The Sauce

Vampire Weekend

2012-01-12T17:13:00.000-08:00

I've lived an interesting life, that's for sure. All of those late night, long line and deadly wine nights on the range at a restaurant made for a wild existence. I lived on the razor's age for years. I was a feral boy.

And I still am. I might not wear a white coat these days, but I still burn the midnight oil. Last week, my partner was on a business trip. A few days into the unusual solitude my old house offered, my old days lived at the Lounge caught up with me. They crept up like glittering shadows, and ran right up my nose.

Saturday night Daniel and Lucy and I took the best table at the best restaurant in town. We drank gorgeous reserve list Barbera, funky rose wines from Abruzzo, and an Amarone we caught on an incredible discount. Thank God we are still industry. We ate incredible food, stayed for hours and lingered over amaretto.

We smoked grass on the way home-the night littered with those gas lamps, my urban stars. The city was on fire for us.

Late night narcotics, a cocaine-morphine song.

Laughter and prosecco and four AM drunken adieus.

It was a miracle of the underworld, a once in a lifetime reprieve. I woke up rested and refreshed. Normally that would have been hangover hell. Maybe in some weird way, my soul needed that vampire weekend. Those black glitter hours seem to have for once done me well.

Tonight it's a decent California Zinfandel and the polished floorboards to warm my blood against the winter and digest the delicious darkness of the seventy two hour party that peaked last Saturday. It's nearly the weekend again. I wonder what jewel tone dreams and nightmares are going to do their flamenco dance across my plate and palate.

The Letter

2011-12-06T18:19:00.001-08:00

It's 9 PM here in the Historic District. I'm not on my blue Marilyn Monroe Couch (as so many posts began), of course I lost that in a fire. I'm on an Art Deco chaise lounge across from my boyfriend. I'm drinking pedestrian pinot grigio and thinking about the past.

You see, so little is really going on in my life these days that I am often left thinking about the nights that came before. All of those wild, lusty, debauched nights and mornings at The Lounge, graceless hookups with boys (and girls) I can't remember. Multiple overdoses and the dream cloud-dream child world of too much of everything except for sense. Those times made for good writing. I have a chest full of those nights that I still haven't mentioned yet. I'll tell you about them soon enough.

Tonight, though, I am thinking about the oddities of the human heart and mind. I'm in a lovely relationship, but sometimes I want its' polar opposite-be it two druggies on a stained mattress somewhere, or me running away with a cowboy to live on love and little else. I can nearly see the sun on his flaxen jaw, the coarse stubble there that surely pleases the metaphysical "me," who writes about impossibilities.

That same twisted, unsteady human heart lead me to reach out to a boy the other night. Not in a sexual way, not even in a physical way. I came across his posting on Craigslist (while I was looking for garden furniture). He wrote that he was unsure of his sexuality, that he had been abused and was uncertain if he could change his disposition, or if he would want to, and that he felt very afraid. He was all of 19 years old.

I am not really the type to try to save the world, but sometimes everyone can heal a heart. I wrote him a long letter, to which (two weeks later) he still has not replied. And that's OK. In this missive to an anonymous boy, I told him about the Two Spirit Men of the early Americans. I told him about magic and of healing, about the great beauty that lies in each man's soul. I implored him to give his life time to develop, to not be harsh with himself, to not be hasty with life.

I hope he read my words, because I read his. I read his that were soaked in sadness and in pain. His words that floated in fear. I hope my more buoyant words lifted him, changed him-let him know that everything will, of course-be just fine.

That's a lot to expect from a letter, but I received a similar one when I was his age. And it did just that.

A Box of Fingers

2011-11-02T19:24:00.000-07:00

I've told you so much here. I've told you alot about the pretty and the scary in my life--but that was all in my life. I've covered briefly a romantic childhood in the Lowcountry, and hinted at the bad. Now it's time for that.

In my last post I talked about an addiction that I've only brushed upon previously. Those opiates give me strength-as a better writer than I would say "an inch to an unbalanced leg,"-and now I want to confess.

I want to tell you that things havent always been pretty. It hasn't always been the sancitity of a woman and her child making jams and jellies. Sometimes it was fucking horrifying.

I have presented to you many times, my mother. She in need of protection, she who gives all love. She who begins and ends my addictions. It is she that I have searched for, she that I have found, and she whom I must protect. And she is love.

A Scene, Among Many:

It's my teenage years, and I'm stoned or drunk. I'm a slight boy in my purple room. It's a sacred temple and this is the first time it was ever defiled. The first time among many: it is the first rape.

My mother's lover of the moment is in a rage. I have retired to my room. My room with the Monet purple walls and the cherry wood furniture. The almost-mist valances and the orange-oil scent. I hear them exchanging their words, their blows.

A new tradition starts: for the first of many occasions, my mother comes to my room for her own bit of safety. It's only minutes before he comes in. His name was Robert. He would be the first undoing. The first time that thread was pulled that unwound the whole tapestry, the first time that everything was made fragile.

