Desire-less

I have no desire for desire. I only want company. Company like the stuff of Hollywood romances. McDreamy-You make me want to be a better man-Sleepless in Seattle-A writer in Paris, the city of love company. I do not have time for a relationship. Commitment takes work and I have other more pressing issues.

So here I sit.

Alone.

Blogging.

Your virtual online company is not adequate.

The Only Option

This will challenge every part of who I am.

This will challenge me emotionally, intellectually, physically, creatively and spiritually.

Survival is the only option.

Saturday Night

He tells me that we have to meet, seeing as he has failed to come to either of my parties. And seeing as he has no other gay friends, he wants to take advantage of my company and go to the strippers. I say "Why not!?! It is not something I would choose for myself and that makes it an adventure!" Off we go. The strippers are not sexy nor erotic. The atmosphere is old and depressing. We do not stay long (I have to meet another friend and he has to fly to NYC the following day).
We walk south to the subway station. We turn to go down the new stairs to the Subway at the North West corner of a civic Square. We turn to see a large man pulling at the purse of a young woman. She is pleading with him to stop and then turns to us and asks for us to call for help. He is stunned and freezes, and I run up to the top of the stairs and start to yell for Help!. The gentleman now decides he'd like to "discuss" the issue of this woman's purse with me. He approaches. I run into a group of 30-something adults standing under an awning (it is raining) to let them know what is happening. I ask them for their sanctuary (it is unlikely he will create violence amidst witnesses in which three are grown men). The attacker does come right into the centre of the group of adults where I am standing and pretends to be acquainted with me, trying to pull me out of the group in order to discuss the situation regarding the woman's purse. The adults are stunned and frozen, but luckily I hold my ground and he eventually runs to a bike gets on and pedals off. (You see - I am hardly a "man" in the eyes of the world around me).

My friend finally finds me and, being shocked, I decide to jump into the safety of a cab. My friend hands me an aromatherapy spray: "Here. Smell this. It will calm you down." I do. And it does. My friend sets his scarf on my lap. "That's for you. It's worth a grand. A client gave it to me." I now have a haute couture scarf (My friend works in the fashion industry) that is worth ten times more than any other piece of clothing I own. The scarf is long and flamboyant - it is definately not me. I am going to try to return it to him, but if he does not accept, I will give it you.
You would like it. It gave me no comfort, but maybe it will bring you happiness.

Virtual Machinations

We are cyborgs. In an age of cell phones, realtiy television, and the internet, we have become organisms that rely on technology in order to hear, to feel, to connect. I am fortunate enough to not require an electronic device to regulate the rhythm of my heart, nor an auditory system that aids my sense of hearing, but, like any other person who find themselves in the computer age, I not only require, but embrace technology as a means of connection. And so, with my binary coded arm, I reach out to those I love.

Today, I regained my internet capabilities. With my virtual limbs, I ache to touch you. Let me feel your combination of zeros and ones. After a two week hiatus, two weeks of feeling paralysed, I am back online.

I am whole again.

All Or Nothing At All

It is a logical truth that there is both too much and nothing at all to say at this present junction.

Redemption

"I dare you to!" she whispers to me. Being "dared to" confess is unusual motivation to seek redemption, but this is my last day in Paris, and how often does one frequent Notre Dame?
"Look! It says you can confess in English." she whispers again. Despite the hushed din of the swarm of tourists circling the church, her voice is remarkably, and eerily, clear. It seems like God is making this far too convenient - here I am in Notre Dame, a devout Catholic is rising from the seat in the Confessional, the Priest speaks English...
"Why not?"
The "confessional" is an enclosed alcove of the Cathedral cordoned off by a glass wall with a glass door in the center.
I indicate to the Priest that I am prefer to speak English. His English is bad he says, and so if I am able to, he would rather do this in French. Doing it in French would just add to the cultural experience of it all, so I agree.
"Je suis homosexual", I begin.
He understands he says. He then tells me that, unless I have a vocation (it was hard to understand this concept in French at first) in which I must remain celebate, then it is not sinful to love another man, but I must be faithful to one man only. "Does that mean I should marry?" I ask. He tells me that marriage is a sacrament and to marry another man is a sin. He implores me to find love and to be faithful. He then blesses me and sets me free, back into the circling mass of tourists touring the medieval Cathedral.
I am surprised by what I have been told in confession. I have been told that the church and God accept me for who I am, and that there is some discrepancy between the official word of the church and the practicing word of the church. Do not believe everything you hear, but believe everything you experience.
I leave Notre Dame feeling surprised, enlightened, content, and, to be honest, a little bit divine.
I have been redeemed. And so has the Catholic church.

