Warning... this is an adult site. If reading or viewing things about what gay men do sexually with one another bothers you - you should not read this blog. This blog is a reflection of my adventures and thoughts. Some are fun, some not so pretty. I won't name names, or kiss and tell... but I will live to tell. And baby, trust me - I am gonna spill it all over your pretty little party dress. Enjoy!
Kelly Clarkson, as I adore her... singing a song she cares about and giving it her all. I love this song. It features a great guitar solo and sparkling vocals. Old-school? Oh, hell yeah. It's a question that begs an answer... Where Have You Been.
All in all, a destined-to be-classic diva turn.
Where have you been, indeed!
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On a personal note: Where have I been?
I've been ill. Recovered and recovering. There were days when I simply curled up in a ball and wished the pain away and days when, at most, I could spend about 20 minutes on-line.
It's changed me. And I continue going through changes. And I'm not sure I can be here the way that I used to. For the summer, at least, there are other priorities. But never fear... I've written quite a bit in advance and those will auto-post. The only 'live' post will be on Wednesdays, because I still adore new music.
So... for a while? I'm going to be quiet. I wish you all well. I wish you all the best. This all started during Covid and our little group of bloggers - we kept each other company - it was the best company I could have asked for. I'll be back. Probably in late fall...? Who knows. Take good care of yourselves. My heart to you.
Hump day? Well, I'll give you something to ponder.
Yes, it's time for Wednesday's Question Of The Day.
Each Wednesday, a new question to give you the opportunity to do a bit of self-examination. Think of it as a way of getting to know all about you and a chance to learn a little more about me.
That's right. You know me; spill that tea! For I am the king of over-sharing!
Oh, and please leave your responses in the comments section.
Why, think of this as a little blogging kiki!
Okay! Ready, set...
Here's today's question:
What is the closest you’ve come to death?
If I were a cat with nine lives, I'd have one or two left.
1996 was a particularly perilous year.
You haven't lived until you've been given last rites.
My doctor! She was a fiery Irish woman of sturdy stock who took no crap from anyone. She was my champion, time and time again. She fought for me like no one else ever has... ever. There were three times that year I came very close to passing.
Once, they put me up in a vacuum sealed room which Elizabeth Taylor had just vacated. Anthony Hopkins mother was staying just across the hall. He would visit her every day.
Once they pumped eight pints of fresh blood into my body when my body had stopped producing new red blood cells. That worked... for a week.
Once, I was in this private room squirreled away from the rest of the world. A nun would come visit me. She gave me this large fancy pewter crucifix she'd gotten from the Vatican (I still have it). She's the one who fetched the priest and informed me that last rites were now known as a prayer for the dying. If she thought she was getting that crucifix back, well, think again, hon.
I was in such denial.
The fourth time I came close? My doctor felt she was out of options - it was time I went 'home'. My poor parents, who only a month earlier had a clue of what I was dealing with when I showed up to their 40th Anniversary Party with an IV attached to my arm, weighing only 131 lbs., were summoned. She found someone to take over my care... expecting the worst.
Well.
I'm a strong believer in healthy denial. I wasn't thrilled about leaving Los Angeles, and the idea of being given over to the care of my parents felt like a death sentence of a different nature, but I never lost sight of overcoming - I simply refused to believe that I would ever end.
I still don't.
It took two years to crawl back to life as I sort of knew it. But I did it... making foolish mistakes all along the way.
The other times.
Once, I stupidly tried to swim across this rather wide river. I didn't take in account the current and ended up being swept downstream as two of my best friends watched on in horror. I found a downed tree and then a bridge trestle, which I clung to until I gathered enough strength and oxygen to try to get back to shore. Yes, I was an idiot.
Another time, I was mountain biking and missed a curve. Someone found me at 2:00 am. I had broken my neck in two places, had a major concussion, and looked like hamburger. I was a John Doe for about eight hours - I had no idea who I was. In the emergency room I kept repeating numbers and later, a kind nurse sat down and created phone numbers out of them, calling until she reached The Ex, who had been frantic. The doctor told me that less than 5% of those with similar injuries survived.
