You.

If only I could tell you what I think I of you. I am sure you would smile and blush. How could you not smile and blush? If you only knew what I think of you... I wish I could tell you.



But.
I can't.

Not Enough Sunlight

Maybe it's because I didn't have coffee yet today... Maybe it's because I didn't have sex last night... Maybe it's because I didn't shower till noon... Maybe it's because I lack vitamin D because there is less hours of sunlight during the months of January and February... Maybe it's because I lack vitamins I am not even aware I am lacking... Maybe it's because when I look at you I feel compelled to find joy by holding your hand... Maybe it's because its cold out... Maybe it's because I haven't talked to my mother in over a week... Maybe it's because I'm poor... Maybe it's because it is a month since Christmas (which means another eleven months to do)... Maybe it's because deep down I really don't like Christmas... Maybe it's because I find most men I see today very attractive... Maybe it's because I'm stressed... Maybe it's because I have no reason to be stressed... Maybe it's because I'm tired... Maybe it's because I sleep too much... Maybe there's no reason to feel this way... Maybe there are too many reasons to feel this way...

There is no word for the nothing I feel. Indifference is inadequate. Blase is too descriptive. I can not think of any representation form in language to tell you how I feel.
Maybe that's the problem to begin with...

In an effort to get to understand this despair (even that word is misleading - I am not sad per se, but not happy neither), I fear the untold secrets of my subconscious. There are infinite possibilities that determine how and why I feel and think the way I do: The mingling of the psychological, biological, sexual, and social are too complex to de-code. Discovering how and why I feel and think the way I do may not provide the solution, but rather, add to the problem. What if the secrets of my subconscious reveal a shallow, insecure, petty self?
What if, the catalyst for my thoughts and feelings, my entire being, is less than admirable?

I fear self-understanding. My subconscious is a black mysterious place without limits or boundaries. If I dare venture into this unknown, I would feel so lost and alone.
But I do feel lost and alone... I fear the extremities of being lost and alone. Who knows what depths of loneliness are hidden in my subconscious?

So, where does this rumination leave me?
In the dark...
I'm scared of the dark.
But I can't help thinking that I'd be happier with the light on.

Crush

My heart aches.

I am no masochist, and though it never satisfies, this pain feels so good.

Left Behind

I miss you. You are missing. I wish I was with you.

Things seem so simple sitting in your living room. Or drinking a pint at a local pub. Or listening to music driving down Albert St. in your dad's car.

I wish I could go back.

Things seem so much easier...

In retrospect

At times I feel I need to find God.
But where do I start looking?

See Me See You

To see and be seen dominates my thinking. You see? I see.
To see provides access to who and what we are.

It's Not About You

"It's not about them. It's about me," he tells me.

I have always followed the rule that in order to engagessexual activity with a person one must find that person sexually attractive. I thought everyone followed that rule. Apparently not.

"So... Were they hot?" I ask.

"Not really," he casually replies.

"How can you have sex with someone who you find less than attractive," I inquire.

"It's not about them. It's about me," he tells me.

What does this say about me?

If he is my boyfriend (and he is), and if we have sex (which we do), then it is possible that he finds me less than attractive. I could be anybody. I can be any body.

I am many things. I am heart. I am soul. I mind. I am body.

But am I just any body?

Does he love me? Yes. There is no doubt.
Does he desire me? Maybe... This is where doubt begins.

Male Gaze

There is something about him. At first glance, you inevitably miss it. You have to take a closer look.

His being exists on the border between natural disposition and keen talent. A subtle crossing of the legs, hands resting on the small of the back, a slight inflection of the voice...
Is it performance? Or is it just the way he is?
Is there a difference?

He traverses, he transgresses, he transcends sexuality. Neither homo nor hetero. Both gay and straight. Never and always bisexual. His sexual appeal appeals to all. He is desire incarnate. He is adored without ever being conscious of adoration.

There is nothing between us. Only my gaze. My gaze constructs a man. My gaze imagines a person. My gaze,God-like, moulds a being from the clay of nothingingness.
Gazing is pleasure. Gazing is thrilling. Gazing is sex.

I am subject. You are object.

I am a voyeur.

Resolve and Achieve

This New Year, I resolve to be
1) more active
2) more sensitive
3) academically rigourous

In this New Year, I hope to
1) Graduate University with High Distinction
2) Get into Graduate school
3) Travel (to Pittsburgh, New York, Berlin, Prague, and Rome)

I will resolve.
I will achieve.

Photo-Representation

I never look good in photographs. This provides a real problem.

Do I really look like how I am represented in a photo?

What is the discrepancy between reality and how that reality is represented in a photo?

The photograph was thought to destroy painting as a mode of representation. The photograph is able to accurately represent reality with more precision and detail than a human hand ever could. If this is indeed true, what does that say about me? Am I really as awkward and odd as most (almost every) photograph makes me out to be.? Maybe I would've been more attractive if I lived in an age when a painting was the most common mode of visual representation...

Every possible way to see oneself, either through a mirror, a photograph, or video (a moving photograph), is representation. I will never be able to know what I look like. I will only know what representations of me look like. But what if these representations of me, especially the photograph as representation, are identical to the real thing... What if I am what the photograph shows me?

