Stevie Nicks is about to provide the bulk of the soundtrack for our October listening list (coming up shortly, since we just released the Fade-to-Black Fall Playlist). I hear her siren’s call, drawn to the sweet music, and the spicy scent of pine warmed by the afternoon sun in our little side-yard, and I try to join in the dance. It’s there in the wind. It’s there in a falling leaf. It’s there in the soft and sticky brush of pine needles.
I’m tired I’m thirsty I’m wild-eyed In my misery
Timeless in your finery It’s a high price For your luxury
In times of doubt and uncertainty, I find it best to reconnect with nature. Sitting in the soft blanket comprised of leaves and moss, the earth embraces all of us if we let it. There is healing in that embrace, and in the music of a woman who has seen more than most of us. She knows our secrets. She knows a way out. She knows.
Sorcerer Who is the master A man and woman on a star stream In the middle of a snow dream Sorcerer Show me the high life Come over Let me put you on ice
The wisdom unseen by men, the wisdom gleaned by women, and the wisdom discerned by those somewhere in between or beyond such limited labels is the wisdom of the ages. It changes with the passing of time, something we as humans don’t always want to admit or acknowledge, because that might require a change in our own beliefs. We don’t usually like to change our beliefs – it’s messy and makes us uneasy – but if you learn how to do that, you learn a bit of magic that will unlock hidden doors for as long as you keep your mind open. It’s the kind of magic that lights the darkest black ink nights…
All around black ink darkness And who found lady from the mountains All around black ink darkness And who found lady from the mountains Lady from the mountains
Lately I’ve felt the downward pull of time and age – two of many things over which a person has little to no control. Time and age – the sorcerer and the sorceress that lord their ways over us all.
Our fall playlist is finally being posted here – a little late perhaps, but I hope you find it worth the wait. It begins with songs that inspired the ‘Fade-to-Black’ theme, segues into a rollicking femininomenon section with a couple of disco moments, and brings us all back to black in the end. Click and listen, preferably in the order in which they appear. (Apologies, I’m an anal-retentive Virgo after all.)
One of my favorite pieces of music is the Bacchanal from the opera ‘Samson and Delilah’. I’m not sure why it became a favorite, because it brings back bad memories of all the stress and worry and competitive ickiness of my time in the Empire State Youth Orchestra. That it contains one of the more celebrated oboe solos is one reason for how stressful those passages once felt, and I remember the first time we read through it – I think I had the solo and totally massacred it.
The orchestra raced ahead before I even knew where we were in the score, and I was left behind, eventually taking the second seat after tryouts. In truth, I probably had no business even being in the actual Empire State Youth Orchestra – and as much as I learned there, as much as the experience hardened and honed me, I wonder if it was worth the social anxiety and stress at that time in my life. It still haunts me, and I question whether that was the best thing to do to myself as a kid (not that I was given a choice in those early days) – and did it really prove the tipping point at getting me into all of the colleges to which I applied? I doubt I’ll ever know – and there’s no point in dwelling here. Instead, let’s revel in the music at hand, and allow it to fuel this fall’s reckoning…
If you stick it out and wait until about the 7:00 mark, you’ll hear when things really begin to soar – and it is here where I take all the trauma of the past and turn it into something else – anger, rage, triumph, revenge – and a power I’m still discovering buried within. Spreading the wings of a silky caftan, with a rope of pearls to harness the universe’s available energy, it feels like a moment ripe for flight.
The music is a seduction and a celebration in one, entrancing with its sensuous oboe solo, and then setting the scene for the destruction of a temple. Sexual symbolism and blatant hedonism brilliantly collide in a meeting of the minds and bodies of opposing forces. Prepare the way for aural ecstasy and orgasmic, orgiastic might.
Who knew that opera could be so gorgeously filthy? It’s a perfect treat for the fall season.
Ever since Dad died, this song has taken on a deeper meaning – and it was pretty deep before then, so this one goes far down. For our fade-to-black fall, it gets resurrected and brought back with even greater resonance. Life does that – it sharpens some things, dulls others, and reconfigures the world in a way that makes you realize it was all perception and perspective – and hopefully in that realization there comes a certain peace.