The oddest was the first time - I was four! I found a small piece of copper tubing with a jagged edge in our playhouse (on the farm). For some strange reason, I wondered what would happen if I pushed it into my wrist. My wrist! It was a bizarre compulsion. It, of course, would not stop bleeding and soon reached the point where my mother threw me in the car and drove 20 minutes to the nearest hospital. The doctors didn't know what to make of it and my mother was questioned quite severely. I came to with a nurse tut-tutting and giving me the evil eye.
Anyway...
I think I have two left.
That said... I'm still making horrible choices. And getting older. So...
In my own personal big gay church, there is a wing festooned with disco balls, strobes and a pulsing dancefloor. Here reign the Divas of the Dancefloor; a rare cultural phenomena somewhat confined to the clubs. Their siren calls beckon you forth, bewitching you with soulful sounds and inspirational words, causing your body to gyrate as if taken by a spirit. Theirs is the world of house - and by house, I mean, these ladies know how to take you to church, son. With their voices we soar and are liberated from gravity's and reality's pull. One such diva?
Kristine W
Hers is the power of music.
With a voice so powerful and moving, it's hardly surprising that she's Billboard magazine's 8th Greatest of All Time Top Dance Club Artists, and was ranked #3 in Billboard's Top Dance Artists of the Decade.
She's had 17 #1 hits on the Club Play charts.
A beauty queen, for sure, but this lady has chops, adventurous taste and a kind heart.
She adores her legion of gay fans and knows they are the reason her career continues its momentum. Pride season? She's appearing in some city near you, celebrating with us all.
And when life dealt her a killing blow, she fought back with the drive and determination that hath brought her safe thus far. Yes, she lived to fly again...
...and continues to soar to soar to this day!
The gospel according to her?
Well, here are three from the hip, dropping from her lips.
The topic? The Power of Music
"(My songs) tell tales of real stories of love, lies and loss that happen to us all. Nothing is held back because my ultimate hope is that these songs help others to confront their own issues head on and with less fear knowing that they are not alone. We all have our issues, but music has a way of helping us cope with our heartaches, connect with others and celebrate the gift of life."
"I kind of want to keep the music in focus because there's so many people screaming about this and screaming about that. The music just gets lost, the messages just get lost, everybody starts hating on each other really quick, and everybody divides it. Music was meant to bring everyone together. It's a gift and it's the one thing that can bring us back together when we're all shredded, when we're all torn apart."
"I hope to inspire other performers and song writers that you can accomplish great things by working hard , putting the time in to create good works. The quality of your songs and your live performances will be so important to your career down the road .Its a very tough business but keep creating magic and it can happen. Music is the hardest thing in the world to do but I have a passion for it. If I can make people happy by my music and inspire people by my music and my words I am happy."
Do What You Want - Kristine W
The Power of Music - Kristine W
Stars - Kristine W
And one more parting shot...
"I am always humbled by how fragile life really is, and yes, it is always a part of my music."
It had been an awful week. And something about what I'd witnessed during my last visit there, which I shared here last week, had placed a chill in my heart. I couldn't bring myself to go.
The pollen count has been at an all-time high in the Twin Cities. So that played a part in my decision. Turns out my allergies had been acting up all week. Something I'd failed to recognize.
Last Tuesday, I had my very first migraine. I didn't know what it was at first. It started in the center of my face, at the tip-top of the bridge of my nose - a pain, as if someone had shot me with a nail gun. Then it came in waves... pain, spreading in a band across my skull. My stomach flipped and soured. There was a tightness in my chest. Was I having difficulty breathing? I couldn't tell. I felt weak and dizzy... like any moment I'd find my body pitching forward, falling to the ground.
Still, I worked. I wrote. I ate.
Totally convinced that what I was experiencing had to be Covid-19 related, I had visions of a hospital bed and being taken out of my home and the aftermath - the isolation, the blame...
My anxiety went through the roof. I was terrified.
Of course my soon-to-be-ex caught wind. He can always tell when I am not myself, and proceeded to freak out accordingly. He's a compulsive-obsessive with a yen for hypochondria. So, per usual, I was the one not feeling well, but it was really all about how it was going to affect him.