Do I really look like that?

I hope not.

onLInES

His message:
hey sexy im 19 years old from brampton im a swimmer with a hott 9 inch dick

His profile:
i live in brampton i have an 11 inch dick that needs sex,

No grammar. Bad spelling.

Nothing is true in cyberspace.

Help!

"Help! I need somebody. Help! Not just anybody. Help! I need somebody. Please!"

Masses

They all knew their lines. They all knew their parts.

Stand up. Bow Head. "Lord hear our prayers!" Sing (Know the words. Know the tune) Sit down. Cross Yourself. Stand up. Shakes hands. Sing. Sit down. Stand Up. Cross Yourself. "Lord hear our prayers!" Sit down. Stand up. Bow Head. Silence. Say the Lords Prayer. Sit down. Stand up. Sing. Eat Christ. Drink Christ. Sit down. Stand up. "Lord hear our prayers!" Sit down. Repeat.

It is rare for me to appear in such a performance so absolutely unrehearsed.

I want to Catholic Mass today (even though I'm not Catholic, nor a church going man). I didn't know the first of January was a Holy Day of Obligation (Isn't everyday a day of obligation when you're Catholic?). "Ponder. Treasure the gifts of God," the Priest told the meagre congregation who gathered at St Thomas Moore Chapel early this bitter cold Tuesday morning (Should I treasure the biting cold of a prairie winter - at least it brings beautiful hoar frost). Ponder. Treasure. No matter the context, these are words of wisdom appropos to the first day of a new year.

Sometimes the bravest thing to do is hold on. Sometimes it is braver to let go.

Hold me, somebody please hold me. Touch me. Kiss me. Let our hands, lips, bodies connect.
I need to be felt to feel alive.

When There's Nothing Left to be Done...

At my hometown gay bar...

A seemingly straight guy with a goatee and a straw hat with a beer logo on its face motions me to join him at his table. Despite the warning from my over-weight pet store employee acquaintance, I join him anyway.

"Do you drive?"
"I do."
We're interrupted. It's the rotund homo in his 'Pet-Smart' uniform.
"Don't do what he asks you. Or you're gonna suffer," he says.
"Do you in anyway do drugs?"
"I don't really..."
"Ok. Thanks. You're pretty cute, by the way".
The seemingly straight dude heads back to his possible girlfriend sitting across the bar.

If I had agreed to this drug run, what would have Mr. Pet Shop done to me. Made me "suffer"?
What the Hell does that mean?

When there is nothing to do, you make your own fun. Either that, or you make your own drama.

Only The Lonely

I am alone and I know you are not. When lonely, this is the worst.

Home Town Bar

It's Friday night. I can count the number of people in the bar on two hands. If I had come with friends we would have increased the number of patrons present by half. But I am alone. The bar still seems empty.

A rotund drunk thirty-something homo, still in his red 'Pet-smart' uniform, approaches me at the bar. "Let me introduce you to my friends," he slurs. "You look alone and shy. And I want to make sure you have a fun night." I am alone with nothing or no one better. I join him and his friends at their table.

Her name is Jamie and she is a lesbian. It is only stereotypical she is an accountant for C.A.A. She is friendly and non-threatening so I strike up a conversation. We are interrupted by a powerful forty-something prairie lesbian (short hair, dyed auburn, leather jacket and cowboy boots with striking maroon lipstick). "I really like the decorations", Dani mentions motioning to the Dollar-store "HAPPY NEW YEARS" signage and the meager spattering of balloons clumsily taped to the ceiling. "It really makes a difference", the power lesbian concurs. Their friendly demeanor makes up for their lack lustre decorating skills.

Only three people are grooving on the dance floor. Sean is one of them; a member of my rotund friend's circle of companions. He is a faggy bottom; you know the type. His shirt is undone to reveal a tight flat muscled stomach. He wears lip balms marketed toward women. No matter how awkward or inappropriate it is, he is bending over like an MTV booty dancer despite how there are obviously no cameras filming his small twinky ass. Though I would never be as outrageous as he is, we are not that different. I want to be the object of attention and affection and admiration as much as he does. I am just not as brave as he.

Here I am. Alone at the bar on a Friday night with only a fat petstore employee, tragically unstylish lesbians, and an attentioning seeking faggot for company. This is the gay bar in the city where I grew up. Am I home?

At times I am unaware of how much I need you. I am foolish, I know. One should be conscious of what one needs to survive.

The Plague of Social Existence

There are always more than two people present in any relationship. Be it friends, family, lovers, or even casual acquaintances, directly or indirectly we infect each other. What exists between you and your mom, or you and your room mate, or you and your best bud, or you and your boyfriend does not remain resistant to the myriad of relationships you are exposed to with everyone else in your life. What exists between you and your mom, is not immune to what you share with your boyfriend. Your casual conversation with your room mate is not quarantined from your drunken banter with your best bud.
We are contagious.

It is foolish to think that you're a singular organism that maintains isolated relationships with another isolated singular living organism.

We are all symbiotic.

We are not insusceptible to the actions of those around us. Like it or not we infect each others existence.