When she moved him in-she who was also a child of abuse, but only worse-he gave me a box of fingers. A box of severed mannequin fingers. I remember little about him-only that, this, and that he ate garlic cloves like I eat apples.

Violence. The cracking of doorframe wood. The black night was quiet and a watchful witness as the first of these tiny tragedies became real. Mama hid behind me in the expensive duvet that still covers my bed. Then everything became a blur, an unremembered horror that I'm thankful for.

He was on top of me, strangling me. The room ran fast with colors; the world became a soft-edged portrait of what was normal. I remember her standing in the doorway as the last of my air left my body. She was so helpless. It was like being in a snowglobe. Nothing was what it should have been. It was all so new and traumatic.

I remember him trying to photograph me as I died. She cried silent tears in the doorframe. I must have come back to life-I am here today, after all-but I took his camera from him and bashed it against his skull. Pieces of glass and metal went everywhere. I lost consciousness.

I couldn't tell you what happened that night, not the rest of it. But I know what happened in the days that followed.

I went off to Miami Beach to go to college, and I came back when that man had nearly killed her. I came back on a train, a fourteen hour train ride back to the Lowcountry. I got there, back to my childhood home, the morning after he had nearly killed her. That old house smelled like a meat factory. Dark blood painted the steps, the walls, the floors. She was black and blue, worse colors than that but this language doesn't have names for the shades that indicate "Beaten, shamed, right back in her childhood, almost dead." It doesn't have words for the loss of my childhood. For the loss of safety.

And In the Years That Passed

As you may guess, I have many recollections that match that one. In some she was luckier. In one, I beat a man nearly to his death. And I loved it. I only regret that I did not kill him.

In the years that went between, the bonds of love and fealty would be tested and nearly broken. The scene would be replayed. Oh, those years have disspeared. So much has gone by since then.

Thankfully-her life, at least-seems to be calmer now. Although last night in dreams I was fake-punching her, warning her of what would happen if she took up with such a man again.

And I still have that box of fingers. I use it like a VooDoo doll, a way to kill without touching. A way to bury the past.

And nightly I sniff my drugs and drink my wine.

Some things are not as they seem.

In Case I Was Your Favorite

2011-10-27T19:15:00.000-07:00

It's been a good long time since I've written here, and I'm sorry for that. Things have been interesting-my new life as a wine rep isn't nearly as dramatic and prose inspiring as my previous chefly years.

Life has been a rather even keel, if you can believe it. I have free time and I'm not stressed to my gills about some kitchen drama or another. I feel like a newborn in some ways: just bumbling about, trying to do my new job as best I can.

Things with Bullock are just fine. We sleep and wake at similar but not identical times. We share our days and nights as best we can. We drink wine and walk around the neighborhood. It's kind of our ritual. We are making the compromises of partnered men; taking this into account and accepting that. It's nice.

But you know me. You know your Chef Green. Things are never as easy breezy as you'd think. Although life is calmer now, professionally-actually, perhaps because of it-I can see that certain parts of my life are wildly unbalanced. You see, once one leaves the fire-flash and drug driven world of the professional kitchens, it takes a while to assimilate back into normal society. I got out of the kitchens with my coats, my knives, and my life as it is today. I did not get out unscathed.

My decade of stainless steel service has left me not only a raving drunk, but a raving drunk with something of an opiate addiction. It's not as full blown as some folks, its worse than others. I'm in the middle of a war of roses and wretches, and both stink just the same. And both smell as sweet, when the getting's good.

I really put this poorly written post together just to confirm that I am in fact alive, and doing relatively well. In case I was your favorite. I wrote it because daily I wait for the writings of another man, one whom I sought out because he's lived a path stranger than my own and have found that he is a kind and wonderful soul, if one can know such things over the impersonal internet, across impersonal oceans.

This post isn't magic. It isn't what I used to write. It isn't perfectly simmered words and worlds and reasons. It's run on sentences and fragments and contradictions of style. But it's real.

Just in case I was your favorite.

Go check out my favorite writer, Shane Levene.
He can be found here.

A Sort of Religion

2011-09-17T14:01:00.000-07:00

I visited the Greek Orthodox Church today. That place of golden domes and splendor, the newest iconography in the world. Saints and six winged Seraphim stood between windows; amber light flooded the space, reflecting on the floor's pearly marble. That place, a monument to a religion not my own-felt sacred to me.

I stood there beneath the impossibly high ceilings for a long time, craning my neck in painful angles to absorb the illumanted, gauzy paintings. The air felt clean, holy. It seemed to vibrate; to crave the incense that surely had been burnt there recently.

I am a heretic. A thing woven of stellar darkness and desire. I had flashes-perhaps of a past life, perhaps of a fantasy-of such debauchery. I was there, in my too-vivid imagination, at night. Torches cast long shadows against the sanctuary's walls. I was naked on the cold marble floor, directly beneath the Christ's watchful eyes. A man was there-one I had not met, or didn't recognize. His hard muscles were accentuated by dark, dark hair. His eyes were black, his features olive-bright.

