El agua

I found this today while cleaning my room. When I first read it, it really resonated with me, having wanted to be someone else for most of my teenage years. The English translation is below.

El Agua

«Ya estoy cansada de ser fría y de correr río abajo. Dicen que soy necesaria, pero yo preferiría ser hermosa, encender con entusiasmo el corazón de los enamorados y ser roja y cálida. Dicen que purifico lo que toco, pero mas fuerza purificadora tiene el fuego. Quisiera ser fuego y llama.»

Así pensaba el agua del río de la montaña. Y, como quería ser fuego, decidió escribir una carta a Dios para pedir que cambiara su identidad: «Querido Dios: Tú me hiciste agua, pero quiero decirte que me he cansado de ser transparente. Prefiero el color rojo; desearía ser fuego. ¿Puede ser? Tú mismo, Señor, te identificaste con la zarza ardiente y dijiste que habías venido a poner fuego a la tierra. No recuerdo que te compararas con el agua. Por eso, creo que comprenderás mi deseo. No es un capricho. Yo necesito este cambio para mi realización personal».

El agua salía todas las mañanas a su orilla para ver si llegaba la respuesta de Dios. Una tarde pasó una lancha muy blanca y dejó caer al agua un sobre muy rojo. El agua lo abrió y leyó: «Querida hija: me apresuro a contestar tú carta. Parece que te has cansado de ser agua. Yo lo siento mucho, cielo, porque no eres una agua cualquiera. Tú abuela me bautizó en el Jordán, y te tengo destinada a caer sobre la cabeza de los niños. Tú preparas el camino del fuego; el agua siempre es primero que el fuego».

Mientras el agua estaba embobada leyendo, Dios bajó a su lado y la contempló en silencio. El agua se miró a sí misma y vio el rostro de Dios reflejado en ella. Dios seguía sonriendo esperando una respuesta. El agua comprendió que el privilegio de reflejar el rostro de Dios sólo lo tiene el agua limpia, suspiró y dijo: «Sí, Señor, seguiré siendo agua. Seguiré siendo tú espejo. Gracias».

Cuántas veces queremos ser otra persona diferente. Pero no nos damos cuenta que somos quiénes somos, y hacemos lo que hacemos, porque somos únicos y cada uno tiene un propósito en esta vida. Fuimos hechos con amor y todo lo que se hace con amor es perfecto.

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The water

“I’m so tired of being cold and running downstream. They say I’m necessary, but I’d prefer to be beautiful, to ignite the hearts of lovers with enthusiasm and to be red and warm. They say that I purify what I touch, but an even stronger purifier is fire. I’d like to be fire and flame.”

That’s what the water that lived in the mountain river thought. And, since she wanted to be fire, she decided to write a letter to God, asking him to change her: “My dear Lord, You made me water, but I want to tell you that I’m getting tired of being transparent. I prefer the colour red; I’d much prefer being fire. Is that possible? You, Lord, identified yourself with the burning bush and you said that you had come to set fire to the earth. I don’t remember you comparing yourself with water. So I think you’ll understand my desire. This isn’t a whim; I need this change for my own self realisation”.

Every morning, the water went to the banks of the river to see if a response from God had arrived. One afternoon a brilliant white boat passed by, letting a deep red envelope fall into the water. The water opened the envelope and read: “My darling daughter, I wrote back to you as quickly as I could. It seems you’re sick of being water. I’m very sorry, my dear, but you aren’t any old water. Your grandmother baptised me in the Jordan, and I have you destined to fall on the foreheads of all children. You prepare the path for fire; water always comes before fire”.

While the water was reading, fascinated, God came down to her side and watched in silence. The water looked at herself and saw the face of God reflected in her. God continued smiling, awaiting a response. The water understood that the privilege of reflecting the face of God only came to clean water. She sighed and said “Yes, Lord, I will continue being water. I will continue being your mirror. Thank you”.

So many times we’ve wanted to be someone else. But we don’t realise that we are who we are, and we do what we do, because we are each unique and each of us has a purpose in life. We were made with love and everything that is made with love is perfect.

Dusk and summer

The smell of flowers, fresh and new, pervades the air; summer whispers on the breeze as it envelopes my face when I venture outside.

