Departure/The Higher Harmonics

I bought a last June-load of groceries today. The month has gone by quickly. The only other significant task that remains is the filling of the last little formalities of my entrance into school, which I have almost neglected these past three weeks. Oh, and I forgot, a haircut as well. “Party in the back, business in the front,” my cousin told me as we went out for the midday meal yesterday; “That hair needs to get cut for the summer weather.”

It’s true, I haven’t cut it since I was in Presidio with Ryan, all the way back in April. Things are finally beginning to turn around. I feel a slackening in the bonds I have had, but it isn’t easy. It’s so easy to add romantic connotations to these sort of situations, but I’m trying to steer away from categorizations like that. The most recurrent image I have is of three angels coming out of Heaven to let me loose and take me away.

I was depressed Friday. I cried and just let out alot of stopped up emotions, mainly blame and guilt, mostly all concerning my Mother but some of it was about Paul and I guess I was just grieving. I know my Mother will always love me for whatever I do, but deep down I feel shame for not being what she has always expected to me. My “best quality”.  I grieve for him quietly. At the grocery store today we saw CJ’s (his ex-girlfriend) grandmother, and Paul’s face was a pale white and he was terrified of staying in the store lest she see him. I said, “There is nothing to worry about. We are not disturbing her, and she will not disturb us. We are private citizens attending to business quietly.” When we finished up he felt better, but it was maddeningly crowded at the grocery store today and I suppose it added to the consternation he felt.

It would be so easy to leave. Too easy. To just walk down the street, or just get in a car, and never to come back. But why? I asked my mother why she wanted me to leave and she said, “I know what you can do.” That definitely gave me hope. She mixes her hope with unbelievable despair: “I would have never thought my life would ever be this way.” And no one ever knows or asks about it, but simply keeps on doing what I am doing now, recording their own private pain or causing it for other people.

When I told Aleks about it he was characteristically compassionate right off the bat, but I am reluctant to open up because he has said that he doesn’t want to be burdened by people’s emotional distresses (even psychologists are human beings, too, I have discovered). He said in his very loving way that I could open up. I cried and cried typing like a silly child at the computer, squinting through my tears to type on the keyboard, feeling bad and terrified of the future–a future without my mother, without the comforting sight of her in her room, with the television on, the smell of evening coffee, and her white curtains rustling in the evening breeze. The empty room, like my grandfather’s empty room, would be the final sword, the ultimate pain, the thing I am more terrified of than my own death or eventual disease.

My muscles are pumped. They’re at that summertime bigness, only because I’ve worked out and ate so much because that’s how I deal with stress. I don’t cry but when I do it’s either out of sadness, frustration or desperation. Rarely out of a need to feel attended to by someone, thank God. I can’t really envision myself like so many of those young, thin, pale boys and girls who listen to bad alternative music and wish the world in which they are given everything were somehow summarily worse or possibly better than it already is. Nor can I envision myself as an essentially sociopathic, remorseless entity that goes about destroying people’s faith in society purely for his own self-gratification. I think that I deserve to be in a better place–I deserve it–but it can’t come about by just expecting things to happen. If my grandfather could make things happen then I too, must make things happen. Then the eventual move will come, the push forward and outward, into a wholly different place altogether.

There is a higher world, I know. It is not a place of fantasy but one in which people are waiting for my appearance there. All I have to do is simply ascend to it.

Retaining Place

I finally managed to get a claim form out for an unclaimed paycheck from my first job–it should take out either next month’s phone or power bill (it is summer and we already owe so much). With the little money I pull in now, I have to place whatever I had had on the side and consider biting the bullet as it is and sacrificing as much as I can.

Everything I give goes into our family pot. These are not fortunate times for anyone and I too must do away with pleasures and luxuries I have amassed for myself to assist my family. Even now, there are threatening letters coming in from Paul’s various loan companies, from Mom’s various loan companies, for the company that sold me this computer–themselves all trying to prevent their own losses. I do not even cry, I just give and give and give.