He was fucking me there, against the hard stone floor, The sounds of sacred music and sacred grunts echoed against the round room's walls. Wax, cum, blood, and chains stood out-all too mortal-against the heavenly surroundings. The beautiful sinister man left me there, locked in the church-perfectly broken, usurped, pleased.

To Beautify The Black

2011-09-11T09:18:00.000-07:00

I was in my studio at 2.30 this morning, three bottles of sauvignon blanc in my blood and a pile of codeine up my nose. With Prussian blue and burnt umber smeared across my face and hands, my brush flicked across the canvas. The Shins wailed on in the background. I was painting out some heavy emotions.

In the haze of an alcohol and opiate trance, I heard a soft rapping at the door. The boyfriend let himself into my space, carrying a folding chair. I accepted this with mild annoyance-you see, I had done my best to spend most of the evening alone. Don't get me wrong: I love him, and I like living with him, but even the dearest souls get tiring after too much exposure. "Marriage" is a new thing for me. I've lived alone for so long. I am not accustomed to having to entertain someone.

He quietly watched me paint my morbid figure. It was I who broke the silence. "I need to be shaken," I said-to my canvas, to his ears. He rather prides himself on being boring, safe, stable. These are things I love about him-but in moderation.
"I know," he says, "I've been thinking about that. I'm attracted to you because you're dangerous, and I am not."
"Everyone has darkness, somewhere...I wish you would find yours." I drew the edge of my brush against his jaw, a flake-white turpentine line clung to his skin.

I think I have too much darkness, myself. I try to embrace it, to use it to create art and beautiful words. I try not to let it ruin me with its chemicals...its recipes for dissatisfaction. It has come close in the past-in my reckless days of wild decisions and multiple overdoses.

I don't understand my need for that dance along the razor's edge. I don't know why I'm wired this way: to enjoy the "too much," to need something more than vanilla sex, to want pain and blood and bruises. I don't know why I want my jewels to shine on the surface, but have barbed wire where they touch the skin.

When the chemicals won at last, and I was doing more swaying than painting, I went to bed. In the golden, paralytic glow of codeine, I floated above my skin, feeling the slow spin of the Earth. I remember thinking that I was the blackness between planets, between atoms, between two hearts.

In this, the morning after drink and drugs-the world is too bright. My eyes are still glassy and constricted. I feel fuzzy; unreal.

I try not to feel ashamed of my nature, my need for painful pleasures. I try not to feel dirty when I stand beside my partner-he who is cherubic light and simple pleasures. I try-to beautify the black.

Fire Spinner

2011-09-02T11:38:00.000-07:00

Emerging at street level from the underground bar I was at last night, I was struck. Molded in place on the sidewalk like a statue poured of concrete, muscle, sex.

Like injecting a powerful drug, euphoria threw itself across my frame. I shuddered in the heady night, moistening my Andrew Christian underwear.

Three beautiful boys were dancing in the blocked-off street. They spun fire around themselves with poi, interacted in a sort of flamme-noir visceral fuck dance. Pale, muscled torsos dissappeared into tight black leather pants. Sensually, the boys teased the fire across their arms, into their mouths, made tracks of it on the asphalt all around them.

The smell of their sweat, the accelerant, the wetness of the black air all around us-the vibrating music to which they danced-the shivers of desire-

They danced to this song.

I'm barbacking at the Lounge tonight. After that, I plan on listening to this song, grinding against my wet oil canvases as though they were my lovers.

Blossoms

2011-08-28T09:33:00.000-07:00

Yesterday was all about blossoms; blossomings. Years ago, I asked a wise woman how to let love bloom-she said, "How ever would you stop it?" So true.

The peaceful domesticity of my life enchants me. For the first time in a long time, I have some balance. I left the kitchen to make less money and have more life, and I'm so happy with that decision. I left my life alone to let love in. That speaks for itself in its magnitude and power. I am so blessed.

A few nights ago, I sent the boyfriend to the grocery store for "a chicken or something, you know, food that will last a while." We were preparing for a hurricane, you know! Of course, he comes home with no chicken, but rather crab meat and a recipe card for crab cakes. He said the hurricane made him think of Charleston, so he wanted Charleston food. I laughed-because my frugal nature rarely allows me to purchase crab, and because crabs are so not chickens, and because I too had been craving crab cakes.

The recipe card was a joke though, more suited to the preparation of those nasty Yankee crab cakes that remind me more of omelettes than what I grew up with. The recipe didn't even call for old bay. I threw it in the trash and did what any Lowcountry boy would do with good crab meat.

I served them up with oven roasted asparagus, a Green Goddess salad, and fried pimento cheese stuffed zucchini blossoms. The edible flowers were a gift from Daniel, and so amazing. Those crazy Italian people usually stuff the yellow flowers with minted rice or some kind of seafood mixture, but this is South Carolina, and pimento cheese is our pride and joy. It was so beautiful to eat the flowers, to feel their delicate texture in our mouths, then the surprising tang of the pimento cheese. Luxurious and playful all at once.