I did what I could. I took my temperature. No fever. But body aches. The headache. My back hurt. I felt weak. I hadn't been sleeping and now, couldn't at all.
I refused to take an antihistamine. See, they make me rather over-energetic. When under their influence, I talk like a magpie and move about like a 1960's housewife who relies on 'Mother's Little Helpers'. So, my symptoms continued unabated.
By Thursday morning, my head was a bit better, and I felt more hopeful.
I'd done all I could do to avoid the news, but these days, one can't help but feel that to be in the know is to take back a bit of one's personal power - so I'd been keeping tabs on the rise in Covid-19 cases, which, in turn, helped feed my paranoia. I'd worked myself up into an awful state.
Remaining wary, by the end of my workday, I felt the pain in my back go from my back to my chest. I called my doctor's nurse. She told me what I was experiencing had nothing to do with Covid, that I should proceed immediately to the emergency room - I could be having a stroke.
I argued a bit. That was ridiculous, but, in the back of my mind, knew that this was one way to get a Covid test. That would help my anxiety and the fears of those in my tiny circle. For I'd had to stay away from my mother, just in case, and my youngest sister was upset with me.
Me? I just wanted to know one way or the other.
Begrudgingly, I went. Four and half hours in the waiting room, dodging people who don't know the meaning of social distancing. Then, three and half hours of sitting in an ER room, taking tests and waiting to take tests.
My blood work all came back normal. Healthy as can be. We eliminated a few other things. I'd have my Covid results by the next morning. We never discussed allergies. I forgot to bring it up and it never occured to the doctor. Do they read your medical history? Ever?
My Covid test came back negative. There was a huge sigh of relief all around, except now, of course, I'd just spent four and half hours surrounded by who knows what in an ER waiting room. I did my best to assure everyone that I'd been careful. Everyone was wearing masks. Temperatures checked before they could enter the waiting room. I touched very little and washed my hands every hour.
Friday, I took an antihistamine and voila! It did the trick. Somewhat.
Over the weekend, I discovered that air conditioning had something to do with it, too, and that being outside - going for a bike ride - helped enormously.
But I decided not to go the prairie. I'm not sure if I will go back until all this is over.
Due to the behavior I'd witnessed the previous Friday, I no longer trust those people.
And... to be honest... I don't trust myself.
If the right dick suddenly appeared and was thrust in my face?
No. Best to avoid it all together.
I'll hide in my bunker and live my tiny life within my tiny circle and avoid coming in contact with others as much as possible.
I've officially declared my own personal lock down.
I have to do it. Because others depend on me.
And because I simply don't have the fortitude to deal with all the uncertainty. I truly thought I was losing it last week. It has been a long time since I'd felt that crazy. With that in mind, it is best to mitigate our risk and circle our wagons tight.
This weekend I am supposed to go to my youngest sister's in Madison. The boyfriend has been looking forward to it - like a kid going to Disneyland - so I can't disappoint. Fortunately, my sister and her husband have been super careful and on their guard from day one of the pandemic. It's a safe house. And we'll all social distance during our stay.
Throughout all of this, I have been trying to work and trying to write and trying to play piano. None of it felt easy. Everything suffered. And that added to my exhaustion.
Today - much better. I've learned to take an antihistamine when I get up. They begin to wear off around 3:00 pm. By the next morning, I am feeling horrible and we start the whole cycle again.
I'm mad at my doctor's nurse for sending me to the ER, but grateful to know that I tested negative for Covid.
My Dad passed away last week. I took off work the week before he passed, and then took the week after, as well. I will miss him. His laughter (he laughed like Popeye), and his abundant kindness. He loved me. I'm glad I was there for him. And I have no regrets.
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I might post something later in the week. Until then, here is a re-post, to tide you over.
Waving 'Hello', Waving 'Good-bye'...
My dad is back in hospice.
This will be the third time.
His Alzheimer’s has progressed to the point where his brain has stopped sending signals to various parts of his body. He now spends entire days in a kind of infant-like sleep where we are barely able to keep him awake long enough to eat a little something.