Home

On a Clear Day
Rise and look around you
And you'll know who you are...

The European Experience # 101

The Prologue Or Epilogue. Depending on How You Read It...

So it is done. Countless journeys on planes, trains, and buses; countless days wandering foreign streets; countless hours in musuems and parks; counteless nights in bars and clubs; countless mornings in hostels and homes with friends and lovers; countless dollars on food and accomodation and transportation has produced 1001 photographs. These snapshots of the places and people I have seen will be printed off and lie orderly upon sticky sheets protected by transparent vellum and bound in a leather album.
The product of the European Experience is this: a possession.
And what do I possess? I possess a photo album.
But no.
There is something more.
There is something more personal and honest... More true and beautiful...
Yet this possession is something that only exists when shared. It's existence is based on an act of community. An act that connects people together in a shared experience. Not my experience in Europe, but an experience that is shared in the moment of the act of sharing. (My "European Experience" is in the past and can not be reclaimed). My European Experience is a solitary one in some respects (I travelled alone), but my European Experience has produced something that is communal.
What is the product of my European Experience?
What is this possession?
What do the 101 entries of my "European Experience" blog add up to?

Let me tell you a story...

The European Experience # 100

The Facts

- 10 weeks - 78 days
- 1001 Photos - 101 Blog Entries
- 5 Flights - 4 Train Trips - 5 Coach Trips
- 8 Cities - 5 Countries
- 4 Hostels - 5 Homes - 4 Sets of Keys
- 27 Museums/ Galleries - 13 Palaces/Chateaux
- 12 Parks - 16 Churches
- 110 Acquaintances Made (approx) - 24 Phone Numbers
- 1 Notebook

The Itinerary and Highlights

England
London May 16th to May 26th
- Tate Modern - National Gallery (Whistlers Grandmother)
- National Portrait Gallery - V & A Museum (Modernism Expo)
- St. Paul's Cathedral - Westminster Abbey
- Buckingham Palace - Big Ben
- Hayfever (starring Judi Dench) - Billy Eliot the Musical
- Sunday in the Park with George - Titus @ Shakespeare's Globe
- Harrods - G.A.Y.
- Royal Ballet 75th Anniversay Gala Rehearsal

Brighton May 26th to May 30th
- Royal Pavillion - Brighton Beach and Pier

London May 30th to June 1st
- Heaven - Ghetto
- Regent's Park - Hyde Park

Spain
Barcelona June 1st to June 5th
Gaudi Architecture
- Sagrada Familia - Casa Batlo
- Parc Guel
- Picasso Museum - Andy Warhol Expo
- Mies Van der Rohe Pavillion
- The Beach and the Mediterraenean

Madrid June 5th to June 7th
- The Prado
(including both Velaquez's and Picasso's Las Meninas)
- Reina Sofia Museum
(including Guernica, The Great Masturbator, and Before Awakening)
- Museo Thyssen-Bornemisza
( Sisley, Degas, Monet, and other Great Impressionists)

Holland
Amsterdam June 7th to June 14th
- Van Gogh Musuem - Stedlyk Musuem
- The Canals - Red Light District
- Biking

Belgium
Antwerp June 14th to June 16th
- Chocolate - Beer

France
Paris June 16th to June 19th
- Musee D'Orsay - Eiffel Tower
- Notre Dame - Centre Pompidou

Angers June 19th to June 31st
- Francoise Morrellet and the Musee des Beaux Arts
- Musee David D'Angers - Cointreau Tour
- Chateaus - Golf

Paris June 31st to July 29th
- Louvre - Musee D'Orangerie
- Paris Opera - Musee Rodin
- St Chappelle - St Sulplice
- La Madeline - Sacre Coeur
- St Eustache - St Germain des Pres
- Cemetery Pere La Chaise - Cemetery Montparnasse
- Musee Picasso - Musee d'Art Modern
- Luxembourg Gardens - Tuileries
- Champs Elysees - Champs du Mars
- Arc de Triomphe - La Marais
- Tennis
- France beats Brazil in the World Cup

England
London June 29th to August 1st
- Soho Pride - Abbey Road
- Tate Britain - Goodenough College
- National Gallery: Rebels and Martyrs Expo
(Schiele, Van Gough, Courbet, Picasso, etc...)

The European Experience # 99

I have accomplished everything, and so much more, that I set out to do on this adventure.

And now...

I am coming home.