I went all out in my Lowcountry cooking-I used Crisco for frying instead of oil. Down here, we know that Crisco is a gift from heaven. It looks like frosting and cooks anything crispier and more deliciously than oil. It is not just for frying-its a wonderful fat for baking. It can stop a wheel from squeaking, or grease a frozen lock. The whitewashed memories of my childhood involve it being delicately placed on old women's pale fingers, cut into white as snow cake flour, soothing the roots of jet black hair.

Another very special blossom I got to share with Bullock was my moonflower plant. Mama gave it to me a few months ago, and I planted it in my garden. The moonflower is a magical plant-some say it is a key ingredient in Haitian zombie powder. It is like me, a thing that worships the night. The plant produces "candles," which are long buds. Over the course of a few days, the candles loosen, exposing a star within a circle, the symbol of my faith. When it finally blooms in early evening, it opens quickly and looks like a giant lilly, or a trumpet with a vague star shape.

I called him out to the garden to let him smell the unique moonflower perfume. It is a profound, clean, "night" fragrance. As he took his first breath of that magical smell, I was young again in Mama's garden where they bloom by the hundreds. She was in her full moon black dress, twirling in the pale night, taking my hand. And I was a beautiful child, in love with her enchanted world.

My Pawley's Island Crab Cakes
8 oz crab meat, lump will work just fine. Or fresh, if you've got a net and it's in season.
1/2 red onion
3 stalks celery
3 T old bay seasoning
1/4 cup Duke's mayonnaise (don't even think about using something else. Just. Dont.)
A good squeeze of Dijon mustard
About half a sleeve of Ritz crackers
3 dashes Worschestershire sauce
Flour and Old Bay mixture for coating

-Sautee the onion and celery, preferably in bacon fat.
-In a large bowl, combine the onion and celery with the crab meat, being careful to break up the crab and remove any shell fragments.
-Add the mayonnaise, mustard, old bay, and Worschestershire sauce.
-Crumble the crackers into the bowl.
-Mix, mix, mix until the blend holds shape when squeezed. Add more crackers if it's too wet, more mayonnaise if it's too dry.
-Form cakes and coat each side in the flour and old bay mixture.
-Fry in hot crisco or oil that's halfway up the side of the crabcakes. Finish in a hot oven if they are getting too brown.
-Think of the Lowcountry as you eat.

Compromise: A Love Story

2011-08-20T17:38:00.000-07:00

A long day of labor has drawn to an end for two southern boys. Dinner is finishing up in the oven, and I'm nursing/trying not to guzzle a glass of sauvignon blanc. I need this glass of wine.

Today, I moved my studio to the back porch. I placed the furniture I no longer had room for-elegant benches that once supported satin pillows, foot stools and rugs-at the road. The vultures came quickly; my treasures disappeared over the hours.

I packed up my closet of witch vestments and folded them into a giant tupperware box to make extra closet room for mortal things. I felt like a Chinese maiden, folding my silks and velvets and brocade cloaks and ritual gowns into a dowry chest. My whole world looks different now.

Boxes of the boyfriend's things are everywhere. I have shuffled his sparse furniture from his high rise apartment to my old house. I have tried not to be a bitch; I have tried to be gracious and tolerant. I have served him cocktails in the bath as he soaked his sore muscles. Today was his official move in date.

I am happy for this step, but no change comes without the it's shadow trailing right behind-that ghost of uncertainty, of occasional revulsion. His things are not like my things-I have collected my whole life long fine pieces of furniture, of clothing, of dishes. His spartan desk is particle board, his bookshelf the same. He intends to hang his framed high school diploma. I struggle not to laugh uproariously. How far I have come. All these elegant years alone, these joyous, sorrowful, poignant, cinema-shot frames of the past: are at their end.

Now it is the season for compromise; my rice and salt days perhaps. I will ignore the hideous statuary and ugly lamp he loves for sentimental reasons. They are, after all, in the room that was once my studio. I can close the door. He will ignore the fact that I am a lunatic, that I play the same song over and over when I write (currently, Thrown Down by Fleetwood Mac). I will sigh and close my eyes when he makes me crazy. Perhaps he will serve me the same courtesy.

Soon the disarray will be gone. All of those offensive boxes of brown cardboard and their contents will be disposed of, their contents dispatched to their correct places. This, too, will be a freeze frame memory one day. This, the beginning of our togetherness. Our days of rice and salt.

Despite the fact that I am aesthetically horrified at the moment, I am also reflective. I am thankful. I never thought I would be granted this luxury/torment. I never thought I would have days or rice and salt at all. I never thought I would share my space with another man; I rather imagined myself growing old alone-a spinster of sorts, surrounded only by my finery and my memories of being young and beautiful.

It seems Fate was kinder to me than I ever was to myself. I am blessed.

The Canning Pot

2011-08-15T12:09:00.001-07:00

I lived a wonderful childhood in the Lowcountry of South Carolina. It was filled with three generations of beautiful ladies tending their gardens and their sewing. Stirring their pots.