When I was a young boy My father took me into the city To see a marching band He said, “Son, when you grow up Would you be the savior of the broken The beaten and the damned?” He said, “Will you defeat them? Your demons, and all the non-believers The plans that they have made?” “Because one day, I’ll leave you a phantom To lead you in the summer To join the black parade”
A world that sends you reelin’ From decimated dreams Your misery and hate will kill us all So paint it black and take it back Let’s shout it loud and clear Defiant to the end, we hear the call
Ever since I was a boy, I’ve felt old. Not physically, just in my head. I had no patience for childish nonsense, and all the silly things the other kids were doing. I felt weary, like I’d done it all before, and I was already tired. I felt jaded, not better than anyone – never better than anyone – just like there was nothing new under the sun. I felt entirely too serious for my own good, and my earnestness was never taken at face value, jumbling things up in my head even more. I felt stressed and worried – about everything. And what should have been one of the only truly carefree times in a person’s life was never meant to be, at least for me.
Do or die, you’ll never make me Because the world will never take my heart Go and try, you’ll never break me We want it all, we wanna play this part
I won’t explain or say I’m sorry I’m unashamed, I’m gonna show my scars Give a cheer for all the broken Listen here, because it’s who we are
Just a man, I’m not a hero Just a boy, who had to sing this song Just a man, I’m not a hero I don’t care
We’ll carry on, we’ll carry on And though you’re dead and gone, believe me Your memory will carry on
I cannot regret that, any more than anyone can regret things over which they had no control or say. Who knows why I felt that way, and what does it even matter at this point? That was a long time ago, and I’ve never been one to hold onto the past, even as I recognize the need for a reckoning about certain things that have occurred. For now, I think of my Dad when I hear this song, wondering how he would react to everything our world has become. I have my own idea of what his take would be on various situations, and it keeps me going.
One of my favorite moments of last week was driving home from a family dinner with Andy, and having this song come on the radio. I’m not going to pretend I was ever a huge fan of the Carpenters, but I had a few favorites, and they definitely knew their way around a melody, and a harmony for that matter, so let’s indulge in a bit of optimism. Andy reminded me of that during this darkening fall, so I turned the music up and let it play.
Such a feelin’s comin’ over me There is wonder in most every thing I see Not a cloud in the sky, got the sun in my eyes And I won’t be surprised if it’s a dream
Everything I want the world to be Is now comin’ true especially for me And the reason is clear, it’s because you are here You’re the nearest thing to heaven that I’ve seen
For a Monday afternoon post, a bit of optimism makes all the difference. Go ahead, sing along.
I’m on the top of the world lookin’ down on creation And the only explanation I can find Is the love that I’ve found, ever since you’ve been around Your love’s put me at the top of the world
{Note: The Madonna Timeline is an ongoing feature, where I put the iPod on shuffle and write a little anecdote on whatever was going on in my life when that Madonna song was released and/or came to prominence in my mind.}
We existed in a land of letters. Furtive messages left for one another on a shared computer, before there was e-mail or social media of any kind. Lyrics mostly, the occasional letter, snippets of songs and poems and phrases we’d heard whispered in a dream. That’s what we were in – the fever dream of being eighteen years old and just beginning to find yourself. Seeing glimmers of who you might want to be in another person was intoxicating.
From the not-so-hallowed halls of high school unimaginativeness, we found each other like weak beacons in a tormented sea. Our lights having been wasted for years amid kids and adults who were always somehow lacking or limited, we found kindred spirits in each other, and when you find a twin flame at such a lovely and atrocious time in your life, it ignites something that can never be fully extinguished.
With you I’m not a little girl With you I’m not a man When all the hurt inside of me Comes out, you understand You see that I’m ferocious You see that I am weak You see that I am silly And pretentious and a freak
She had come from another school, and back in those days I disdained anyone new. She was also outspoken, unafraid to be the center of attention, and brash in a way that intimidated others; for those reasons, and more, she eventually gained my respect. She also had similar taste in music. Embroiled in the typical maelstrom of adolescent angst and drama, we each found comfort and thrills in Madonna, for no one spoke to that more succinctly than her. It was a rare treat to find someone as enamored of the pop star at that time – there was something decidedly uncool for a boy to like her, if not outright offensive. I was just starting to learn not to care about such things. When messages started appearing on the computer I used in an early computer class, I knew instantly who they were from, and in that dreamy period of teenage infatuation and insecurity, I wrote back with similar messages and strings of words. We each needed a friend then.
But I don’t feel too strange for you Don’t know exactly what you do I think when love is pure you try To understand the reasons why And I prefer this mystery It cancels out my misery And gives me hope that there could be A person that loves me
At the time, I was seeing another girl, so my side of things had to remain – and did remain – strictly platonic. Admittedly there were some flirtatious moments, but when you’re eighteen that seems the least of any transgressions, and I never cheated on my girlfriend despite the opportunity. Still, I understood that meeting someone who understood me in a wholly different way was something special, something sacred, and we guarded that. In some way we sensed that we might be each other’s salvation at a point down the road, and in so many aspects we both needed to be rescued.
