Tuesday, September 25, 2018
So, Lynette scratched an itch I didn't know I had.
Inspired by Joe, as so many of us were, I started this blog in the mid-aughts and posted sporadically until 2010. I have a notion that I can't really write when I'm happy, but I'm testing that idea now.
I miss those days and the friends I made through this practice. For the most part, many of us still remain dear friends. We bared our souls to each other here and that certainly helped to cement our relationships.
Some of us are still blogging, but Facebook (hitherto referred to as FB) provided more immediate gratification and we mostly migrated there. Now, lots of people have given up on FB (where are you, Mike Roberts?). I've always thought it to be a good way for me to meet people, albeit online, and to keep up with family and friends. I'm not one to get myself riled up into a political frenzy most of the time, and sometimes I have to step away from my computer when that happens. FB has been a magic mirror that showed me the love and hate that exists in country and the world at large.
I retired eight months ago. That's a longish story I might tell later. I've really enjoyed not working. I hadn't taken an entire summer off in 45 years.
I thought I'd work on my writing, but my mind is not nearly as sharp as it used to be and new ideas don't come easily to me. I considered working some of these ancient posts into a series of short stories. Of course, my main issue here is that I haven't a clue what to do with them once they're done. I wouldn't know where to start or who to speak with about the process. I have FB friends who are published authors, but I feel that asking would be an imposition. Yes, I'm still socially awkward.
Rereading this blog, I know some of the writing is good. I find my preoccupation with aging to be sort of funny, sort of whiny and pretty much right on the nose. Guess what? I'm old and happy. Who knew that things would work out this way? I can look in the mirror and not be horrified. I'm rarely noticed on the street these days, but I don't think too many people want to check out almost-64 year olds. I'm not helping matters by chucking my contact lenses and letting my hair and beard go white, but who cares. I have what I want and it's everybody else's turn now. I'm contented, like an old cow. I'm even back in therapy for the first time in decades and it's quite helpful, as usual.
So here I am. Not sure what where I'll go with this, but it will most likely keep me off the streets and out of traffic until I figure the next steps out.
Anyone still out there? Give me a holler if you are!
Friday, July 16, 2010
It's been over a year since last I wrote in these pages. Much longer, if you were looking for anything of substance.
Blogging has changed...it's certainly not the animal it was when I started doing this back in 2005. Rather than sending missives out into the ether, where they would float and languish in the brackish backwater that is this blog, occasionally snagging the odd wayward traveler, I've been availing myself of the much more immediately gratifying social interaction platforms since invented, and pretty much now regard The Mark of Kane as one would, say, a first generation iPhone; still interesting, but almost quaint in it's obsolescence.
I noticed that this wasn't only happening here. Many of the blogs I once read have changed, or disappeared. When I started, I would often devote a couple of hours a day catching up on the blogs I favored. My daily required blog-reading list has dwindled down to a mere handful of familiar names requiring perhaps a daily allotment twenty minutes, if that much. In addition, I've been excised from many of the blog rolls I was once formerly a part of. I can imagine those parties felt no need to continue checking this page, only to be confronted with the same old Shirley Jackson novel title and stolen photograph of the building in which we reside.
Which brings me to this: I really did not want to write about the past year. I didn't much feel like sharing the intimate details of how Tim and I cobbled our lives together, after 14 years of living apart. Suffice to say, we have been rather successful in that regard, and the general consensus is that we should have done it years ago.
In the process, much has changed. Tim is no longer bartending at the Dugout and the Dugout, of course, is no longer. After a dozen years of Sundays spent slinging cocktails (Tim) or leaning against one jukebox or another (Me), surrounded by many, many dear friends, we found ourselves without so much as a home base in the world at large. For a time we tried a few other options, anything to avoid the dreaded Sunday Scaries, but after a while we came to realize that there really weren't many palatable options out there for a couple of gentlemen so clearly in their fifties.
GAY is a radio frequency I find I'm having trouble receiving these days. I'm sure the transmitter is as strong as ever, but now the signal arrives full of static, broken up, or not at all. After tuning in for well over 40 years, I suppose I should be more upset than I am, but there you have it. I'm not.
A fairly recent blog purports to be a guide written for the "postfabulous" homosexual. Upon perusal, one finds that there's very little "postfabulous" about it. It's pretty much your standard up-to-date gay gazette of all the latest, greatest notions put forth for the elucidation of those denizens of a world I've left behind. For me, it might as well be written in Farsi.
I realize that I'm not post-anything.
I've turned a corner in my life which has afforded me a vastly different panorama, though no less wondrous.
I have a home and a husband now, and I enjoy them both to the such an extent that I don't often want to leave. That outside world we've both known so well is now pretty much gone. We still go out and walk among the ruins sometimes, pausing to view the new city built on the ashes of our own.
Then we head home.
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Wednesday, April 01, 2009
I think I'm a little too old to wear flowers in my hair, although Harry Hay may have had a difference of opinion on that subject.
We're off to celebrate Tim's 50th birthday in our favorite city.
When we return, we begin the process of combining our households.
Lots of excitement afoot!
See y'all soon!
Friday, March 13, 2009
I just wasn't feeling it.