One pot, and one lady in particular, was the most magical. It was Mama and her canning pot. As a young man, my heart would skip a beat when the big black kettle was placed on the stove. Colorful vegetables from the garden would line the kitchen counters and dozens upon dozens of clear glass jars would catch the early morning light. Canning was an all day adventure.

Soon, the water in the great dark stockpot would begin to boil, and cotton candy steam would issue from under its lid. It was then that Mama, in her long skirts and sandals, would set about her humble work. Swaying to the music only she could hear, her dark dark hair curling in the humid kitchen, she would chop her vegetables, boil her fruits with sugar and pectin, and fill the jars with little jewels.

The pot itself is one of our heirlooms, an old thing used by many of the women of my tribe. I know I'm getting older because I realize it for what it is: a precious, dented, chipped, enameled vessel, the metal of which has absorbed the love from so many ladies' fingertips. Their spoons have stirred a sort of life into that pot, a heartbeat. Everything it gives birth to is delicious.

I know I'm getting older because Mama let me borrow that pot, and gave me a box of mason jars to go along with it. Over coffee that morning on her deck-looking out on the garden we tended together for nearly twenty years, which is beyond verdant now-I copied a recipe for pickled okra from her ancient copy of Charleston Reciepts.

If you're not from the South, that's the gold standard of Carolina cooking. The oldest copies of this text will tell you not only how to cook, but how to cure your family's ills, make sick-room candles from newspaper and tallow, and use dirt as dye. Its a woman's grimoire, a collection of wisdom that ranges from Benne wafers to bridal cakes.

So, with that old pot and those jars and that heirloom recipe, I found my joy. My own old house in the midlands (so very near to the Line of Suspicion, you know...) was full of the sounds I always associated with the canning pot, the clinking of glass in its night-black confines, the bubbling of water, the hiss of steam. The smells: moisture, vinegar, sugar, the green-bright smell of fresh vegetables. Armed with memories (so near to tears) and pinot grigio, I enacted the rituals she taught me.

It didn't stop with pickling the okra. I made pickled green beans and peach jam. I made chutney and relish and dill pickles. Daniel got caught up in the memories and the wine and the great love affair I was living, and set himself up to can as well. In his kitchen, we wore blue eyeshadow and aprons and drank much more expensive wine. Hearts were light that night.

When it was time for me to return the canning pot, I drove down into the Lowcountry-my favorite place of all, even for all of my runnings around this world-down to that place of moss-hung live oaks and salt air. I spent last weekend with my Mama in her old house, filled with amber Depression glass and surrounded by centuries old trees.

She set the pot to boiling on her stove and I was small again, a slight boy with white blonde hair, tugging at her skirts. My decade of culinary experience went right out the window and I became her helper. We made beautiful things: amethyst plum jam and pepper jelly (which is a South Carolina staple, served over cream cheese with good crackers). We delighted ourselves as the metal lids sang out their songs, going "pop, pop, pop!" as they sealed on the counter. We exhausted ourselves in the kitchen and laughed ourselves to tears. It was exquisite.

Lowcountry Pickled Okra
3.5 lbs fresh okra
7 cloves garlic
7 hot peppers
1 qt water
2 C apple cider vinegar
1/3 C pickling salt
2 tsp dill seeds

-Sterilize seven jars, lids, and rims for ten minutes in boiling water.
-Combine dill seeds, salt, vinegar, and water. Bring to a boil.
-Pack hot jars tightly with okra, add one clove of garlic and one pepper to each.
-Pour the hot brine over the okra, leaving 1/2 inch headspace in the jar.
-Cap the jars with lids and rims, return to the boiling water and process for ten minutes.
-Remove the jars from the boiling water, arrange on a towel.
-You will hear the lids go "pop!" as they seal.
-Store in a dark place, enjoy as soon as a week after canning.

Can I Just Get My Hair Did And Live?

2011-08-14T14:07:00.001-07:00

Y'all. I have some seriously funny shit to tell you. This stuff just can't happen to anyone but me. Here's what had happened...

So, it was time for me to get my hair done. Hooray! I look forward to that day-it's my special time to just get pampered and come out looking great. In my excitement, I locked my keys in the car. "Ok, no big deal," I tell myself, because "it always takes Triple A a long time to respond, so I'll just call them now. I'll be in the salon for a couple of hours anyway, so as I'm finishing, they should be arriving." Ahem. I place the call and saunter into the fabulous salon.

I sat down in the stylist's chair. My Italian trained hair sorceress had just draped me in the cape and fastened a towel around my neck. The phone rang. Triple A, informing me that it would be about 75 minutes before help arrived. "Great, thanks!" I chirp and settle in for some much needed hair dresser gossip.

Twenty minutes later, the phone rings again-this time it's the locksmith saying that he's outside and could I please come help him. Ugh. Great. I'm in a freaking beauty cape with blue tin foil in my hair, looking like a cross between a wet rat and leftovers. Naturally, the locksmith busts out laughing and cannot contain himself for a good while.

"What are you doing, man?"
"I'm maintaining my natural haircolor, obviously."
He shakes his head, continues to laugh, and informs me that I will "be the win in the pool today for weirdest thing" a driver has seen.
OK-I can take that.