Rescue me (rescue me, it’s hard to believe) Your love has given me hope Rescue me (rescue me, it’s hard to believe) I’m drowning Baby throw out your rope
We were both confidently assured of our fabulousness and keenly insecure about who we were. It may likely have been no more than youth, but you usually can’t see that at the time it all happens. We spoke to one another in a language no one else would ever understand – at times I wondered if we even knew what we were saying, so complicated did our verbal sparring turn that we would occasionally get lost in woods of words. Being so perfectly matched in wit was as much a blessing as a curse; it made for the greatest moments of connection while proving fertile fighting ground. Our battles were as epic as our chemistry, and when my then-girlfriend and I broke up (in the best way we could manage, which admittedly wasn’t the best), we finally had the chance to see how we would or could work as a couple.
With you I’m not a fascist Can’t play you like a toy And when I need to dominate You’re not my little boy You see that I am hungry For a life of understanding And you forgive my angry little heart When she’s demanding
We shared a chemistry that transcended typical gender and sexual roles (especially seeing as how we would both end up realizing we were more attracted to the same sex in a year or so). At the moment, we came together in combustible and fiery fashion – an attraction built first on the intellectual, followed by the physical, which at our age meant burning up.
You bring me to my knees While I’m scratching out the eyes Of a world I want to conquer And deliver and despise And right while I am standing there I suddenly begin to care And understand that there could be A person that loves me
We would explore every configuration of how our bodies fit together, fucking everywhere from empty playgrounds to station wagons to the middle of a road somewhere after midnight. With the intensity and fervor befitting the verge of adulthood, our lovemaking was primal, animalistic; it was like we were trying to fuck our way through each other to some other place. She pulled me into her, locking her wrists behind my back as I wondered how close we could come to abandoning ourselves to oblivion. Our passion wanted as much to destroy itself as to build itself anew each day. We were both insatiable then.
Rescue me (rescue me, it’s hard to believe) Your love has given me hope Rescue me (rescue me, it’s hard to believe) I’m drowning Baby throw out your rope
Yet somehow I remained removed, like I was going through the motions of what a man’s supposed to do. There was a cool detachment that I thought was emanating from her, when really it was me the whole time; we so often attribute our questionable traits to others, tricking ourselves into believing we are but mirroring the state of someone else. My barriers were constantly erect, even as I was inside her, as close as two people might possibly be, and as much as we both thought it to be love, the clouds signaling the end of a season, like the clouds of our ending youth, rolled in from the horizon. Our one summer together had come to a close, and by the time I was back in Boston she had moved on to her first girlfriend, and I was kissing a man.
Love is understanding It’s hard to believe Life can be so demanding I’m sending out an S.O.S. Stop me from drowning Baby I’ll do the rest
Rescue me (rescue me) Your love has given me hope (your love has given me hope) Rescue me (rescue me) I’m drowning Baby throw out your rope
Even if we hadn’t awakened to our diverging sexualities, we could never have survived in a world of reality. Our drama was too intense, our ways with each other too extreme. We couldn’t inhabit the real world – and we both understood that surviving meant living 95% in the real world – navigating its awfulness, getting down in its ditches, dirtying the very pure realm in which we carved our love. Our final break was a messy, splintered, half-assed affair – and we had hurt each other beyond a point where we might be friends.
Love is understanding It’s hard to believe Life can be so demanding I’m sending out an S.O.S. Rescue me, rescue me
It’s not my business to decide How good you are for me How valuable you are And what the world can see Only that you try to understand me And have the courage To love me for me
Looking back, with the keen sensitivity and wisdom of time unrushed, and with a willingness to acknowledge and own any bad behavior, we may have rescued each other after all. For that brief, glorious, tender time in our lives – a time that would inform all we would ever become, solidifying our souls in ways that remain true to this day, we did our best to save ourselves, and each other. Every once in a while I’ll still think of her, wonder at where she might be, how she might be, what she might be doing – and I hope she is safe and happy. After all of it, I still wish her happiness.
I’m talking, I’m talking, I believe in the power of love
I believe in the power, I believe you can rescue me
I wore all black today – it’s the uniform of this fall season. It also marks a shift from my typical garb of crazy colors and wild combinations; it also fits the mood at hand, which is black as the night.
