Just like God

The other week, when I was at The Stables Theatre with Janek to see Colder, I saw a postcard. It was divided into nine sections, each with a photo of a sculpture or installation artwork in just about every vivid colour you could fathom. I knew Lance would like it so I grabbed a copy and sent it to him. I was chatting to Kate last night and she told me that Lance had received the postcard during the week and said to her:

“You know...Uncle Dan is just like God in a way; he’s always full of surprises, just when you least expect them...”

This totally made up for the letter that Sister sent me during the week, arriving on the one year anniversary of having told her I am gay. How is that for lousy yet freaky timing? I will be writing about the letter, its content and my reply (which took four days and the input from three others to write) tonight because I really have procrastinated enough today. I realise that I’m telling this story somewhat backwards (well, totally backwards) but Lance’s offhand remark has bouyed my spirits and had me grinning like an idiot ever since I was told.

My hero

My nephew, Lance, was asked by his teacher to do a drawing about what he did over Easter. He drew an image of a young man being brutally bashed by four men, complete with lots of blood, while onlookers and police stood and did nothing. His caption read:

My friend is innocent. He was walking alone. He was badly hurt by four bad men who have no conscience. I am so sad that I didn't even feel happy about Easter. My Uncle is gay, what if this was him??

The event to which he refers was the bashing of a young gay man by four cowards while onlookers watched. The police treated him like a criminal, telling him that “his kind” belonged in the park beat. The crime was never reported in the newspapers, and to my knowledge few questions have been asked and no arrests have been made.

Lance constantly floors me with his compassion and maturity. It makes my mind spin to think that a child of seven—very mature for his age, I grant you, but seven nonetheless—understands that gay people are not immoral, dirty or deviant, but deserving of the same level of respect and dignity as everyone else, when many adults don’t understand that.

Understandably he’s now very worried about my personal safety. Kate told me that he made me a special rainbow sword to keep in my pencilcase to fend off would-be attackers.

Ladies and gentlemen, this is why Lance is my hero.

Fine print

I discovered last night, with a small measure of amusement, that while using a particular internet provider’s services, it is unacceptable to

“unlawfully incite discrimination, hate or violence towards one person or group, for example because of their race, religion, gender, sexual preference or nationality”.

I was tempted to email the company and tell them that their terminology is so last century. “Sexual orientation” or, more accurately, “sexuality” would be a much more appropriate way to allude to discrimination when it comes to sexual minorities in the twenty-first century. The term “sexual preference”, once used in the latter half of the twentieth century to describe sexual minorities (if they were considered at all that is), now it is only used in this sense by the religious right who cling to the mistaken believe that it is a choice or a simple preference, and usually is used in such a way as to deny basic legal protections on the grounds that it is unnatural anyway. I would point out that the “preference” implies a certain amount of choice and fluidity so that while one may prefer, say, chocolate ice cream over strawberry, they will happily partake of either at a pinch. With that in mind, I would argue that the term really refers to discrimination on the basis of issues more along the lines of preferred sex position or whether one enjoys using sex toys, not whether people are attracted to/fall in love with/fuck members of their own sex or gender. I stifled the temptation, reasoning that whoever read my email would probably see only the inane rantings of a nit-picking “gay activist”, and not fully appreciate the pithy humour with which it was written.

Besides, presumably it is perfectly acceptable to lawfully incite discrimination or hate towards any person or group, for example on the basis of their race, religion, gender, sexual “preference” or nationality. A quick look at anti-discrimination laws in this country will show you that it is actually quite easy to legally do such things. You just have to be a part of a church or government body and you practically have carte blanche.

I trust in God, it’s as simple as that

This post has been a long time coming. I haven’t spoken about God, the Catholic Church or my faith much on this blog (partly because I know that many readers don’t share that faith, partly because it is so private, and partly because I am still figuring it all out), but in light of recent events and some things I’ve read recently, I guess now is the time. So. I am Catholic. This is part of the reason it took me so long to come to terms with being gay, I don’t deny it.

But I’m getting ahead of myself here. Let’s start at the beginning. Sister and I were never dragged to church kicking and screaming as children like our parents were. We found God on our own. Despite not going to church as a child, I always considered myself Catholic, I just didn’t know what it entailed exactly.

Fast forward to 1999, the year I became ill, a year filled with uncertainty, depression and anxiety over my identity and place in the world. I was fifteen. I went to a lunch-time Christian group, ostensibly non-denominational but in practice fiercely Pentecostal (the friend I mentioned in the post “Insidious” also attended the group). One lunch time we were discussing differences between the denominations of Christianity and it turned into an open slather forum on what was wrong with Catholicism. As I didn’t know much about the church, I struggled to refute their accusations of heresy. My self-esteem and sense of self shattered, I decided to go to mass that weekend. At the mass there was an announcement about a weekend for youth that was being held at the parish in a month’s time. I put my name down. I went. I had a great time.