Literally a minute later, Natasha from The Lounge drives up, looking hungover to the hilt. "You sure look pretty, sister," she sneers. Sous chef Wick pulls in a moment later, and says "You look a mess, guy," and walks into work. Another line cook arrives for duty and just says, "Really, girl." Obviously my fabulous salon is adjacent to The Lounge. Glad I could be some comic relief for them.

After I finish helping the locksmith, I return to my "relaxing day of beauty." Soon, it was time time to rinse out my naturally sunkissed hair. At the sink, she has me lean back into the nice relaxing ....SHOWER. She soaked me in freezing cold water and sprayed half of the salon while she was at it. Apparently she didn't realize that she'd wet me, because she immediately begins to towel off herself and the floor! Another stylist came to my aid, felt me up royally in the process, and offered to "dry my shirt" while my girl finished up the job. I politely declined.

We are all in uproarious laughter, nearing tears at this point. To add injury to insult, so to speak-she tries to seat me in the chair once again for my runway model cut, and nearly breaks my foot in half with some sort of equipment and cording in the process! It was then, that I prayed, "Can I just get my hair did and live??"

Perhaps the prayer was heard, because I have fabulously hued, razor cut hair. On the way to the bank after my bizzare day of beauty, I saw a truck with the advertisement of "DesignACasket.com-Make it personal!" Thankfully, I don't have to call that number yet...

Laws Of The Lowcountry

2011-07-30T14:12:00.000-07:00

The Lowcountry of South Carolina is a little stretch of land that runs along the southern coast, clean on through Georgetown, Beaufort, and Williamsburg. It's a special place; some say its enchanted. It's my home. It birthed me as surely as my Mama did. Yes sir, I might as well be formed of it's sandy dirt and sweet salt air. And the smell of that delicious plough-mud (marsh perfume). Being from that place, there's a few things that I know.

Addressed to another Lowcountry child:

You will have a magical childhood, even if your family is shit-house crazy, which they probably will be. There's something down there in the dirt and the air that is magic, no ifs, ands, or buts about it. You'll see hummingbirds and dragonflies and lightning bugs. You'll see heat lightning in every color. You'll see mango sunsets and you'll see great love affairs. You'll probably see some ghosts, too.

You will grow older and you will probably leave the Lowcountry-to go off to college in some big city, to chase a dream or a lover. But you'll come back, trust me child. Once you have our sand in your shoes, your soul wont nevah rest again until you're back in that place of origin.

You will see some of the strangest weather this country has to offer: earthquakes and sink holes, hurricanes that will make the water in your toilet bowls spin and the skies turn green. Sea-twisters that dance off the coast; gales that howl in the night and heat waves like you can't imagine. You'll have four seasons, yes, but they're called "hot, searing, oh-mah-gawd, and cold." And you'll come to love that. You will see miracles in the earth: water that glows with phosphoresence, sand that sparkles, and stars so breathtaking that you could just die from the beauty of it all.

You will have skills that not many other people have, and they will look at you strangely. You will know how to hunt for crabs, how to read the sky for rain, how to tell the tide by the smell of the air. You will know how to cook, can, sew, raise a fine garden, and make a home. You will know how to be self sufficient and economical. Our Lowcountry people ain't cheap, no sir-but they are frugal. You will know how to kill a deer and clean it, and use every last part. You'll know how to skin a fish and fry it. You will know that Old Bay seasoning may as well be gold.

You will have a pride of place-an innate knowing of "home" that few others possess. The Lowcountry marks you as its own, and she is not a mistress that will sign your papers away. She might, begrudgingly, loan you out-but you will always be hers.

You will understand our verbal oddities, our lyrical language. You'll know what "The Line of Suspicion" means, that "coke" can be any carbonated beverage. You will grow old and remember what your own old people told you as a child-their strange sayings. "Hard row to hoe," "Look at that wheel," "not hide nor hair," and "wouldn't know me from a lick of paint," will all make sense to you. You will have colorful language even if you try to hide it.

When you are away from that home, you will grow terribly homesick. You will read books and watch movies that remind you of the Lowcountry. You'll make the foods your women made you when you were a child-even if you didn't really care for them all that much back then. You'll find yourself whipping up a shrimp boil or a pan of chicken and dressing, or a batch of hush puppies just to fight back the tears that threaten to wash you right back to your own shores. You'll call your Mama and have her tell you again, for the hundreth time, how she makes her rice. You will call your Daddy and ask him to explain again just what he does to make his tomatoes so red. And speaking of tomatoes, chile-You will find a whole world of happiness in a tomato sandwich on white bread, with a little Duke's mayonnaise and some salt and pepper. You eat that thing out on the porch though, or over the sink, because that's an outside sandwich.

You will learn to give thanks to anyone with ears, to any soul of vegetable or animal that nourishes you, to the sky for rain, and to the earth for your life. You will be a thankful soul. The Lowcountry teaches you that too. It teaches you that oh lawsamercy, sometimes life is gonna be so damn hard, but it is always so so beautiful. And you give thanks for that. For all your blessings.