Before a late meditation, I stepped outside and looked up at the dark sky. An airplane blinked and slowly crossed in a gentle arc, then the stars began to appear as my eyes adjusted. They are always there – sometimes it just takes a bit of effort and patience to see them.
“Very few beings really seek knowledge in this world. Mortal or immortal, few really ask. On the contrary, they try to wring from the unknown the answers they have already shaped in their own minds —justifications, confirmations, forms of consolation without which they can’t go on. To really ask is to open the door to the whirlwind. The answer may annihilate the question and the questioner.” ~ Anne Rice
Once upon a time I lived life like a vampire. Inhabiting the blackness of a castle – yes, a true castle, which is never nearly as romantic as one thinks it is – I roamed cold and clammy hallways, floating down dim stone stairwells, and avoiding the piercing bits of light that peeked into tiny windows of turrets. Castles are only good for their gorgeous darkness – they offer little comfort otherwise, unless you are in need of defense. And even then they can only keep things out of themselves; not once did they protect my heart.
I learned a lot in that castle, and during that part of my life, which should have been far lonelier than I ever allowed myself to feel. Some self-preserving instinct deep inside of me signaled a dire warning that if I had faced the loneliness then it would have won, taking me down entirely, and likely forever. The castle outwardly illustrated how to construct a fortress of the heart, though I may have known that before I ever stepped into such a cruel edifice. And perhaps my heart didn’t deserve such protection. God, if such a thing exists, may not have had much empathy for my existence, and being a vampire was probably a step up from what certain others actually thought of me.
Hate to give the satisfaction, asking how you’re doing now How’s the castle built off people you pretend to care about? Just what you wanted Look at you, cool guy, you got it I see the parties and the diamonds sometimes when I close my eyes Six months of torture you sold as some forbidden paradise I loved you truly Gotta laugh at the stupidity
Vampires have long held a bad reputation. I’m not saying they don’t deserve it, or even that they’re real – I’m just saying it’s bad, and as someone who’s been vilified in ways both just and unfair, I know what that’s like. There’s a loneliness there, and occasionally a stance of sympathy from those who enjoy a dance with the devil, beneath the pale moonlight or not. (You know the moonlight of which I speak.)
Like the vampire, I’ve committed acts of atrocity, mostly in my youth, the way most of us do – being careless with the hearts of others, caring too much for this heart of mine, and behaving in cruel, reckless, feckless, fuck-them-if-they-can’t-take-a-joke form. The unevolved part of me that relishes in such villainy takes a degree of pride in that, the same way that I pretend not to boast about my penchant for making people cry.
‘Cause I’ve made some real big mistakes But you make the worst one look fine I should’ve known it was strange You only come out at night I used to think I was smart But you made me look so naive The way you sold me for parts As you sunk your teeth into me, oh Bloodsucker, famefucker Bleedin’ me dry, like a goddamn vampire
Did I mean to hurt the people that I hurt? For the most part no, and that may be the tragic irony of it all. Because the people I intended to hurt didn’t always feel it – or if they did they never showed it, and where’s the fun in that? It only served to make me try harder, to raise the level of diabolical emotional pain I might inflict, ensuring that the next time I struck the wound would prove viciously debilitating. Innocent people got injured then – the flying shrapnel of my torment an unintentional but mandatory aspect when you’re out to cause pain of any kind. Destruction begets destruction, especially where emotions are concerned. Rarely does one heart get broken without others being affected. Back then I didn’t care. I couldn’t. Caring that much would have been a hindrance and a luxury, and my heart preferred to live in stark, unencumbered fashion; being selfish is always easier than being selfless – and who, in their heart of hearts, really wants to be without a self? “I represent to you all the sins you never had the courage to commit” – and you will always blame me for your own weakness.
And every girl I ever talked to told me you were bad, bad news You called them crazy, God, I hate the way I called them crazy too You’re so convincing How do you lie without flinching? (How do you lie, how do you lie, how do you lie?) Ooh, what a mesmerizing, paralyzing, fucked-up little thrill Can’t figure out just how you do it, and God knows I never will Went for me, and not her ‘Cause girls your age know better
I’ve made some real big mistakes But you make the worst one look fine I should’ve known it was strange You only come out at night I used to think I was smart But you’ve made me look so naive The way you sold me for parts As you sunk your teeth into me, oh Bloodsucker, famefucker Bleedin’ me dry, like a goddamn vampire
It is in the vampire’s nature to kill. Murder, for them, is a means of survival. You can’t blame a polar bear or a hippopotamus for trying to end you if you’ve encroached upon their turf, and the shark that nibbles at your calf and the snake that bites you after a warning rattle are only being their authentic selves. If it was the vampire’s nature to be murderous, it was in my nature to be cruel. Maybe my nature was cultivated from nurture – I’m in no mood to argue that one way or another – I only acknowledge that by the time I moved into a castle my nature was set in stone, like some blue-ringed octopus that only wanted to be left alone.