It was at this weekend that I “found God”. It wasn’t as glittery as Damascus, but it was sufficiently euphoric nonetheless. It was also at this weekend that I caught the flu, which ultimately lead to my ME/CFS.

Over the next two years, I went to mass and to the youth group and I learned about God, Jesus, Mary, John-Paul II and the whole crew. I was confirmed at 16 in 2000. It was around this time that the question of sexuality reared its ugly head. I knew I liked boys, I didn’t want to, but I did nonetheless. God knew I did, despite my best efforts to hide it from everyone, even Him. We were given a copy of the Catechism of the Catholic Church, which says this on the matter:

“Homosexuality refers to relations between men or between women who experience an exclusive or predominant sexual attraction toward persons of the same sex. It has taken a great variety of forms through the centuries and in different cultures. Its psychological genesis remains largely unexplained. Basing itself on Sacred Scripture, which presents homosexual acts as acts of grave depravity, tradition has always declared that "homosexual acts are intrinsically disordered." They are contrary to the natural law. They close the sexual act to the gift of life. They do not proceed from a genuine affective and sexual complementarity. Under no circumstances can they be approved.” (CCC 2357)

At this point, I was really confused.

After the watershed, I stopped going to mass. I felt unwanted and unvalued. Four years later I finally admitted I was gay. But I still didn’t know where this fit in with my faith in God and religion, so I did my best to ignore it. It didn’t work. I finally worked out that they are two separate issues: faith is private, religion is public. Two years later I’m still working it out.

So where does that leave me? I believe in the God of love, yet my religion continues its campaign of hate against my gay, lesbian, bi, transgender and intersex brothers and sisters. I read a recent interview with Anglican Archbishop Desmond Tutu:

He said the Anglican Church had seemed “extraordinarily homophobic” in its handling of the issue, and that he had felt “saddened” and “ashamed” of his church at the time.
Asked if he still felt ashamed, he said: “If we are going to not welcome or invite people because of sexual orientation, yes.”
“If God, as they say, is homophobic, I wouldn’t worship that God.”

The Catholic Church is much the same, maybe even more so. I agree with what Archbishop Tutu says. I do not worship a homophobic God.

I still don’t know how it all fits together, to be honest, but that is what faith is: belief despite doubt or trouble. At the moment I’m waiting to be put in touch with a friend of Kate’s who is a gay pastor; I’m hoping he can help me connect the seemingly unending string of contradictory connect-the-dots. But, the way I see it, we mere mortals can’t blame God because there are other homophobic mortals working for him, purporting to speak for him. I often think “it must be nice to be so assured” when I hear Sister and the “unknowing homophobes” spout their rubbish and hate. But the point is I believe in God’s love more than I reject the church’s hate.

I trust in God, it’s as simple as that.

Faith and reason...and a little bit of semantics

I was reading blogs yesterday when a link on Best Gay Blogs caught my eye. It read “ten arguments against gay marriage”. Intrigued, I followed the link to a post which outlined ten reasons why gay marriage is something to be feared and rejected. It occurred to me that anti gay marriage groups are fuelled not only by vicious right-wing rhetoric, malicious homophobia, and a penchant for complex and confusing sentences, but also by a serious case of irrational logic.

The post was a summary of an article on another site, No Gay Marriage (if you want a link, go to the post on Teresa Centric’s site; NGM aren’t getting a link from me). Teresa posted the summary to shoot them down, some were actually a little funny and most if not all were totally unrealistic anyway. It would have been amusing if it weren’t so appalling. I can’t say I was surprised—I’m way too jaded for that—but I was appalled nonetheless. Reading the article got me thinking about how faith and reason seem to be mutually exclusive on this issue and how semantics play a big part in its interpretation.

At this point, I should point out that I am Catholic. Increasingly, the term “gay Catholic”—and “gay Christian” or any “gay any-other-religion” for that matter—is becoming oxymoronic, from both sides of the fence; each thinks that you can’t be one if you are the other. But I disagree, strongly.

Obviously my conception of what it means to be a Catholic differs sharply from that of the anti-marriage lobby. Christian fundamentalism is constitutionally rule-governed; tradition and biblical “evidence” (I use the term lightly) always win out in their arguments. For me, religion is more spiritual: a connection between your deepest self and your Creator in which rules have little place or authority. Even on the question of morality, rules are fairly moot to my mind; if I followed the rules simply for the sake of avoiding punishment rather than for doing the right thing, am I really a good person? Or just a coward who doesn’t have the intestinal fortitude to do the right thing for its own sake?

God is love. The bible says this in plain black and white. So how could God possibly hate people who are, among a long list of other things, gay? If hate is the absence of love, then surely it must be impossible for God to hate. I’m not for a second saying that God is not angered at times, nor do I suggest that he blithely condones everything like some bearded grandfather figure sitting on a cloud while his angels play the hard, but I certainly don’t see how love between two people who happen to be of the same gender can be wrong. Love is amoral. It is neither good nor bad, morally speaking. It just is.