You'll be an oddity too, because you will stay up late into the night on the phone with five members of your family on a conference call talking about just about anything. Usually this will be gossip about another relative, or a marathon argument about who hosts Thanksgiving and about the year's color scheme for Christmas. Your family will be your own little government-and though you may from time to time go astray from them, thinking you have some freedom-one day they're gonna pull that little string and you'll launch right back to them. You'll find yourself sitting on your Grandmama's couch even if she's not in this world no more, and you'll realize that you will always be: Lowcountry.

You will know about the Spirit World, about sweet Gullah voices that can call down storms or talk the fire out of your wounds. You'll know that blue paint around doorframes is a charm against haints (which are wicked ghosts). You will know that an upturned broom or a jar of string and nails at door protects you from hags, which are sure to steal the life out of your babies' lungs. Bottle trees and forks hung from limbs bring good fortune, and there ain't nothing that can't be done with a root or a conja bag. You will revere your own ancestors and speak to them like those crazy Catholics do their saints, and sometimes-they will answer you.

You will believe in all manner of things that the rest of the world would call fool, but you'll have the quiet knowledge that life exists in this world and the next, miracles happen, and that love can last forever.

Hope You Like It

2011-07-25T18:48:00.000-07:00

So, you wanted to be nosy? You wanted to do what I specifically asked you not to do? Great.

This was a violation of trust, and you know it. I'm pissed. I'm furious. I am so, so hurt.

I deleted this blog to save your feelings, to save myself a small measure of privacy. It's not like all of these stories wouldn't have been made yours in time. But you wanted to do the one thing I asked you not to do.

But---I decided that I love you, even if you violated my trust-and I love my WORDS. I've kept this blog for three years. So I undeleted it. So Go Ahead. Read it. Just read it. Don't come to me with your questions, with your sorrows, with your joys in what you find-you stole all of that. But-the blog lives.

I never asked you not to plunder through my drawers, not to read the book of poetry I'd been keeping for five years-that was sitting RIGHT beside you when you decided to commit this offense. The poetry was good, too. This? This might hurt you. This might hurt me. BUT-THIS was your choice. So enjoy it. I hope you like it.

To my regular readers: Please forgive my absolute lunacy tonight. I'm really hurt. Read last night's post-it is beautiful, so beautiful-beautiful and sad and hopeful and full of life. It's one great big run on sentence. It's just like me.

Won't See You Again

2011-07-24T17:38:00.000-07:00

Years ago when I was a young man on the edge of everything, I lived on Miami Beach. I knew a wonderful man called Stockert, and I fell in love with him in just one breath. So we never touched, but he made love to my mind in a thousand ways no one else ever has. The years dissappeared and much has gone by since then. But like a shadow, the ghost of your first love will never leave you until the day that you die. And he was mine.

I was some kind of vagrant singing the blues when I left him there-out there on the edge of the world with the weird, low skies that were never really black with night. I could not say goodbye, I knew I'd lose my cool. I kissed his cheek and said "I'll see you around." That night at 4 AM I packed up my red honda civic with a few things and made the fourteen hour drive back to the Lowcountry. I said a prayer to the wind, a pact of the blood: "Someday I'll see you again." And I fully believed it.

In those years since, I've thought of him frequently. Almost daily. I have looked forward to seeing him again. I never really doubted that I would. That I would see him again. I've addressed him in prayers and in thoughts. "Stockert, Stockert, Stockert;" his name became a rosary for me.

A few nights ago in my dreams, I was sitting on the floating dock of my family's house at Pawley's Island. My feet dangled in the water, and I knew that when night came it would glow with phosphoresence. It felt silky like that. Silky like it does when the water glows. Dream-hours passed in my contentment, and then the sky rent before me. It was as though a glowing zipper had opened before me in blinding light-and out stepped Chris Stockert onto that floating dock. The weight of his arrival caused little ripples in the water, little ripples in my heart.

He kissed me abruptly, almostly harshly. "I won't be seeing you again, J. I have to go-I'm going so far away that no one I have known will ever see me again. But I wanted to tell you that I love you."

Hot dream-tears flowed down my face as he stepped back into the sky. This time, as he left the dock, no ripples were made in the water from his departure. He became light, he became an orb of light-and went off at blinding speed into the sky. Gone.

I curled onto my side and wept violently. I felt like an amputee. Something of my soul left with him. The marsh grasses swayed hypnotically in the Lowcountry breeze. The salt smelled more astringent than ever, and the night fell.

I woke still crying with the certainty that he had died. Wherever that boy I love so much has gone, I have no doubt that I won't see him again-not now, not tomorrow, and probably not in the afterlife. He heard his call to duty, or to necessity-and there will be no more.

Chris Stockert, I want you to know-as you already do-that I have loved you immensely and that you will always hold a special place in my heart. If those wild winds ever do blow us back together, I've got a Blue Moon with your name on it. And I'll always remember the mossy, pond water green of your eyes. And I'll never forget your smell, your shape, your soul. You have...been the SUN for me.