Spring has definitely sprung. I’ve heard that smell is the strongest sense in evoking memories. This week, as I wipe my weeping eyes and fight off hayfever, I’ve been bombarded by memories of my childhood summers, spent in the splendid sunny warmth.

I grew up in the 1980s in a restored federation style home in the Blue Mountains. The original house had been done up in the 1950s with two back rooms being added on, as well as an internal bathroom and laundry. My bedroom was once the original sitting room, at the front out the house, complete with a large front-facing window and a door to the side veranda. Its walls were a brilliant green, neither institutional green nor royal, more of a bright emerald. The curtains were deep blue with trains pictures of trains. At the height of summer, sun beamed into the room through the window and the external door, flooding the room with mottled light and sweeping it with the sweet smell of the azaleas in the side garden.

Some things tie your life together
With slender threads of things to treasure
Days like that should last and last and last

The front yard was home to two ancient liquidambars that shaded my room. The back yard was large—half an acre—with two large weeping willows and lots of gardens, full of flowers. It was a magical garden, a kaleidoscope of colour, smell and sound. Tiny birds, I don’t remember what kind they were, twittered from flower to flower, tree to tree, singing songs of joy as the heat radiated from the dry earth beneath. The garden was full of hiding places, places to explore. The garden near the laundry was full of lavender; azaleas populated the garden near my bedroom. At the back of the garden there was a tall oak tree that shaded the swing-set.

Summer days were spent playing in the garden—hide-and-seek or in the sandpit—soaking in the warm sunshine. On the hot days we played under the sprinkler, back when it wasn’t illegal to do that this is, followed by a lazy evening barbecue dinner with friends. At night, Mum or Dad tucked me into bed and kissed me goodnight, the cool breeze from the open door tickling my face, as I descended into dreams of wonderful adventure.

But you’ve already lost
When you only have barely enough of it to hang on

Life was so innocent back then, before the days of identity crises, pain killers and walking sticks. Such beautiful childhood memories—too soon forgotten and replaced by the drudgery of adulthood.

My life, up to the minute

Sooo many things to write about. The problem with me is having the time to blog and the motivation to blog. They happen often, but rarely at the same time. So here we are, playing catch up.

On Friday night I ventured forth Sydney-way to a cocktail party at Gus and Adz’s place in honour of their American guest, Jon. I met many great people (most of whose names have been instantly forgotten, unfortunately) and I was so disciplined that I didn’t drink more than a single drop of alcohol, which is to say I had a teensy tiny drink that is barely worth mentioning. This was a feat slightly muted by the fact that I smoked a lot, however smoking isn’t mind altering and therefore much less reprehensible in my book. It was a great night despite the massive shockwaves of pain that hit me at around 3 am for no apparent reason; I’m talking the kind of pain where it hurt everywhere on my body when I lay still, and hurt even more when I moved. Consequently, I had very little sleep and felt like rat shit the next day, but it was totally worth it for a good night with good friends.

Saturday and Sunday are now but a blur in the windmills of my memory, days in which I attempted (with varying success) to tie up a few loose ends of homework. I subsisted in a drug-fucked haze. Let’s leave it at that.

On Sunday I did, however, take the next step in The Plan™, adding my “step-cousin” (for want of a better description) to my facebook friends list. All of my cousins (except Rick of course, who I can’t stand, and who can’t stand me) already know I’m gay and now, after I sent her a facebook message, so does she. This means it will soon spread around the Family-at-Large, who, I am given to understand, have been discussing the matter with some interest for some time now. I realise it’s not the best way to do it, but frankly I’m over it, suddenly my being gay is (at least in the sense of coming out constantly) no big deal, so I just want it over and done with; it’s a quite liberating feeling.

Monday saw a trip to uni and lunch with my cousin Bee in the city. It was a beautiful day, 25 degrees—spring is totally on the way and I can’t wait for it! In the cold my legs really ache so I get excited every year when things begin to heat up. And then today, at about 5 pm, I went outside for a smoke and I could smell spring, the sweet fragrance of new birth was everywhere. But don’t think that the irony of my going outside for the express purpose of smoking is lost on me.