The European Experience # 98

The writer has invited me for a "dirty Berlin weekend in his dirty Berlin flat" where "we will do dirty things." I wonder if Rick gets invited to Berlin with these intentions. I hope not. Rick is the writer's boyfriend.
I hope Rick is never invited to Berlin. I hope that I have inspired such divine desire, such lingering lust, such love in my writer that Rick and the "love" he shows is insufficient, inadequate, and ultimately unpleasureable. I hope that I have touched my writer so deeply in his heart and soul that he ends his foolish love affair with Rick bcause he can not live without me and must drown me in his love and affection. I hope that, no matter what I can have what I want and I can and will be happy. I am selfish, uncaring, and insensitive.
True love, or at least this love, is not moral.

The European Experience # 97

The myths of Greece, Rome, and Egypt informed all aspects of their great civilization from religion, to art, to science and agriculture, to all aspects of domestic, political, social, and creative life. Europe, is influenced and inspired by these great ancient civilizations. The artchitecture, art, and science of these great civilizations have been the motivating force behind the most admirable achievements of this place. The most recent 'great' human achievements of the past century, such as nuclear power, the automobile, and the computer, only seem to succeed in causing harm to this earth or humanity itself, through violence or alienation. The truly great and beautiful achievements in humanity's recent history seem to be born from the Renaissance in Europe. The renaissance was in essence the re-birth of the ideas and practices of these ancient civilizations. How can ideas and practices of a virtually extinct ancient civilization be able to lead humanity's in its greatest endeavours? Has all our great innovations of the reason past merely be leading us to our self-destructive doom? Was civilization perfected over two thousand years ago? Is progress the motivating force of our time? Has this progress been ineffective in producing new and innovative human achievements that have a positive impact on humanity? Is progress merely a myth?
Examining the fruits of humanity's progressive innovation in recent history, one can draw undeniably negative conclusions. Progress has brought us great advances in technology, but this technology is being used as weapons of war, tools that destory the environment, products that harm the human body, and modes of communication that alienated us from one another. If we can imagine a world without these double-edged innovations, we are left with a world, inspired by the Greeks, Romans, and Egyptians, that was re-born during the Renaissance.
No matter if our current ideal of progress, mired in greedy capitalism, is failing at making the world a better place without getting its hands bloody, humanity is caught in the inevitable passing of time. We will never truly know if these great ancient societies were the pinnacle of human civilization: We can never go back. A return to the ideals of these ancient civilizations would not help us escape the influence of all that has happened in the past two thousand years or so. Progress may be a myth, but because the clock is ticking and always will be, it is a myth we must believe in. And unlike the myths of ancient civilization, maybe this myth will reveal itself to be true.

The European Experience # 96

You do it to yourself. Or at least I do it to myself.
My love affair with the writer has come to it's expected end.
This could be love, but I don't know what love is. Instead of capturing 'love' to put it in the straight jacket of 'definition' in order to ever-so conveniently place it between 'like' and 'lust' in the dictionary, I would rather do as the poets do and drown in possibilities of the word's manifest presence in this wide wide world. If this is love, it is not the love of marriage or commitment, but the love that lives and dies within the metaphorical life span of a gasp for breath: quick, short, intense, and a necessary act of life.
It is not an external force that exists in this wide wide world that, upon coming across the shimmer in the corner of an eye in a night club or the warmth of lips curled into a smile from across a class room, shakes a person to their core. It is a product of an inner ineffable need. It is an innate idea born in the darkest, most hidden recesses of a soul with no reason or logic to substantiate it's existence: It is a product of the imagination. "Every kind of love, or at least my kind of love, is an imaginary love to start with..." (Some may argue for Darwin or Freud, but science and psychotherapy only aim to kill the beautiful mysteries of life such as the 'true' nature of love.) Mr. Humbert Humbert, the world's greatest lover (and being so he, of course, is a work of art) enveloped himself in a completely selfish love affair. Our greatest romantic hero loves the perfection of the idea of his Lolita but not the flawed, but human Dolores Haze herself. Mr. Humbert Humbert a puts it aptly: "mirage and reality merge in love". He loves the imagined idea of Lolita as he sees her in the real and present Dolores. Such is the case with all 'true love'; it is a need that gives birth to an idea that we project onto an unknowing victim. Yes, some random stranger that smiles at you as you saunter past a cafe in some European capital may inspire love. But, as this wide wide world has the power to inspire, it is a need within which arouses the artist to create something beautiful. The creative construction of a lover is an art.
My love affair with the writer has come to it's expected end.
Did I tell the writer how I felt? How I "love" him? Of course not! Saying the word would destory the poetry of my reality. And love, or at least this love, is utterly self-indulgent and selfish. It matters not if our feelings are reciprocal, only that they are requited. And even if he did not shower me with his affection, I would still revel in the existence of my imagined love, which reveals its mysterious to me, manifest in this wide wide world.
I am sad to completely understand the true nature of our temporary tryst.
But, alas, I have done this to myself.
And though such experiences can never be reproduced,
I would do this to myself over and over again and again.