But all of this has taught me we must give of ourselves all that we have, to never give up and relinquish that which we hold dear. I have let go of so many passions for my family, and even though it hurts not being able to partake in what other people my age are enjoying with their lives, it gives me a greater satisfaction knowing that what I am doing now ensures the happiness and survival of those people whom I could never tear myself away, to whom I cling and would never abandon.

I do not know what life is. I don’t know what it subsists of, how it is supposed to be lived out, or what is to be done. There are, as John Cage said, no pedals. I have dishonored my family by my laziness and ineptitude. I have brought immense shame to my mother, the woman who brought me into existence. Her hopes still lie in my independence, and yet I too want her to be free. I know it is so difficult for her. Even now, all I can do is weep aloud for her, with frailty. How embarassing is a son who cannot even console his own mother, who is inconsolable.

My mother has done everything for me. To her I owe everything I have, everything that I love, everything that interests me, everything that consumes me. I feel like my own wanting to escape is something she intuits, but does not want to mention outloud. But then, a couple of weeks ago, when she lay on her bed absolutely heartbroken about having not recieved her IRS stimulus payment ($600), she said to me, “Leave. Do not come back. I will be fine with you out of the house.” How can I leave her? She is the only thing I have known and loved with such immensity. I cannot abandon her. And yet, I want to be an adult of my own means. I am begging for freedom.

I of course blame myself. I cannot stop thinking of blame. It is not fitting for a son of my age and caliber to remain in my mother’s house. All I have to do is give into what I refuse to give into–myself. For years I have sold myself short, time after time, and all I have recieved in return is refusal after refusal after refusal. Now I am dealing with the consequences of it.

I don’t know what to do or where to go. I don’t want any more outside assistance, this has to come from inside and it has to be self-sustaining. Now is the time.

Writings On The Wall

Opportunities have presented themselves. This past week, I was encouraged enough to apply to college, and the good news that now I can actually attend classes and stay in town. It is all very cost-effective and it looks like my financial aid will provide. It pays to be poor! And at this point, I have used all the poor-scholar points I have with my student loan lender.

I have subsequently decided that after this term of education is over, I will teach for three years to have my student loans permanently forgiven. Then I will travel abroad with the Peace Corps and aid educational programs. If for some strange reason that cannot happen, I will use my abilities to secure employment outside of the region and work for Americorps.

I was depressed and I didn’t even realize it: three weeks of an unbearable depression. No tears, just sleep, and lying about doing nothing, worrying, watching my Mother worry (she worries more than me). Mail came and went like clouds in the sky. Then came a starving week in late May when we had nothing in the house. My friend sent me a little money to assist. I gave it to Mother and we were able to buy abundant groceries, much to my consternation. This evening she yelled at me for not sweeping and mopping the floors in the house (which are my responsibility). I apologized profusely. Henry has left for a fine arts convention (or so he says) in Austin, whereupon he will stop by my house to drop off the first installment of three installments of $85.00 for the three masses I sang–minus the Pentecost mass I had been selected soloist for. The tenor section in which I sang was thrown into disarray, I am told. I am holding Henry to his word that he must pay every penny that was promised to me: even Fr. Vega, the anachronistically insipid parish priest, advised Henry to pay out of pocket, as the Diocese chose not to intervene in what essentially appeared to be a volunteer organization. I was somewhat concerned at the nature of Henry’s leadership abilities. In some respects, Henry knows what he is doing, but as to the effectiveness and the practicality of his leadership skills, I must confess that I do not believe that he is a very good administrator. In fact, Abe, one of the other tenors I sang with, told me that the main point of contention he has with Henry is that he makes preliminary telephone calls to ask members to come just as practice commences. Other times I myself was personally astonished at the level of animosity towards certain persons or organizations he has had experiences with in the past, to say nothing of his absolutely banal musical interests, which mainly lie in the fascism of Italian nuove stile Baroque oboe sonatas, face-à-claques choral music written by practically talentless composers of neo-folksy church ballads, so-called “Anglican” anthems born out of anathema and the bland loveliness of Vivaldi. I am still wanting to recieve payment. Henry also can’t seem to let go of an already weeks-old disconnection from Freddy, my Marine friend who introduced me to the Diocesan choir. The story goes that Henry was simply cut off from communiqués with Henry after he refused to meet him and another friend at a dingy Chinese restaurant. Débacle ensued. Text messages were sent, angry monosyllabic replies exchanged on voicemail; the reputations of two [reportedly] straight men degenerated into the squabbles of a bunch of drunken college sophomores at $1 margarita night. Freddy informed me that he had not wanted anything to do with Henry partially because of his atrocious leadership skills (which I suspect led to Freddy to balk at; the stickler for perfection), his insistence on character assassination, and his secret protestations concerning my habits, preferences and abilities (which is just plain laughable). Now, mind you–it’s indeed very funny and very entertaining to get caught up in what is essentially a very enjoyable bit of drama. I’m so used to getting hated on for all the things I do. It’s not because I’m conceited, it’s basically because I have little time to deal with un-professionalism. So with that hot mess out of the way, I’m still waiting on my $85.00 to come to pay for this computer, to buy groceries, to send off parcels, and to get my ass to school.