They argue that gay marriage will result in the end of the family—the building block of society—and as such must be stopped at any cost. But what is a family? Personally, I feel that family is a state of mind. I consider my close friends to be part of my family; I feel that a family composed of two dads or two mums with children to be of equal value to one with a mum, dad and children. Why should a family that does not conform to their notion of family be any less family-like? If each group is a family, then gay marriage will in fact help entrench the family unit into society more concretely because in each model the parents of the children will be bound together in matrimony. Even if one does not accept my assertion that same-sex couples with children constitute the hallowed family, why should their marriage affect any other family unit? Unless, of course, they want it to. Don’t like gay marriage? Don’t marry someone of your own sex and shut up.

You would think that any reasonable person could see these arguments for what they are, but in my experience reason has little to do with the arguments of the anti-marriage lobby. They are veiled in the rhetoric of biblical prohibition and moral superiority and few within the fundamentalist camp are willing to question such dire predictions when they are framed in the rhetoric of “traditional marriage”. They ignore, of course, the fact that until recently, historically speaking, the emphasis of the marriage contract has shifted from one of ownership (one in which the wife became property of the husband) to one of mutuality and commitment.

It seems to me that it often boils down to a different interpretation of “family” and of the nature of God. There isn’t much I can do about it—despite what I think, say or believe, the anti-gay-marriage lobby will continue spreading its message of hate. I just don’t see how they can justify such hatred and exclusion by invoking a God of love and inclusion.

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.

---

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.

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.

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.

Nada nos libra, nada más queda

I feel like shit today; my legs are killing me and I feel totally, and inexplicably, down in the dumps. I won’t go quite as far as saying that I’m depressed, but it’s getting mighty close. And I don’t know why.

I remember distinctly when I was 17 my Mum asked me “what’s it like being depressed?” She was desperately trying to understand me. The thing is that it’s hard to explain. On the one hand, it feels like there is no light and no goodness left in the world. It feels like no matter what you do you will never again be happy, or healthy, and as such you don’t care what happens to you or anyone else anyway. But on the other hand it doesn’t really feel like anything—it’s like time and space stop and you’re stuck in the hellish present, all the time in the world is yours to wallow in your misery. Today I don’t feel that bad, nowhere near that bad, but I feel flat and down. And I don’t know why.

Well ok, that’s not entirely true. I know why, I just don’t know how. What I mean is that I don’t know what happened to trigger these semi-depressed feelings, all I know is I woke up feeling like the sun is behind a cloud. In the past, when I was seriously depressed, there was usually a trigger before an episode; perhaps someone said something nasty, or did something (that in hindsight was a perfectly reasonable thing to do) that made me feel bad, or perhaps I was just so sick that I saw no end in sight. Today, I can’t put my finger on what it is. As for why, well that’s hard to enunciate.

I guess the short answer is that I feel trapped sometimes. And when I dwell on this feeling of entrapment I can get a little anxious. I feel trapped by my physical and medical limitations and by the consequences they bring. That’s about the size and shape of it. I’m not so naïve or vain as to think that I own the patent on human suffering—I know there are people out there in far worse predicaments than the one in which I find myself—but that’s how it is: I feel so trapped sometimes, and I wonder how I will ever get myself un-trapped.

Some days I don’t even notice my limitations. I fly high on the thrill of being alive, of being able to do what I can do and not worrying about what I cannot do. I walk around uni feeling I could take on the world—just me and my walking stick, ready to whack anyone who gets in my way—as the musical chorus sings in the background and strangers on the street dance a perfectly choreographed modern number in which everyone is smiling. That is how I am most of the time: happy-go-lucky, seeing the glass as half full and generally full of life. And then there’s the flipside: all I see are limitations. Some days I can’t walk without pain; I can’t even really lie down for any length of time without pain. I can’t drink much, certainly can’t go out at night. I can’t drive so I don’t see my friends (the few that I have) nearly as often as I would like. I sit in bed, miserable, as an oboe mournfully fills the room with tear-jerker music. Happy-go-lucky is replaced with wallowsome misery and the glass is always, always, half empty. If not moreso.

Life seems so hopeless. And I hate feeling this way.

So where did it come from? I mean I do get the odd twinge of regret and anger now and then—modern interpretive musicals numbers replaced momentarily by soulful ballads—but this is just ridiculous. The only thing I can think of as a trigger is purely chemical. I take three regular meds, two semi-regular ones on an as-needed basis for pain, another two as-needed for migraines, and two mineral tablets. All of them say to avoid alcohol, but that is fairly standard and I have been advised by countless medical professionals that I can drink a little (which I have worked out to be about half a standard drink every three hours). I had one drink last night, a simple kahlua and coke, so perhaps that has messed with my brain chemistry? Or perhaps it’s just a bad day. But the trigger isn’t the point.