My mom has been his primary care-giver for the past five years, with a lot of help from me and my ex. In the past year, she finally agreed to contract people to come in and bathe him. And a year ago, a hospital bed was purchased and placed in the living room. This bed, his wheelchair, and his assisted lift chair are where he spends the bulk of his current existence.
The nurse in charge has made it clear to my mom that there will soon come a day when my dad will be confined to his bed and eating will no longer be a priority. The hospice staff is there to make sure he is comfortable and pain-free.
I visit once a day and stay for at least an hour and a half. Typically, when I arrive and give him a hug, my dad will wake long enough to stare at me blankly before drifting off once more. Then I make myself a cup of coffee and visit with my mom, checking to see if she needs anything. I check the house to make sure things are being maintained. I mow the lawn. But the purpose of my visits is primarily to break up the monotony of my mom’s day.
Caregiving is difficult. In this case, it is relentless and it is exhausting.
Sometimes, my ex will visit at the same time. He’s a talker, so he keeps my mom thoroughly entertained. Frequently, the animated conversations will jar my dad awake. I’m always on the lookout for these moments.
I will wave and talk to him, doing my best to elicit a smile or some kind of reaction.
Yesterday, during such a moment, it occurred to me that these days…
…I don’t know if I’m waving ‘hello’, or waving ‘good-bye’.
I want him to know I’m there.
Even though it’s hard for me. Even though it’s emotionally exhausting. Even though it pains me to see him fade away.
I want to be there. And I know I need to be there…
Weather-wise,
Minnesota is due for a warming trend.After
two weeks of cloud cover and rain, the sun might peek out today – in more ways
than one.
The
boyfriend seems to be a bit better. He
is still in pain and eating remains an ordeal, but he is finally getting some
nourishment and things are looking up.
Last
night I made him some potato soup, nice and creamy. He seemed to enjoy it.
Then we
watched the Japanese horror film ‘Hansel and Gretel’; very Twilight Zone, very engaging. I didn’t take much away from it, other than:
it’s important to not get stuck in a place that feels safe, where only part of
your needs is being met. And… that at
some point it’s time to put on your big boy pants and grow up, or you risk becoming
frozen in time, your true needs gong forever unmet.
It’s
been six months since I left what I considered my safe place.
I don’t
regret it.
Everyone
in my life may still have issues with the decision, but I am happier for
it. The new adventures it has afforded
me help me to justify and deal with all the guilt I’ve been feeling. I’ve even managed to find a happy balance
while fulfilling all my obligations and ensuring that everybody’s needs are
being met. And, of course, having the boyfriend in the picture helps, too.
The
nice thing?
I am
able to see things from the perspective of others. I understand why they are upset. I understand their fears. Change is hard and when people feel insecure they
tend to not behave their best. I can
deal with that. What they fail to see is that they are now going get a better,
healthier me, much more present than I was before.
It was
my own behavior that absolutely had to change.
It
has. And I’m so relieved.
Looking
back, I’m not sure where I was heading, but it wasn’t a good place. I certainly
was not happy where I was, nor, despite all my claims to the contrary, did I
like myself much.
It was
a lot of work… hooking up constantly. And
it ate up a lot of my time and energy. Fraught
with fear and anxiety, I was only getting part of what I needed. It was like a steady
diet of junk food; eating, but not receiving any nourishment. I was going through the motions of intimacy
without receiving anything real, any sort of sustenance.
It took
its toll on my relationships with others and on my psyche. Repairing all that… that is going to take
some time, work that I am just now feeling strong enough to undertake.
I am
very grateful that the boyfriend is in my life.
He has become my balm, the warmth that I have yearned for. He has helped remind me who I truly am. I hadn’t
realized how cold I had become.
With a
glimmer of spring finally appearing and my newfound sense of self, I am
thinking that warmth can now be found beyond only his arms. Yes, it will take some convincing, for others
remain wary, but I think I’m up to the challenge.
You
see, you have to teach people who you are.
And it’s important that you be a gentle educator while doing so. I guess that’s where the warmth comes in. You can’t rely on the sun to provide it, or
the arms of someone else…
…it has
to come from within.
Here’s
to the start of my own personal warming trend.