After so many years of heading down to the bar on Sunday afternoons, I've lately become rather recalcitrant about making the trip west. It's odd, but being at the bar for those couple of hours is yet another way I get to spend time with Tim. We share glances, smiles and short updates over the bar all through the evening. The nights that I rebel and stay home strangely feel like punishment. I revel in those evenings when my pals turn up en masse, but then there are those nights when I'm mostly left to my own devices, doing all I can to fade into the jukebox, watching the passing parade of disinterested men and fighting off impending panic attacks. But I'm a creature of habit and devotion, so mostly, I grab a sandwich for Tim and head on over to take my place and make my stand.
That night I arrived more than an hour later than I usually do. Tim saw my face and quickly passed me a shot of bourbon and a beer in hopes of awakening my liquid personality. As always, I short circuited the on-going Madonnathon for my own amusement and arranged myself in the same place I've stood for nigh onto a dozen years. In the dim red light, I caught sight of my grim, grey face in the mirror on the opposing wall and smiled ruefully.
As luck would have it, I was soon pulled from my doldrums by the arrival of a very small group of friends who piled their gear behind me, grabbed beers and arranged themselves around me, surrounding and distracting me from the dark thoughts that have nagged at me all season. I was most grateful for their smiles and small talk, the hugs and hilarity that ensued. The bar was filling up when the side door opened, and he walked in.
I recognized him immediately.
Though it had been over thirty years, he still pretty much looked the same. Tall, taller than me, age had filled out his rangy limbs and softened his lupine features. The same hank of sandy hair hung over his forehead. His pale hooded eyes searched the room as he walked to the bar. I could not take my eyes off him.
He wore a heavy black leather jacket, perfectly tailored to a man his size. I watched him as he made his way to the bar and ordered a drink. Leaning back, he sized up the crowd. Our eyes met briefly.
I saw him order another drink and make his way around the room. Various denizens of our forest stopped him, engaging him in conversation. One of our more forward souls cornered him against the bar, chatting him up as he reached and opened the top three buttons of his shirt, revealing his pale furry chest. Though he broke away minutes later, his buttons remained open.
Brushing up against him in the crowd as I made my own way to the bar, he smiled at me and muttered "Handsome man". I grinned back, stroked his arm and kept moving.
Later, as the bar slowly emptied, I returned back to my post at the jukebox to find him standing in my spot, grinning at me. I took a very deep breath and walked over to him. We smiled, exchanged names and a slow meaningful handshake. As he was about to make his move, I asked him:
"Did you live on the Upper West Side?"
He stopped short and looked at me.
"Did you have a boyfriend with dark curly hair?"
His eyes widened and he nodded. "David", he added.
Thirty five years, when Christopher Street was at the peak of it's glory, we'd promenade from Greenwich Avenue all the way down to the abandoned elevated West Side Highway. In an effort to brighten the waterfront and lessen the late night truck carousing, Mayor Lindsay had caused there to be a small waterfront park built adjacent to the open-air Morton Street Pier. Now, many of the other piers in vicinity are considerably more storied, but in those days the Morton Street Pier was our Piazza San Marco, our Grand Central Terminal. It truly was the crossroads of a thousand lives. Christopher Street was a mere thoroughfare for the crowds that would head down to the river and spend their weekends in the sun, breathing the fetid river air.
I first met John and David on that pier some sunny summer Sunday all those years ago. David was short, a muscular fireplug with dark curls. John towered over him, handsome and thin, regarding me with his gray wolfish eyes as David chattered away. I joined them for a drink outside Keller's shortly after we made our acquaintance. After a couple of beers, David mentioned that they thought I was really cute, and would I like to come home with them? I glanced first at John, then David, and decided it definitely would be a good idea. They hustled me into a taxi, placing me between them as we headed uptown.
I relayed in great detail the many and varied activities of that evening thirty five years ago to the gentleman leaning against the jukebox, watching as his smile grew wide in amazement. At first I'm sure he didn't believe my tale, but as the details I sketched fell into place, he began to warm to the notion.
"Well, you are just the sort of man I would have liked", he said.
"I was 20", I mentioned. He frowned.
"May I?", he asked, as he unbuttoned my shirt, revealing my chest.
"Oh, yeah", he breathed, "exactly the sort of man I like".
I shuddered, feeling every single one of those intervening years. I stepped back and took a deep and thirsty drink. He did the same, his eyes glowing at me. He pulled me forward by my shirt, close to him.
"It's really odd. Right at this moment, I feel so much love for you", he whispered.
His long arms draped around my shoulders as I wrapped my arms around him, our lips meeting.
Tightly, we held each other as years raced around us.
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
Thursday, November 06, 2008
When we first met David, the gentleman who joined us together, he asked our reasons for wanting to get married. I explained that the two of us could not have been more committed to each other. A ceremony and a piece of paper with an official seal would not change that or make it any more so. What we wanted was our place at the table; and here was our chance to take that seat, no more, no less.
Strive for lofty goals,
Others play at smaller games,
Being simpler souls.
I am of the latter brand;
All I want to do,
Is to find a spot of land,
And live there with you.
Someday we'll build a home on a hilltop high,
You and I,
Shiny and new a cottage that two can fill.
And we'll be pleased to be called,
"The folks who live on the hill".
Someday we may be adding a thing or two,
A wing or two.
We will make changes as any fam'ly will,
But we will always be called,
"The folks who live on the hill".
Our veranda will command a view of meadows green,
The sort of view that seems to want to be seen.
And when the kids grow up and leave us,
We'll sit and look at the same old view,
Just we two.
Darby and Joan who used to be Jack and Jill,
The folks like to be called,
What they have always been called,
"The folks who live on the hill".