What started as something random has grown into something real and scary, and I don’t like it at all. I had so many plans for my life: by now I was going to be living near a beach somewhere, with a beautiful boyfriend in my bed, a car in the driveway and a diploma on the wall. And I don’t have that. And I feel so trapped.

But I will go to sleep in my nice warm bed, my teddy by my side. Everything’s alright, yes, everything’s fine. I’ll close my eyes, close my eyes, relax and think of nothing tonight.

Tomorrow will be a better day.

Letting go

For the last week I’ve been feeling awful. The mix-up with my medications last week has left me in a constant state of crappiness. I’ve spent the last week in bed in a perpetual drug-fucked haze. Funnily enough, it’s at these times when I have the Deep Thoughts. I sit in bed, tongue lolling out of my mouth, alone with my muddled thoughts, running off lines of dramatic and eloquent prose in my head—as Deep as ever thoughts were—which are promptly forgotten before they can be written down here.

This week has been a week of letting go. It’s something I don’t do easily, nor (as recent events will attest) consciously. Dad and I went down to Pop’s house this week to continue on the massive clean-up. My aunt and uncle are still living there, the house becoming more and more empty as Pop’s things are either distributed among his flock or sold. He was a pack-rat (as my long suffering mother reminds me: I must have gotten it from him); there is so much stuff.

Three months ago, I reflected in a letter to Pop:

As an abstract concept you are still here with me. I still love you; I always will. No amount of death or distance can take that away from me. Even in some small tangible way you have left vestiges of yourself here; you're on top of my television in a blue frame and on my filing cabinet, being held in place by two butterfly magnets. Your house is full of your life. But as an object (as opposed to a concept) you are gone. It does my head in thinking about it. Like poof, you just went away. Now all we have are relics and memories.

Packing boxes of books and maps, destined for ebay and eventually new homes, scattered to the wind like a spent dandelion flower, I felt a jolt of sadness as I participated in this ritual of deconstructing a life. But then, quite out of the blue while I was listing the items on ebay, the sadness was replaced by another feeling. I can’t think of an adequate adjective to describe it other than saying it was the feeling of “letting go”. If I had have been doing this three months ago, every book I picked up would have wounded me as I remembered its connection to Pop.

Whenever I'm alone with you
You make me feel like I am home again
Whenever I'm alone with you
You make me feel like I am whole again
Whenever I'm alone with you
You make me feel like I am young again
Whenever I'm alone with you
You make me feel like I am fun again

Tomorrow, the 9th of July, is the anniversary of my Grandma’s passing in 2003. I remember the funeral as a white dreamlike haze in which memories are at the same time blurry and starkly vivid. I didn’t cry before the funeral—in fact I didn’t cry until right at the end when my aunt read a poem and said (and I remember this part with startling clarity) “now it’s time to let go”. I realised as I saw that cold coffin at the front of the chapel that never again would I kiss her goodbye as I left her house, that I would never feel her warm touch. And I lost it. I let go, let it out, let the floodgates open, and began my grieving then and there. With Pop it was different. I don’t know why it’s panned out this way but I didn’t start letting go at the funeral. Nor anytime soon after. I swam in my grief, enjoying the slick feeling of almost drowning.

I still miss him—I always will—but the keen longing has disappeared, the happy memories bring a smile to my face and only a glimmer of sadness sits on the horizon as I bask in the glory of him in my memories.

Tomorrow is also the anniversary of the first real post on my blog. I wrote one on the 6th of July which basically said “here goes nothing” (and is now used as a post in which I put all the images used on the website). The post of the 9th, “three years ago today”, was about my Grandma. I remember typing it in Pop’s glacial lounge room, my frozen feet in football socks atop an oil heater, the grass green shagpile oppressing my vision of rooms beyond. So much has happened since that day, namely my coming out, but it’s more than that: I have learnt to be comfortable being me.

Back then, the thought of telling my parents, sister or the family-at-large that I’m gay filled me with such dread. I had only told Liz, Lala and Cal six months ago, so I was still getting accustomed to them knowing. In a way I was clinging to the coat-rail of my closet for dear life; truth, after all, isn’t truth until you tell someone else about it. While I could be myself around my closest confidants (I should say more myself, because I still wasn’t comfortable with it), I was still hiding myself around the FAL. Now, I’m sitting in bed watching Queer as Folk with the volume at a reasonable level rather than the clandestine viewings complete with earphones as if I were watching some extreme hardcore smut. I can’t tell you how liberating it is. I feel so free.

At that time, the doors of the closet now propped open slightly, I clung to the coat rail, wearing various coats in shades of grey (straight) in public. I had admitted I was gay but I still kept a careful eye on my wrist lest it go limp, and I made sure that I sprinkled my speech with the manly interjections mate and dude rather than the more flowery fabulous and sweety. As time wore on, and the doors to my closet remained permanently propped open, I let go of my cushy closet with its various straight coats. No longer do I cling to the coat rail when my parents or sister walk past. The only ones yet to officially open the closet and behold the rainbow coat I now wear is the rest of the FAL. I know it will happen soon—on MSN I’ve been plugging the GetUp campaign, which means certain family members will see it and finally put two and two together before scuttling off to tell everyone as fast as technologically possible, European families being second to none in the efficient transmission of juicy information stakes.