This afternoon I told Mum, briefly, that I had added the “step-cousin” to facebook and what that meant in the larger scheme of things. She didn’t quite understand why I was telling her, but I just said that she will probably get a call from Grandma when she returns from overseas, so to be prepared. We were driving to pick up Sister at the time, and she said I had better tell her. I asked if Sister had said anything to them about “it” since her return from the course three months ago. She hadn’t. On the way home from the course, she was upset that I had told her over the phone, in a way that she couldn’t really answer back to. She also apparently remembered the “rotten things she’d said” to me (Mum’s words, not mine) and was upset about that too. So it remains a big rainbow elephant hovering over us constantly. We were driving back home after having picked her up and Mum said “well go on then, tell her”. I told her the situation. She asked if I should not tell my grandparents in person. I said I can’t, that the whole sit down, I have something to tell you situations are too draining and rarely end well. “You don’t have to tell me that” she said. Ouch. Time will tell I guess.

And that, my friends, is my life, up to the minute.

Thought for the day

Dad emailed me this last night.

I wish I were a glow worm,
A glow worm's never glum.
Cos how can you be grumpy
When the sun shines out your bum!?

Instant karma

I got my phone back! I put it down good phone karma.

Last week I found a phone on a bench in the disabled toilet in the library at uni. I took it to the information desk, handed it over and said “I found this phone”. The woman looked at me as if I had offered to clean her house, to give her a million dollars, or like I was on acid. Perhaps all three. “Oh”, she stammered, “where’d you find it?” I told her. “Oh, thanks for that”.

It’s a sad indictment on society that she was so aghast at my good deed. But ultimately the mobile phone gods have smiled upon me and returned my phone to me in good order.

After two trips to Cityrail’s lost property office, three calls to my phone company and a $4.40 “recovery fee”, it’s home where it belongs.

The three Ts

They say things happen in threes. My phone has been dunked in a cup of tea, gone for a swim in a public toilet, and this morning it went on an unplanned excursion on a train.

A colleague pointed out it should be the three Cs: cuppa, crapper and carriage. I can think of a better c-word to describe it.

So for the second time this month I am using the phone I used in highschool, a Nokia 3315, in all its monochromatic, monophonic goodness. I’ve never been one of those people who have to have the latest piece of technology but even a low-tech boy has his standards! My ringtone—the Fawlty Towers theme—sounds like a cat coughing on a live mouse. Not happy. Not happy at all.

Research

I have a feeling that Sister is trying to draw me into a discussion/debate on marriage, more specifically that “marriage is for one man and one woman to the exclusion of all others yadda yadda yadda”, or, at the very least, she’s doing research for same.

A week or so ago we were getting ready to go to uni and I noticed she had a green shopping bag full of books. I have this book bag that Nicki gave me that is much easier to carry, especially when it’s full of books, so I offered it to her. I was going to just transfer the books myself so I looked in the bag and they were all about “Christian marriage”. I put them back and offered the bag to her in person and she gratefully accepted. Nothing more was said.

To be fair, these could legitimately be for a uni assignment of hers. The cynic in me thinks something slightly less innocent is afoot. I soon forgot about it anyway.

Then last night, as I lay in bed reading, there was a timid knock on the door. Usually, once I’ve officially “gone to bed”, she doesn’t bother me unless it’s absolutely essential. This is probably due, in large part, to the fact that the last time she knocked and then immediately barged into my room after I’d “gone to bed”, she caught me red-handed (pardon the pun) masturbating. I don’t know who was more shocked or mortified. Since that day she always knocks, waits for an answer, and then enters when invited. Interestingly, since then she has never interrupted me, even though if she had have done I would have had a chance to cover up. But I digress.

Then last night, as I lay in bed reading, there was a timid knock on the door. I invited her in and she said there was something she needed printing but had turned her laptop off. She told me the name of the article—in Latin—and I googled it. It was a Papal encyclical from the 1930s about “traditional Christian marriage” and would be about 30 pages when printed. I was about to get up and put paper in the printer for her to print it but she said it didn’t matter, she didn’t need it for tomorrow, it wasn’t essential. “Well what’s the bloody point then?” I thought, but I held my tongue. She said goodnight again and went back to bed.

