that endless circle of denial. Thanks for the peace you gave me at that difficult time. I pray our politicians come to realise that being gay isn't a bad thing; show them like you showed me."
I think to myself: "So what if I'm gay, there's more to me than who I'm attracted to. I'm so much more than that. I don't know what that "so much more" is yet, but I know that I am more than the sum of all my labels ... That guy's hot."

Having come out to myself, all of my close friends (in which are counted four of my cousins who I'm closer to than the rest of the Family-at-large), and the world-at-large through this blog, the question "do I wish I was straight" becomes considerably murkier.

* * * * *

It's hard to be objective with such a subjective question. I don't deny that it would make life easier. I wouldn't be discriminated against legally by right-wing politicians with their so-called family values policies; I wouldn't run the risk of heart-break caused by being rejected by my ultra-conservative family members; but the fact remains that I can't conceive of being attracted to women, so being straight isn't very appealing apart from the legal issues. I'm happy being gay. I like being attracted to men.

* * * * *

So no, I don't. I wish the world was less straight.