But I don’t care; I’ve let go of the coat rail, shed the grey conservative manly coat (which, I should add, is an illusion anyway) and am beginning to step out into the big bad world, finally colourful, fabulous, and free.

Shock realisation

It occurred to me today that I don’t remember what it feels like to not be sick.

Funnily enough this came as quite a shock. I had just been picked up from the train station after a long day in which I felt like crap the majority of the time with headaches, muscle aches and an almost overwhelming exhaustion that I woke up with and couldn’t shake no matter how much caffeine I consumed. My mind wandered, as it is want to do, onto a friend of mine who has just suffered a particularly nasty bout of food poisoning (which caused him to cancel a coffee date) complete with all- vomiting and a trip to emergency at the local hospital. The next day I sent him a text message and asked how he was feeling and he said “tired and worn out”. I know the feeling, I thought. A few days later, he’s back to his chirpy (if a little busy) self and remarked that “if there is one thing I hate above all others it is being ill”. I was thinking about all of this in the random stupor of my exhaustion and was suddenly struck by the horrifying realisation that I don’t remember not feeling sick in one way or another.

It is actually quite poetic that I should be struck by such a realisation this week. This week is International ME/CFS and Fibromyalgia Awareness Week. I won’t rehash the sordid details, I’ve already done that once this month and frankly it’s getting a little depressing. Suffice it to say that there’s always something.

There’s always headaches, migraines, aching legs or arms, sore back or shoulders, crippling exhaustion, stomach upsets or the ever-present memory of a goldfish. I don’t remember how it was before all this started eight years ago. I don’t remember having energy, going to school every day or being able to go to a party at the drop of a hat. I don’t remember having a life.

Slow down, you move too fast

A reader and fellow blogger, Campbell, sent me an email the other day with a poem that reminded him of me and my posts on Pop. He wasn’t sure if it would help or be any comfort but wanted to share it nonetheless; it was.

Do not hurry as you walk with your grief;
It does not help the journey.

Walk slowly, pausing often,
Do not hurry as you walk with your grief.

Be not disturbed by memories that come
Unbidden; swiftly forgive.

Be gentle with one who walks with grief.
If it is you, be gentle with yourself; swiftly
Forgive, walk slowly, pausing often.

Take time. Be gentle--as you walk with your grief.

I suck at doing things slowly. As I’m sure you can imagine, that makes life with ME/CFS and fibromyalgia considerably harder than it would otherwise be. I want things done now or, preferably, yesterday. The hardest thing to learn when I first got sick was to slow down. But that’s a topic for another post. Suffice it to say I need to learn to slow down and take things as they come. Thanks Campbell, for the gentle reminder.

Who am I?

Maybe it’s the migraines, maybe it’s the pain killers, but I am feeling very introspective today. It occurred to me that my “about me” needed some updating so I started writing a list of things to describe who I am. By the time I got to number 46 or so, I thought I may as well go the whole hog and try for 100. I hope it isn’t as self-indulgent as these things can often be.