I got up and went outside for a smoke. I got thinking. Why would she ask me to look up this article if she didn’t need it, unless she wanted me to read it? If that was her rationale, it worked; my curiosity got the better of me and I had a quick look through it. It made no mention of the evils of homosexuality, but it did extol the virtues of one man, one woman, two-point-four kids and a house in the suburbs. I closed the browser and continued reading Ian Roberts: finding out by Paul Freeman.

With all that has been happening lately, I just don’t have the time, energy or inclination to take the bait.

But it has got me thinking nonetheless. I have to say, while I don’t like that she is constitutionally opposed to something in which I believe strongly, I appreciate that she appears to be doing some research into the issue (albeit incredibly one-sided research) and not resting on the laurels of “it’s wrong and evil and I won’t hear any different”. Although it will doubtless lead her to the same conclusion, it’s the thought that counts. I mean if she was ready to write me off for being gay she wouldn’t bother trying to “win me back”, so to speak. The other night, while talking to Mum about something (to which I was paying no attention) I heard her say “it’s like Daniel, I could never disown him as a brother…for whatever reason”. I’m not quite sure what she was talking about but it proves my point nicely.

The fact remains that “it”, for the time being at least, is a taboo subject. I’m not altogether upset about that, nor am I surprised. Lately I’ve been feeling rotten, physically and emotionally drained, and I just can’t deal with theological battles at the moment.

Heart over head

My life seems to be a constant battle between my head and my heart. For as long as I can remember I’ve been torn in a silent war of feeling one way and thinking the other or feeling one way and thinking that I shouldn’t feel that way at all.

The battle was first waged in primary school when my heart was attracted to boys while my brain told it that that was unacceptable, although it never really acknowledged the problem. As time went on, benign battles took place (I feel like chocolate/it’ll make you sick, you idiot) alongside bloodier encounters (I want to die/you have everything to live for). Initially, the heart wins. The brain, never content to be defeated, sends reinforcements of guilt to make the heart budge. Sometimes it relents; mostly it stubbornly stands its ground and lets the guilt set up house. After some time, be it days or weeks, the strong feelings of the heart diminish—until the next crisis.

When I am depressed, the tension between head and heart becomes particularly salient. I’ve used this analogy to explain how depression feels to a number of people who have never experienced it. The heart is saying life is shit, it will never get better and you would be better off dead; the brain tells you the truth, that life is bad right now but that it will get better, and you have so much to live for. Unfortunately, the heart is often stronger, or louder, or more persuasive, and its message is more readily believed.

So right now I’m torn between feeling upset and hurt by the decepción and knowing that he’s a fuckwit and I deserve better anyway.

The heart, for now, is winning.

Life in 2083

Yesterday I was sitting here, minding my own business, chattering away with friends and doing everything in my power to avoid any actual homework, when an outlook notice popped up: “you have 62 reminders”. This struck me as a little strange, since there was just no way that I had 62 things happening in the next week.

I looked at the list and saw that everything listed was “over three weeks overdue”, including a few things that hadn’t happened yet. I glanced down at the corner of the screen and saw the reason for these untimely reminders:

I reset the time and clicked dismiss, only to be told, 15 minutes later, that I had again delved 76 years into the future. After this happening twice more I gave up on resetting the clock however I soon found that programs started behaving strangely in the future. My internet browser kept stopping me every time I tried to sign into a site saying “the security certificate expired on the 15th May, 2008”; MSN wouldn’t log in at all; Outlook kept throwing up reminders and asking if I would like to archive old items; Windows media player wouldn’t open.

Maybe this is just a brain fart on the part of my laptop? Maybe it’s a virus? Maybe it’s fallen into a wormhole? Maybe I’ve fallen into a wormhole and I’m really 99 but because of the shock I still see 23 year old hands typing in front of me?

Strange huh?

Decepción

I’ve always thought that the Spanish word decepción is a little ironic, at least from an English speaker’s perspective. On first glance, it looks like it would mean “deception” or “deceit”, but it actually means “disappointment”. It’s ironic because deception often leads to disappointment, so in a way the word becomes a self fulfilling prophecy.

Decepción sums up my present situation perfectly.