Well, I’m giving myself too much credit in trying to take away the notion that my choices were somehow an inevitable and uncontrollable aspect of my being when they were, after all, choices; the purpose of this post is to own up to the evil that once entranced me, and may yet again, because once you’ve tasted such a thing it’s hard to not want it when the opportunity presents itself. Those opportunities arise when the heart is weak and the soul is weary; evil often flourishes in the aftermath of pain. A sadistic streak, having once calmed the hurt of a broken heart, might feel good again following similar circumstances of being wronged. The grooves are still there, the path remains apparent.
The surest way not to get hurt is to be the one doing the hurting; they leave you alone after that. They all leave you alone. Then, try as they might – and I am certain they have tried mightily – they cannot eradicate me from their mind. I simply won’t leave. It’s not something they truly want anyway, despite all lame protestations, and we both know that. That may be what ultimately makes me a monster – not my heinous acts, but the haunting that invariably ensues afterward.
You said it was true love, but wouldn’t that be hard? You can’t love anyone, ’cause that would mean you had a heart I tried you help you out, now I know that I can’t ‘Cause how you think’s the kind of thing I’ll never understand
I’ve made some real big mistakes But you make the worst one look fine I should’ve known it was strange You only come out at night I used to think I was smart But you made me look so naive The way you sold me for parts As you sunk your teeth into me, oh Bloodsucker, famefucker Bleedin’ me dry, like a goddamn vampire
“It was as if the empty nights were made for thinking of him. And sometimes I found myself so vividly aware of him it was as if he had only just left the room and the ring of his voice were still there. And somehow, there was a disturbing comfort in that, and, despite myself, I’d envision his face.” ~ Anne Rice
There’s a certain shameful relief in the realization that one of my most traumatic childhood events wasn’t one of molestation or sexual abuse or losing a loved one. It didn’t cause any sort of pain on the level of all those other atrocious things, or turn into so many other possible events that could have befallen a child. If you can make it out of your childhood years relatively unscathed, you might stand a chance at surviving in the world with some sort of moral clarity. Or maybe it’s all just a crap shoot and we will turn out to be whatever monsters we will be. I don’t know anymore.
It happened around this time of the year. As if the return to school wasn’t bad enough for my social anxiety-riddled system, my parents had been asked by our priest if I would start serving as an altar boy for St. Marys church. At least, that’s what they said. Hard to know how much of childhood is really true. They also made it clear that saying no was not an option, despite how clearly my entire existence was rebelling against it. The suddenly-stressful idea of walking in front of the entire St. Mary’s congregation on a Sunday morning and having all eyes on me with no idea what I was really doing filled me with immediate dread. My insides coiled up into a sore knot of worry – one that would last until well after the actual event. It was a slightly strange lesson, now that I think of it – that saying no to a priest was not an option (stranger still now that we know that particular priest would end up having credible charges of abuse against him). But back then no one spoke of such things, and the overriding sentiment was that if a priest picked you out to be an altar boy, your family should be honored and touched and blessed fucking be. My parents certainly weren’t going to refuse a priest just because their son was having a nervous breakdown.
When the priest gave my parents the altar server’s schedule, I frantically searched to see when and where my name appeared. It wasn’t far down – a few weeks from the date we received it. Above my name was the name of my fellow server – Brady. Everything about the whole experience was already tainted black; the whole idea of it made me sick, and being powerless to say no or voice my dread made it all the worse. I didn’t want to let my parents down, I didn’t want to let the priest down, but above all I didn’t want to have the eyes of the entire church watching me on that altar. I’d always been shy, and this was the most nightmarish of horrors for a socially-anxious introverted child.
I couldn’t have been more than eleven or twelve years old.
A week or two before I was scheduled to serve, the priest had me come by the church and learn what to do as a server. My heart sank as I realized there was no way out, that I would be standing there in front of everyone shaking and on the verge of crying and no one was going to help me or stop it from happening. My mother sat in one of the front pews as Father showed me when to kneel, when to bow, when to genuflect – one sad submission upon another, and at the end of it all he thought I had it down when I wasn’t even sure I’d be able to take the first step into the church.