1. I pretend that it doesn’t matter to me, but the truth is I do care what people think of me.
2. I feel sorry for Aunt Agony and Rick; they seem so unhappy and it breaks my heart.
3. I enjoy helping people, but only if they are willing to help themselves.
4. If I could change one event in my life, I probably would do it; I just wouldn’t know which to change.
5. I genuinely don’t understand people who are threatened by love between two women or two men.
6. I enjoy smoking, but I regret having started.
7. I didn’t get the real meaning of ANZAC day until this year.
8. I don’t cry often, but when I do I really cry.
9. I yearn for independence, but I miss being a child.
10. I am more a cat-person than a dog-person.
11. I believe in love at first sight, simply because it has happened to people I know.
12. I had a crush on my (female) art teacher in year 9.
13. I am not scared of spiders, snakes, rodents or insects; they just piss me off.
14. I hate being treated like a child by Sister and my mother.
15. I think I look good in brown and blue.
16. I think I could pull off wearing a pink shirt, but I’m afraid to try.
17. I’ve never broken a bone in my life.
18. I genuinely don’t understand people who believe that same-sex relationship recognition is a “special right”.
19. I had two ingrown toenails removed when I was a teenager and had a panic attack each time.
20. I can go from being secure to being wildly insecure very quickly.
21. My favourite colour is bright blue, but more on the aqua side of blue.
22. I can’t help but hate pumpkin and green beans.
23. I like Tía’s pumpkin soup recipe better than my mother’s.
24. I like Grandma’s chicken livers.
25. I hate that people use “gay” as a derogatory term, but don’t often speak up when I hear it.
26. I was most afraid of coming out to my aunt, Tía, because I was afraid of her rejection more than anyone else’s.
27. When I was little, I wanted to be a “tattooist”.
28. I loved Astro Boy when I was a kid, but I rented it on video as an adult and thought it was lame.
29. I am a little scared of Sister’s reaction to my being gay, but not as much as I used to be.
30. When I was five, I thought the (male) school captain was hot.
31. Bad use of grammar infuriates me.
32. I love reading good poetry, and secretly wish that I could write good poetry too.
33. I generally believe myself to be a good writer.
34. I generally believe myself to be a good person.
35. I carry a photo of Luke, Sam and Zoe in my wallet.
36. I truly believe in marriage, just not as a political wedge or as an elite institution, yet I respect others’ decision not to get married.
37. I can’t help but believe in God.
38. I can’t help but believe in the Catholic Church.
39. I saw my first porno magazine at the age of 10.
40. I don’t drink much, but when I do I don’t know when to stop.
41. I had a crush on Cal when I first met him.
42. I hate it when people say things like “I’m not homophobic, I just hate gays”; I would much prefer that people owned their homophobic, racist or sexist ideas.
43. I feel like the black sheep of the family.
44. I believe in the concept of “the family” being important, even though I feel stifled by my own.
45. I hate Macs, if for no other reason that their mice only have one button.
46. I love reading a good novel on cold winter nights.
47. I can knit, and I’m pretty good at it.
48. I genuinely believe my mother had no idea that I was gay; I don’t understand how, but I believe it.
49. Even though I’m 23, I still have teddy bears on my bed.
50. I genuinely don’t understand people who think that God hates me, simply because I am gay.
51. A good male singer makes my knees weak.
52. I am generally attracted to blonde surfers or dark Latino men.
53. For the first year or so, I only looked at straight porn. It didn’t occur to me that gay porn existed (or that I would like it).
54. I often wonder what life would have been like, and what I would be like, if I wasn’t sick; I wonder if I’d like myself.
55. I prefer summer to winter.
56. Increasingly, I’m ashamed to be Australian.
57. I am ¼ Spanish, ¼ Slovak, 3/8 Australian and 1/8 German; I identify more with Spain than with Slovakia or Germany.
58. I love to laugh so hard it hurts my stomach.
59. I am proud of Sister’s achievements, even though she does a lot of things I don’t agree with.
60. I wish I had a brother.
61. I am afraid of never getting better.
62. I am afraid of being alone.
63. I am afraid of having access to Luke, Sam and Zoe denied me.
64. I am afraid of the end of the world.
65. I say things without judgement; if I say “that shirt makes you look fat” I mean it as a statement of fact, not as a comment on your worth.
66. I often wonder if people love me as much as I love them.
67. I get really, really disappointed when people say they will call me and then don’t.
68. I believe in the ideal of “turn the other cheek”, but often thirst for vengeance.
69. I am comfortable in the knowledge that people who use God, the Bible and religion as a basis of hatred will get their just deserts.
70. I love Australian slang like “wig-wam for a gooses bridle”, “you’ve got Buckley’s”, “pearler” and “no flies on you”.
71. I generally believe myself to be fairly good looking, but some days I feel so ugly.
72. I generally believe myself to be fairly intelligent, but some days I feel so stupid.
73. I can’t listen to Mr Jones, by Counting Crows, without a stab of pain.
74. I vividly remember meeting Luke for the first time, but I cannot remember meeting Sam or Zoe that well.
75. Even though I’m 23, I still enjoy cuddling up with Grandma on the lounge when we watch TV together.
76. I am often embarrassed by my memory problems.
77. I try to forgive people; I think I do a pretty good job at it.
78. I am loyal to my friends and I expect nothing less in return.
79. For a long time before I accepted my sexuality, I considered myself bi even though deep down I knew that was a lie.
80. I feel comfortable swearing in front of my parents and grandparents.
81. I don’t pray as much as I’d like to, or as much as I think I should.
82. I was always good at maths but hated it.
83. I generally believe myself to be a good cook, so I don’t understand why baking cookies is beyond me.
84. I’ve lived in two houses in the same city my entire life.
85. I’ve never been overseas; the only places I want to go are Madrid, to the church in which my grandparents married, and to Rome to see the Pope.
86. I considered Pope John Paul II a third grandfather.
87. I felt personally betrayed when my uncle left my aunt for another woman.
88. I have a high pain threshold for generalised pain, but a low one for localised pain.
89. I don’t really have a favourite food.
90. I love playing monopoly, even though I’m not very good at it.
91. When I get depressed I just want to sleep and forget.
92. Of all the people I know, my grandma has the best laugh.
93. Of all the people I know, my pop has (had) the most amazing mind.
94. Of all the people I know, my cousin Lala has the biggest heart.
95. Of all the people I know, my friend Liz is most like me.
96. I love the beach but hate the ocean.
97. I probably swear a little too much.
98. I have no qualms with using the word “cunt”.
99. I wish I had the kind of skin that tanned easily, instead of burning.
100. I don’t really have a favourite band, TV show or movie; I have lists.