I have been careful not to intervene myself into Lennard’s affairs lately; phone calls after a particularly frightening start to the weekend made me more aware of just how generally busy the gentleman is. A certain detective Garcia with the Police Department arrived with her badly tanned partner–a much heavier, stockier and generally much more agreeable man–and quickly demanded that they be granted permission to enter into our house to look for the whereabouts of Paul’s ex-girlfriend, CJ. My mother who for some strange reason was not feeling well that day particularly, answered, let them search, whereof the gentleman detective searched closets and under our beds, and annoyingly enough, in my personal correspondences. I said to him, “You can’t fold a 16 year old girl and put her in there, can you?” “Just checking,” he tells me. After this I called Lennard (who had a particularly nasty bout with a throat infection) about what to do, and he informed me that it was best now to start writing threatening letters. I have learned much from this man; he has taught me a great deal of common sense. He has warmed up to me somewhat; our conversations are not so cold as they once were, nor waning too intellectual; when we dined together he was particularly charming and very agreeable, though a little on the forlorn side. He informed me of his Yaqui roots, his impeccable Spanish and ease with the Hispanic people. And yet upon seeing him, one would not immediately grant that to he is more Hispanic than Anglo, just as I am, despite my name, more Anglo than Hispanic. I am planning to take him out whenever I get the money to, to thank him.

Scott was kind enough to surprise me with The Naked Justice, volumes 1 & 2, which for some peculiar reason has been an obsession. I am not known to particularly enjoy erotic comic books (sive graphic novels, etc.), but for some strange reason, I identify with this character. They are well-written, witty, dirty, and The Naked Justice himself is very much like myself; not cocky but confident, honest, and very flirtatious. The entire comic book series is a sort of throwback to earlier “white-label” comics that understated the plotlines of the story rather than the bulging muscles of superheroes, which I think every gay boy had a thing for growing up. I dare not leave them out where prying eyes might find them.

This week fared a little better; I know it got off on the right foot, mainly because I had been listening to a lot of bossa nova beginning on Monday; I got two more Bossacucanova CDs: Ipanema Lounge, Vol. I and Brasilidade, which are good additions to my Latin Lounge mix, with all of their fruity retro stylings. Before that I had been listening to a great deal of Stars of The Lid, having downloaded their entire catalogue, and which now constitutes over 8 hours of blissful sleep music. Tonight I paid particular attention to listening to The Album Leaf again, now a practically essential addition to music. His music is everything that I would assume California, or in general the West, is: hilly, piney, with clouds, mountains, sun and broad vistas. I finished up an orchestration of a piece by the 18th century Bostonian hymnodist and composer William Billings, his Easter Anthem of 1787, and an ambient piece for a friend, Cameron.

It’s been an interesting week so far and an interesting start to this month. I hope things get better as time goes on.