For the last two weeks I’ve been putting a lot of energy into trying to help someone who I thought was a good friend though a difficult time. He was very ill and understandably upset, and I tried to do what any good friend would do and help take his mind of it; I visited him in hospital, called him and said “stay strong” (because I know how maddening it is when people say “get well” when it is beyond your control anyway). I remember well how it felt to be stuck in bed, in pain, feeling like shit, with no one but your own shadow for company. I also remember well what I did to myself in that situation and I didn’t want him to experience that. I didn’t do it for thanks, nor to be told “what a good friend you are”; I just did it because it’s what any decent person does, right?

Apparently not.

It turned out that my friend didn’t think my motives were quite so pure. I received a text message the other night saying “I appreciate your support, but I am beginning to question your intentions and motives”. It turned out, to my utter dismay, that he suspected my motives were considerably more sinister—something straight out of a good soap opera—that I was hoping that something more would eventuate between the two of us, despite his having a boyfriend. Examples were cited; explanations were offered and quickly rebuffed. In the end he wouldn’t believe that there was no devilish scheme afoot to win him over to me. He ended the last text with “best wishes 4 the future”, after asking me not to contact him further. Such a token farewell greeting that was totally unappreciated and somewhat voided by the remainder of the message.

I didn’t—and still don’t—understand what I did to fuel his misconeptions. What kind of society do we live in when genuine concern is taken as sexual advances?

Actions of friendship were misconstrued as actions of lust; the imagined deception on his part resulted in a very real decepción on mine.

Passive agression

I hate passive aggression.

Maybe it’s just because I think it’s a little sneaky and underhanded. Maybe it has to do with the fact that I largely take things on face value so any passive aggression is lost on me anyway—at the time at least, I work out what happened after the fact, often after it’s too late. Maybe it’s because I’m not that good at it anyway. Maybe it’s because I think people should just be honest and not play mind games.

Whatever reason, I prefer any aggression to actually be aggressive.

Giant rainbow elephant in the room

Since the whole retraction incident, not a word has been spoken between Sister and I about “it”. In fact, “it” wasn’t even addressed then; “it wasn’t that” she said.

The whole thing has become, at least for me, like a giant rainbow elephant in the room: it’s there but neither of us will acknowledge it. There hasn’t been much cause for acknowledgement, to be fair, however before I came out to her she was always talking about “the homosexuals”. The homosexuals want to get married! The homosexuals want to adopt children! What rubbish. Since I came out, she’s said nothing.

To be honest, I’d rather just have it out and get all the preconceptions out of the way so we can go forward instead of stagnating where we are now. When I say preconceptions, I’m talking about preconceptions held by the both of us; I am well aware that while I have suspicions of what she thinks about “it”, I don’t know for sure. What it boils down to is that neither know what the other is thinking or feeling about “it”, so there are bound to be preconceptions.

The thing is, I don’t want to have to be the one to bring it up.

Loose ends

There’s a few bits and pieces that I’ve mentioned on here that I haven’t since addressed, so here I go.

The phone is back in working order, after drying out and being disinfected. Thankfully I don’t have to get a new one, unlike last time.

I’m not in el guapo’s class for linguistics; I’m pretty pissed off about that.

And then there’s Sister and the whole coming out bizzo. But that deserves its own post.

Old friends, bookends

A friend from high school got married the other weekend. I actually found out in a very round about way: I was in the doctor’s waiting room and I ran into a lady who works with my mother. She knows the mother of the friend and said “Oh, Such-and-such is getting married on Saturday”. I don’t know why I was so surprised at not having heard anything. I mean I haven’t heard from her—or most of them for that matter—since their graduation, a year before mine.

A few days later, I got an email from facebook informing me that Lynne, my best friend in highschool (now relegated to the status of acquaintance), has written on my “wall”. I checked it out and had a look at her profile and noticed some photos from the wedding. Most of the old gang were there.

The truly strange part about all this is that while it upset me to see their smiling faces, the fact remains that if I saw them in the street I would immediately get uncomfortable and leap into the nearest shop. So what’s up with that? It’s like I wanted to be invited even in the full knowledge that I would have declined. I think it is that none of them, Lynne excepted, have made any effort to contact me.

But then neither have I. Fuck, I hate feeling like this.