The language of hatred

If a writer can use language to paint a textured portrait of love and happiness, then it follows that the reverse is also true. Language, like art, can be used to convey hatred and malice. Take the swastika for example. It is simply eight black lines, but their particular arrangement speaks of a hatred and evil far beyond its humble physical presence. The same eight lines, arranged differently, and in a different context, could be used to convey just about anything. It all depends on the context and form.

Words are exactly the same. The word fag has always intrigued me. On paper, it’s just three simple letters; spoken, it’s three simple sounds. F, A and G can be used in other contexts to mean just about anything. The word can be ugly or friendly; the phrase “you’re such a fag” can be used as a friendly jab by Lala or Liz when I do something particularly gay or it can be used by the insecure school yard bully as a vitriolic taunt. So powerful is language that it can boost your spirits or reduce your self-esteem in one fell swoop. On paper, the phrasedoesn’t always belie its own subtext; that depends on what happens around it.

I’ve had a few negative comments in my 10 months of blogging, but I’ve never been so thoroughly disgusted at a comment until I read a comment on Ryan’s post about Mikey’s accident yesterday. Here’s an excerpt of the hateful attack directed at them:

Your so called boyfriend got what he deserved and soon will be in hell with all the fags before him. You still have a chance to seek help and change your sinful ways. Seek the Lord and he shall set you free ... For those of you who have deluded yourselves into thinking that the story of Sodom isn't really talking about homosexuals, read the following: the people of Sodom and Gomorrah had completely turned away from God, and whenever that happens, homosexuality abounds ... Anybody who thinks that today is any different than those days needs to attend San Francisco's annual gay rights parade, stand along the parade route, and hold a sign that says "GOD HATES FAGS."

When I read that I was totally gobsmacked. Leaving aside the content of the comment for a moment (we’ll get to that in a minute), I don’t understand how anyone could say such repulsive things to someone after their boyfriend has been in a terrible accident, even if they were true. Whether it was written in a hasty fit of self-righteousness or it was a deliberate act to hurt Ryan, it just goes to show that you can use language for evil just as easily (perhapsmoreso) than for good.

I guess I also don’t understand the motivation. If it was her wish to save his soul from hell, then she certainly went about it the wrong way and at the most inopportune time. What is such a fundamentalist christian even doing at a gay blog anyway? Looking for someone to save? Looking for trouble to stir up? There is a particular website, which I refuse to name or link to because they don't deserve the traffic, devoted to promoting this kind of drivel. They are the ones who madeplacards and picketed Matthew Shepard's funeral. They make me sick.

After confronting the author of that comment, Ryan received a second comment:

Big words from a little fag call me what you will I know I am going to heaven and your faggot ass will burn in hell. Asking all the fag lovers that flock to this site for prayer in saving your boyfriend. God has deaf ears when it comes from fags or fag supporters. Shame on all of you turn your heart over and let God cleanse your soul or you will rot in hell with all the fags.

And now, the content. I don’t understand how these ‘christians’ (and I use the term incredibly loosely and with a small C—they don’t deserve the respect of a capital letter) can march under the banner of Jesus and the Bible and use the word fag; it’s totally beyond me. What happened to “the greatest of these [commandments] is love”? These people base their hatred on the Bible which, like any other written work, can be interpreted in different ways. If you have love and happiness in your heart, it is a book of hope and joy; if you are full of hatred and (self?)loathing, it can become a powerful weapon.

I’m not saying that I do not believe in the Bible, nor am I saying that I do not believe in God, nor in ‘good Christians’. I don’t talk about my religious and spiritual beliefs on this blog, but thatdoesn’t mean they aren ’t there. I am a proud Christian. I believe in God, Jesus, the Bible, redemption and sacrifice, the whole bit. I even believe in the Church. I do not, however, believe the Bible should ever, ever, be used as a weapon. Does my being gay mean I have to forfeit my membership card? I don’t believe that for a second. I can think of a half dozen verses to throw at the troll that wrote that comment but I’m not going to bother; it won’t get anyone anywhere.

“So faith, hope, love abide, these three;
but the greatest of these is love.” 1 Cor 13:13

“If anyone says ‘I love God’, and hates his brother, he is a liar;
for he who does not love his bother whom he has seen,
cannot love God whom he has not seen.” 1 John 4:20

I despair at the state of the world when people use their own sacred text to justify such evil acts.

The language of love

Being a linguistics student and a writer, I am fascinated by language. Like a painter uses paints and brushes to create a rich portrait, a writer use language to create a rich and vivid portrait of life, full of texture and colour. In the same way that visual artists use different media and techniques to create different artworks, writers use words and language in different way to create their literary art. The same utterance, rendered in different ways, can create meaning: te amo mi amor is sensual and romantic, I love you is simple and honest, luv ya babe is friendly and bold.