In those weeks leading up to that first Sunday of serving, the idea of what was to come haunted my every step. What should have been a carefree stretch of September weeks, when school was still new and we hadn’t even had to take a test yet, were weighted with this burden – something none of my other classmates had to carry, and of course something that my brother didn’t have to worry about yet. When I got lost in laughter over something, it quickly ended as soon as I remembered I would have to serve in a week. It ruined weekends because one half of the weekend was Sunday.
To this day, I remember the night before that Sunday. My brother and I were allowed to stay up late and watch television in the family room, where we would set up sleeping bags and fall asleep there. My sleep, what little there was of it, was fitful and tormented. My stomach, always troubled as a young child, had retained the knot of worry that had tied itself tightly over the previous weeks. When I peeked out of my sleeping bag and saw that it was light, I pulled it back over my head for one more minute of pretending I was at peace.
That was, of course, the worst of it – the waiting and anticipating – that was where the real trauma was. I remember trying to find a cassock and surplus that didn’t drown me – there was only one that didn’t pool at my feet, it was the one that the shorter of the altar boys would fight over every Sunday. I remember ringing the bells right when I was supposed to ring them – the priest had a little hand motion for alerting us if we didn’t start the ringing at the right time. I remember handing him a white cloth after Brady had poured the water over his hands before communion. And then I remember walking out, and sense of relief wash over me when it was done – short-lived because I was on the schedule in another few weeks, and the dread began to build up again.
I would serve many masses – many more than my brother who would start in another year or so but somehow never got held to the same strict standard I was – maybe when you’ve traumatized one child you step back on traumatizing the ones that follow. Of course, whenever there was a no-show and the priest would come into the congregation searching for someone, he’d point to our family and I would somehow always be the one to go up.
That’s just one of life’s little fuck-overs I guess. And who knows – maybe I saved my little brother from getting molested before one of those Sunday morning masses.
A sex scene, then – and one of my earliest – recalled from the time a 34-year-old-man picked up a 19-year-old me, and I still held the foolish notion that people – even men – were intrinsically good, and that when given the choice they would do good things. This fun little excerpt comes courtesy of the journal I kept at the time, and I uncovered it when realizing this was the thirtieth anniversary of that fall. The photos are from that time as well – and all of it was one big mess. A song to go along on the joyride, for our fade-to-black fall: the original ‘Paint It Black’ and all its somber fury.
I look inside myself And see my heart is black I see my red door I must have it painted black
Maybe then, I’ll fade away And not have to face the facts It’s not easy facing up When your whole world is black
I love a song that has been saddled with myriad readings: the loss of a loved one, the Vietnam war, drug abuse… all feasible themes that fit the lyrics and music. For me, this is a song of muffled rage, vaguely based around the death of innocence. Now, before we get into what I wrote three decades ago in childish and clunky prose, allow me to preface this with a word of warning for anyone looking to lay blame: I was entirely and wholly of sound mind and adult presence. No one took advantage of me, and no one did anything I didn’t want them to do. That said, the more I look back at this time in my life, the more I wonder… and the more I want to play a song like this to stave off the madness.
I see a red door And I want it painted black No colors anymore I want them to turn black
I see the girls walk by Dressed in their summer clothes I have to turn my head Until my darkness goes
September 1994: A set of shades opened and someone peered out from a window high above the street. They shut them after surveying the place for a few minutes. People passed by me, and with each set of footsteps my heart leapt in anticipation of Tom. Yet it never seemed to be him. I resumed reading until at last he came toward me from across the street. I wasn’t sure at first if it was really him. I didn’t remember the orange sweatshirt he now wore, inside out. Perhaps I simply hadn’t noticed.
He was saddened by the day’s events, yet I had no knowledge of what I might do to help. I understood he didn’t want to talk about it, so I attempted no further communication on that topic of Bill (his ex). We entered the apartment. There was the same initial awkward feeling that accompanied the start of each meeting, a feeling that I was still not able to shake until well into the evening. I sat down at the table. He was slightly upset, almost annoyed.
“So, come here and sit down, relax. Take your jacket off so it doesn’t look like you’re about to leave,” he said.
I gave him a quick look of disgust and then started to untie the jacket from around my waist. He sat on the bed, fiddling with the television set. I walked over and sat beside him. After finding nothing on, he left it somewhere and pushed me back too the bed. He kissed me. It still hurt. I wondered if I’d ever get used to the stubble. It was clear how upset he was. On the way in, he had said that he now truly felt a sense of loss. I asked him if he didn’t really want to be alone, because it was not a bid thing for me to leave. He said he didn’t want that.