The European Experience # 95

"Sorrow, betrayal, jealousy, and hate are what we think will kill our love, but it is Hope that kills it in the end," he quotes from a short story he has read. (I am paraphrasing of course. It is not the words, but the idea, that cuts me to my core.) I am not sure why this has come up in our conversation. In my amorous euphoria, the details of my dream like experience is his overwhelingly intoxicating presence are hard to conjure. Yet, this quote from an obscure short story only a writer could have ever read seems apropos to describe my current fast-and-hard love-lorn once-in-a-life-time experience. Maybe these words have that universal power that applies to all moments of life...
"Hope is what kills it in the end." It would be foolish to hope for more than what is offered: He must return to Berlin, and I must return to Canada. He has a life with a boyfriend and a career, and dreams and goals he must pursue, and I have a life with friends and family, and dreams and goals, I know I must return to. It is foolish to hope for anything more than the next breath.
I shouldn't aim for anyone to bend their life in order to merge it with my own. To hope for that is selfish. To hope for that is not an act of love. I can not hope for the future, I can only hope for the present. And if that present includes a breath shared between us as our lips meet in a kiss, I shall treasure that moment for what it is in the present, and refrain from projecting an impossible future upon the simple beauty of such a loving act. All I should hope for is my next breath, and with that, I only hope for life.

The European Experience # 94

My hands are frozen above the key board. I can not write this story because it isn't a story at all. He was sitting at a cafe eating lunch. I walked by him and our eyes connected. I smile. He smile back. I sat down for a beer. We continue looking, and smiling back and forth. I order another beer. He gets up to leave. I get up to leave. We meet in the street. We go to buy cigarettes, return to the cafe for another drink, get up and go for a walk along the river, and we end up gratuitously making out on a riverside bench. That's the story. Nothing new.
He is new: He is something I have never experienced before. Dark, and masculine, with olive skin and soft penetrating eyes. He is a published writer (a book of short stories) and is an associate editor of an Art Lit magazine in Montreal. He speaks French. He has had articles published by the CBC, NOW, Maisonneuve, and The Toronto Star. He currently lives in Berlin: he received a grant from the government of Quebec to finish a novel. He loves Woody Allen movies (we both love "Bullets Over Broadway" the best). He has interviewed Margaret Atwood and tells me she is a cunt (She does look like a Cuntish woman, doesn't she?) He loves "The Hours" (as I do) and knows about the directing career of Stephen Daldry (an Artist who's career I would die for). He knows and loves Elaine Stritch: He saw her one woman show, and Bea Arthur's one woman show, in the same week while he was living in New York City getting a Masters in Creative Writing. He is applying to be a professor at a university here (A erotic professor fantasy is just as hot as a sexy T.A. fantasy) He has an incredible body: just enough defined and tone muscle, just enough dark hair on his manly chest, a round small ass, and soft kissable lips. He knows how to kiss my neck and run his fingers across my back. He is an incredible kisser. He makes me want to do dirty things. He is going to call later tonight and we are going to go out dancing.
I can not stop smiling. I can barely catch my breath. I feel like I am going to vomit. The thought that my experience here, including my experience with this man, is transient and far too temporary makes me want to cry. I exist both between and simultaneously in the world of amorous Eurphoria and love-lorn despair.
My fingers froze over the key board with good reason. I have written nothing. None of this adequately captures this man, nor the way he makes me feel. I fell fast and hard. To say I am living the Romantic Cliche European Love affair is true but insufficient in expressing this experience. You know mere facts, and not even all of the facts that I could tell you. I could go on and on about the weather near the river, or the dirt that covered the white toes of his black Converse runners, or recite our conversation regarding Shakespeare and the theatre, but there is little point.
This is something... Something... This is. And, damn, does it feel good.

The European Experience # 93

Here I feel I can hardly understand the language.

Ignorance doesn't breed bliss.

Ignorance breeds suspicion.

The European Experience # 92

Some Museums are Graveyards.

Some Graveyards are Museums.

The dead are History.

History is dead.