I want to briefly discuss the idea of how language is used to create meaning by using one of my favourite blogs as an example (I trust the authors won’t object). The blog is Boys are Ugly But So Cute, the authors are boyfriends Mikey and Ryan.

I have to admit that when I started reading their blog some months ago, their use of language made my skin creep. I naively wrote their writing off as being sub-standard. As I have kept reading and following their lives I have reflected, with deep shame, that my judgement of their use of language was extremely elitist and totally wrong. What a fool I was! I can't appologise enough to you both for my arrogance. Yes, they sometimes miss out punctuation and they often mix up homophones (words that sound the same, such as their, there and they’re), but I would assert that rather than being “wrong”, it adds to the rich texture of their writing. This was posted on the 23rd of March:

Back inside I found Mikey I ask him you call them yet with his sad eyes he said no I was just fixing 2 I told him then when u call them u tell them u will take the job. He said what? I said you heard me tell them you will take it. He ask 4 real YES MIKEY 4 REAL! I know I already told babe but I want 2 say it on here I Love You more than life and my Dad is right you took a chance 4 me and now I will 4 u. I believe in you and I know we will be just fine. So people we are moving 2 Florida in about a month. Yes I am scared to death but I knoe it's the right thing 2 do and we will be fine.

Instead of wasting time (like I do) on technicalities, Mikey and Ryan write from the heart. Their love for each other flows out of their fingers into their keyboard and touches the hearts of their readers. I can only hope that my writing does the same.

This week, Mikey was in a terrible bike accident and is now in hospital in a coma while his Ryan keeps a vigil by his bedside. Ryan has written briefly about the accident:

I need 2 make this quick but I need your prayers more now than I ever have before. Friday evening Mikey went out with my Dad & Brother riding the quad runners and there was an accident. Mikey was hurt real bad they had 2 fly him 2 the hospital. I can't say anymore than that right now I need 2 get back with him they made me come home last night 2 sleep and shower. So please pray 4 him and I will update u as soon as I can.

If you pray, pray for them. If you don’t pray, think of them.
If you don’t read their blog, perhaps it’s time you start.
Such expressive writing like theirs is hard to find and doesn’t come often.
Love like this doesn’t happen often.

My prayers are with you Ryan and Mikey.

Easy-going?

The other day a friend, whom I greatly admire, said to me “you get worked up too much about things”. This got me thinking.

I’ve always prided myself on being easy-going; easy going people don’t get worked up unnecessarily, right? It seems that while I am myself easy going in many ways, I get impatient when others are equally easy going.

One of my pet hates is when people don’t do what they say they will do. In fact, I often take it personally when someone says they will do something for me and then don’t (usually through no fault of their own). It shits me to the point of distraction. Is this the action of an easy-going person? When this kind of thing happens I sit there fuming silently to myself and get, as my friend said, totally worked up. The person in question invariably apologises and explains that they had ran out of phone credit, had been working non-stop, had been ill or any number of other totally understandable reasons. Boy do I feel like the fucking arsehole afterwards.

What about my own (in)actions? My health being as “fluctuatory” as it is, I have been known to miss appointments and commitments. Does that make me a hypocrite? Could it be that the people who annoy me so are simply as equally easy-going as I? My mother constantly gets upset with me when I stay with Lala and Cal because I genuinely forget, or am unable, to call her as promised for whatever reason (some more “legitimate” than others). When I stay with them I always leave my departure date open-ended for as long as possible to avoid nasty situations of “you said you’d be coming home on Monday and now you’re telling me you want to stay till Wednesday”. Even with this open-ended system, I still upset her somehow because she usually assumes the standard holiday period will be one or two weeks. When I decide to stay for three or four she feels I am going back on my unspoken word.

Does this prevent me from getting worked up when I am in my mother’s position? Nope.

Does my friend’s pointing this out to me mean I will try to be more easy-going all the time, and not just when it suits me? Yep.

Change

The following is a piece of writing by someone I've never met but someone whom I nonetheless have a great deal of respect for. It was posted on my friend Lou's blog (the reading of which is what "inspired" me to post it myself), however I do not consider it stealing in any way, shape or form since I originally read it when it was pinned on the peg-board in her parents' toilet (which, by way of explanation so that they don't sound like complete lunatics, contains cartoons, jokes, photos and the like to make one's stay more enjoyable while on the shitter).

Autobiography in Five Chapters.
-- Portia Nelson.

1) I walk down the street.
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.
I fall in.
I am lost... I am hopeless.
It isn't my fault.
It takes forever to find a way out.

2) I walk down the same street.
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.
I pretend I don't see it.
I fall in again.
I can't believe I'm in the same place.
But it isn't my fault.
It still takes a long time to get out.

3) I walk down the same street.
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.
I see it is there.
I still fall in... it's a habit
My eyes are open
I know where I am
It's my fault.
I get out immediately

4) I walk down the same street.
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.
I walk around it.

5) I walk down another street.

So simple and yet it takes us mere mortals (or, at the very least, t