I looked into his eyes. I wanted to make it all better. I wanted to make everything good for him; I wanted to eradicate the sadness that shone through those eyes that night.
“Don’t be upset,” I began timidly.
“I can’t do that… I’ll just be what I am… there’s nothing that can be done. I have to go through it.”
“Well, I can change it, ” I added perkily.
“Really.”
I didn’t think so. All the tactics, all the ways and tricks and means of manipulating a person into feeling something they weren’t quite ready or sure that. they wanted to feel, they al fell away now. My powers seemed to dwindle to hokey cliches, crumbling beneath the weight of their over-the-top lack of power. I wouldn’t be able to charm him out of it, I wouldn’t be able to mastermind the next moments and turn him around. I was completely powerless and helpless, and I turned into a kid. I could only smile at him naively, only offer a hug or a hold or a kiss. And in that moment I sensed I would never be able to control this, any of it. And it almost scared me out of it, out of being there. I felt a new instinct to run away. I wondered if he would find me. I wondered what he would do if I went away one day and never came back to him. But mostly I wondered what would happen if he did that to me. At this point I was almost sure it would happen that way. For now, however, he was mine. Or maybe I was his. I couldn’t be sure. The roles flip-flopped over and over, yet in the end the essence of such a thing was the same, without change.
He took off his clothes and again pried beneath mine. I was reluctant and told him no. He asked why not, like he always did, in that voice, half a whine, half a plea. It was a very persuasive voice, but I heard in it the seed of annoyance as well, and while I removed my shirt I made up my mind that that was all that was to be removed that evening. I also made that clear to him.
We kissed. Mostly we kissed. And then he pulled my hand to him and I did what I thought I was supposed to do. He was kissing me and rubbing himself as I did the same to him. He pushed my head down, down to his erection, and I took the tip in my mouth. I tasted something somewhat salty, and resisted the urge to gag. I tasted it again and I removed my mouth – I’d read somewhere that one can transmit AIDS by oral sex and I had already taken too many chances. I went up to his face and kissed him, letting the mixture of saliva and possibly semen run into his mouth. I had my hand on him now and he told me to show him myself. I was hard and I let him suck me. It was better this time; in fact, this was actually enjoyable. I had never been that close to coming with him before, though I didn’t this time either. Still, it hadn’t been completely awful.
Now I wasn’t forcing myself into liking it or disliking it. It was not the idea of the thing that I liked, or the lifestyle, or the danger of it; it was Tom. It was all Tom. If it had been with another, I would certainly have not allowed myself to be taken so completely. Yet Tom made it good, he made it pure, he made everything dirty and disgusting into something beautiful, and I felt powerless against him. Well, almost. I still adamantly refused anal intercourse and he didn’t push me at all. He joked and told me how much he wanted to fuck me, in a number of different ways, but I refused. He ws not getting me to take my pants off, no matter what. At least not at that moment, and not for that night.
I laid next to him with my head on his chest. It had been his choice; I had complied willingly. The TV was fuzzy and sometimes without color.
“How do you know you’re in love?” I queried; a general question.
“It’s something that you just know; you’ll know when it hits you, believe me, you will.”
I was skeptical. “Well what do you consider love?”
“One of the only guys I was every truly in love with told me that being in love was being able to see yourself living in a tent for the rest of your life with that one person. I knew I was in love with him because I could picture that tent, and how what went on in it would be the most beautiful thing in the world to me.”
I didn’t know if I could do that with Tom. At that moment, I felt I might, but looking back he was right, I would know.
I wanna see it painted Painted black Black as night Black as coal I wanna see the sun Blotted out from the sky I wanna see it painted, painted, painted Painted black, yeah
While there is some trauma surrounding Madonna’s release of ‘Secret’ thirty years ago today, there is also celebration, as in this whirling remix by legendary DJ Junior Vasquez – then Madonna’s premiere remix collaborator (a title he would hold until reportedly pissing her off with that ill-advised ‘If Madonna Calls’ track, wherein he used a recording of her answering machine message to him without her knowledge or approval). Remixes like this primed the club kids in the years leading up to the ‘Ray of Light’ album, and would bridge the dips and troughs of her career; Madonna has always found safety and salvation on the dance floor – see her epic legacy of club hits. As for whether I danced to this in the club when it came out, I must sadly admit that no, it never happened.