The European Experience # 91

This is a place of memories.
Not Memories of a Grand Historical Past, but my own memories.
All those horrid embarassing memories of the follies of my adolescent.
All those depressing memories of the mistakes of moments of stupidity.
All those ghosts of people and projects I have left behind.
"The Good Ole Days Weren't Always That Good, and Tomorrow Isn't As Bad As It Semms."

The European Experience # 90

I am sad.
In Europe...
So I played Moonlight Sonata on the Antique Piano in the Salon.
Oh! How Romantic am I?
Oh! How Melodramatic am I?

The European Experience # 89

You never think it is going to happen. Or at least I never think it's going to happen. I was walking along the street in this beautiful foreign city, the last city on my European itinerary, and I swear I see a friend whom I met in a previous European capital walking toward me. I stop and watch her pass. It couldn't be! Why would SHE be HERE? I consider yelling out her name in hopes that she will turn, but I don't risk the embarrassment if it isn't her, but just one of those "I swear I saw your exact double" episodes. I decide I will email her and ask her if she happens to be here. A much less risky option.
She resonds quickly and lets me know that I am not crazy, I did not see her exact double, and yes, she is in town for a couple weeks. You never think it is going to happen. She is staying with a friend of her family named Eddie. Eddie is here doing reserach for some Ph. D. he is working on. We quickly makes planes to meet for a drink at her (well, actually Eddie's) place later in the week.
She is waiting downstairs outside of her apartment with her two lesbian friends. I am feeling bad because I am unfortunately late. She leads me up the winding stairs and up to her (well, actually Eddie's) apartment.
Eddie is beautiful. He is tall, with broad shoulders, and strong legs. He is wearing plaid shorts that hang low on his waist to reveal the waist band of a pair of sexy, masculine, blue cotton boxers. He wears his shorts and shirt and glasses, as well as his hair, in that haphazazrd academic way that says "I am too busy being smart to care about what I look like". Such casual confidence and aloofness is incredibly sexy. His shrt just happens to have the words "Mr. Perfect" written in big red letters across his manly muscled chest.
I begin to make converstation about the nature of Academic social life with my friend and her guests in order to keep my self from staring at the Post-Graduate hunk sitting at the computer in the next room (he has a pen dangling from his mouth in that oh-so tittilating way that the intellectual elite do when they are lost in thought). Trying to keep the conversation moving in order to keep my attention diverted from my new found crush, I tell a story about a lesbian I knew at University who, without my glasses on, looked like a gorgeous boy.
"Well, you see, as a gay man with glasses", I begin.
"I'm a gay man with glasses", my T.A. fantasy of a academic casually remarks as he walks by on the way to the kitchen.
(What! How perfect for me, Mr. Perfect) This can not get any better, hot, smart, academic, and a FAGGOT. You never think it's going to happen!
My friend, the two lesbians, and the homo intellectual and I leave the apartment to go get ice cream. The academic and I make conversation as our group makes our way down the street. The ladies get some ice cream, but the two fags refrain from fatty deserts. We stop off at a bridge to enjoy the view. My conversation with the intellectual is awkward, but not painful. I am afraid of saying something stupid, and the fact he is so intelligent makes me very cautious. I don't want to come on too strong, but am afraid of not coming on strong enough.
The ladies have to go back to the apartment for a second to pee. The Academic and I are left alone. On a bridge. In a beautiful European City. (Kiss me!) He doesn't. The Ladies return.
The academic suggests we make our way back to the apartment. He has to call his mother in the states who is out of the hospital today.
On our way to back to the apartment, I mention to the lesbians that I am smitten. They laugh. Appartently it is obvious...
The night has come to an end. The lesbians leave. I start to leave but am desperately hoping I will be asked to stay awhile longer. No such luck...
"Nice meeting you", he says as he shakes my hand (Why does he not embrace the cultural practice and kiss me on both cheeks?), "We should wander the gay neighbourhood sometime if you are interested." (Of Course I am!)
You never think it's going to happen. And it doesn't. Not like how you want it to, and not how like you expect it to. But what is important is not that it doesn't happen like you expect, but that something unexpected does happen. If everything turned out like our dreams, fantasies, and fairy tales, the world would be boring. So what! he didn't kiss me on the bridge that moment we were alone? So what! he didn't aske me to stay longer and so we could spend time together? These are the fairytales of Hollywood romances. These are fairytales of the past. You never think it's going to happen and it didn't. At least not like the fairytales of the past. But who know what comes next in this fairy's tale that is being told in the present... Possibility.