I remember obsessing over everything about the ‘Secret’ single – the photograph by Patrick Demarchelier, the artily-crowded font and its soft colors, the little dog that suddenly was part of the Madonna proceedings – and all in eager anticipation of the ‘Bedtime Stories’ album which would follow. That fateful and ill-fated September would go up in flames, and as fall ripened into October and November, Madonna sang of learning to love yourself. What strikes me more and more as the years pass is how absolutely and utterly alone I was during such a pivotal and tender turn of time. Just coming to terms with kissing a man was tumultuous enough – compounded with a reckoning of one’s own assumed sexuality, and being entirely without someone with which to share it or ask questions (that guy wanted nothing to do with educating or helping an 18-year-old gay guy find his way, and no family had a hand in helping either). Being gay was different then, especially if you weren’t out to anyone because you weren’t sure how they would accept it.
Having grown up without any mention of the notion that some men fell in love with other men or some women fell in love with other women, or that it was ok, my own acknowledgement of my sexuality was not something that came easily or with any sort of blueprint. And so I had to forge the way alone, which seems lonelier now that it felt at the time. My ignorance on that point may have proven to be my inadvertent path of survival; not having any sensory memory of how unnecessarily lonely I could have felt may have been my saving grace.
Happiness lies in your own hands
It took me much too long to understand how it could be…
My one constant companion during those days was a journal in which I wrote out my thoughts and ruminations and worries, attempting to figure things out on my own, because no one had ever thought to tell me that it was ok, that it was all right, that nothing was wrong with me. In silence there was doubt. In quiet there was concern. In all the ways I was brought up to be, there was an unsaid condemnation if I strayed but a little off the prescribed path. I didn’t see that then – I simply did as I thought I was supposed to do. That first kiss with a man broke the spell.
It almost broke my heart too, but I survived, living to tell the tale, living to understand how wrong it had all been, living to find the compassion and empathy to forgive myself everything I simply didn’t know yet.
And living to see that it never should have been that way.
After thirty years, I finally see: it never should have been that way.
This summer’s greatest guilty pleasure in my happily-cloistered world was John Duff, who started the season off with the glorious ‘Be Your Girl’, kept things hot with follow-up ‘Forgotten How To F@ck‘ and is now coasting through the end of the season with ‘Hoe Is Life’ featuring the legendary Lillias White. He spent the summer traveling and performing, from Pride shows in Chicago and New York to a celebrated residency in Provincetown, and his music has made an ideal soundtrack to the sunny season. Stay tuned for his upcoming ‘Clothes Back On’ to see how he enters the fall.
Harsh necessity brought me to this gilded cage.
Born to higher things, here I droop my wings,
Singing of a sorrow nothing can assuage…
And yet of course I rather like to revel,
I have no strong objection to champagne,
My wardrobe is expensive as the devil,
Perhaps it is ignoble to complain…
Enough, enough of being basely tearful!
I’ll show my noble stuff by being bright and cheerful!
Pink reigned for the summer – in the face of all sorrow and tumult, we always had pink. Pink dresses, pink shirts, pink pants, pink curtains, pink towels, pink tablecloths, pink straws, pink pastries, pink jewelry, pink shoes, pink hats, pink fascinators, pink ruffles, pink frills, pink glitter…
Pearls and ruby rings…
Ah, how can worldly things take the place of honor lost?
Can they compensate for my fallen state,
Purchased as they were at such an awful cost?
Bracelets…lavalieres
Can they dry my tears?
Can they blind my eyes to shame?
Can the brightest brooch shield me from reproach?
Can the purest diamond purify my name?
Returning to the innocent beginning of our coquette summer makes me realize how much has actually happened over the past three months of the season. A banana tree has unfurled a dozen or so leaves. The cup plant has shot up, out, flowered, and gone to seed. It provides the finches with a current feast. The hydrangeas have had a rightly-renowned banner year after a mild winter. All the flower buds survived, so the show was bodacious and beautiful. And somehow, throughout its entirety, I never quite felt like part of it.
And yet of course these trinkets are endearing,
I’m oh, so glad my sapphire is a star,
I rather like a twenty-karat earring,
If I’m not pure, at least my jewels are!
Now, with summer’s closing act coming next weekend, and fall’s dramatic descent already in motion, I find myself trying to hang onto it a little longer, taking an extra stroll around the yard, sitting in the sunshine. Reconciling and returning to the frivolous finery in which it all began, the coquette theme offers a balmy escape, a way out of the ever-darkening world, even if it was all make-believe, even if it could never last.
Enough! Enough!
I’ll take their diamond necklace
And show my noble stuff
By being gay and reckless!