Be well my beloved.

Skin Trade

2011-07-21T19:11:00.000-07:00

I've been living someone else's life. I rise with the sun and sleep shortly after it sets. I haven't set foot in a professional kitchen in a few weeks, and let me tell you-I don't miss it. Not. One. Bit.

For so long I have been a night bird, a thing that flies with darkness and drunkeness; a soul with wings made out of pain and stress.

This job is a vacation. I'm a wine rep now-all care of my fabulous friend Natasha at The Lounge. She put in a good word (paragraph) for me and landed me a position that has absolutely nothing to do with me picking up a frying pan and selling my self esteem. No more burned flesh, no more nights of horror, no more crazy owners. Just me and the road, my wine, my self confidence. And fabulous outfits.

Let me tell you! The clothes I get to wear: anything I can think of. None of which invovles elasticated pants or cotton duck jackets in the heat of the Carolina summer. I dont think I could have survived another summer in the kitchen. With the temperature hovering around 110 degrees outside (hotter in a kitchen)-and all those clothes designed to keep me from burning myself? I would have absolutely gone mad. So I live in linen pants and light shirts; soft loafers that are very much not designed for traction or function. Just fashion.

This skin trade is so much more than just professional though: I have a real life now. I don't cater too the whims of the world. I set my own schedule. I go home at a decent hour. I don't have to go to an office and stay there all day, I dont really have to do anything more than drive and talk. It's grand. I was made for this job.

I have time with my boyfriend (maybe too much time?). I have evenings to garden and tend my house. I have taken up the noble art of pickling; something of a Lowcountry tradition in my family. I've canned okra and crisp, hot green beans that will speak of sunshine when at last blessed winter arrives.

How we all long for winter, or even for rain with its false promise of cooler weather. The heat bakes us from the inside out here in Carolina. It becomes more brutal every year. In this, the beginning of the dog days of summer-the world is blanched with heat. Carolina summer is like nothing you've ever known unless you've lived it. Maddening heat. Passionate heat. If you're born of this dirt like I am, you cant really hate it-just endure it. It's part of you. I am the steam on black asphalt, the undulating heat waves...so emblematic of each person's life: just flailing vapors, and then we're gone.

I'm loving this skin trade. Each day I go to a restaurant and see the chefs and line cooks, I thank my lucky stars that I don't have to do that anymore. It was a long and wonderful time, as I've said-but I am so ready, and so thankful for this change.

When I trade skin, I pick the nicest suit available.

Chef No More

2011-07-11T11:55:00.000-07:00

Our's was a long, brilliant, emotional, difficult, rewarding relationship, but we had both moved on. It was time to end it.

Last night was our breakup dinner, so to speak. I cooked it, and then I hung all of my chef coats up in a neat little line-checkered pants beneath them, and walked out the door. There were no tears for either of us. We were just mutually releieved.

Natasha from the Lounge has had a special fondness for me for some time now, and she new how tired I was of the work I was doing. She got me a job with the company that began her long career in wine. She went out on a limb to reccomend me for a career I frankly have no idea how to execute. She hugged me and told me I'd be a brilliant success and sent me on my way.

I'll be a wine rep next week. You know I'll let you know how it goes. I thought I'd be really afraid to make this giant change, but I'm not. I'm so at peace. I'm so ready. It's been a wild ten years in the kitchens of the world, holding down ranges and the deranged all up and down the East coast. It's been a wild, romantic, devastating ride. And now I'm stepping off of that particular roller coaster.

I'm actually excited that I'll be on something more akin to a normal schedule. Gone are the long, hot shifts. Gone are the constant days of declining every invitation to garden parties and birthday parties and social events-because I've been working against the world's clock for all of those years.

As I kiss that old lover goodbye, I welcome the new: Quiet evenings at home with my guy, making dinner together. Canning, making pickles. I welcome the morning for the first time in my life: we will get up together at eight AM, kiss across the sink after we've brushed our teeth, and come home together around five. I look forward to going out to dinner on a weekend night; I look forward to Sundays off.

For a while at least, or maybe forever-I've cooked the last professional meal. I've gotten my last ring of burns and bruises, and my ego has taken its last hit.

Although I've just returned from a fabulous week long vacation on Pawley's Island-which I will tell you about soon, I'm taking another week off to "just do me." I'm content with the mountain of pillows on my down covered bed, with the light shimmering like water on the ceiling, with the shine on my hard wood floors. I'll god own and see Mama soon, back in the Lowcountry. I'm just taking a breather.

Bonjour, bon chance.

Birthday Sex

2011-06-19T21:29:00.001-07:00

It's one of our traditions. Each time one of us has a birthday, the dude and I take a day devoted to giving it to each other just how we like it.

On the way home from his birthday dinner, I started massaging his dick through his shorts. On the interstate, I unfastened my seat belt and took him into my mouth. He was harder than I'd ever felt him.

Giving him that illicit, illegal pleasure was my own ecstasy as well. It was so hot to hear him moan and breathe above me, to feel him pushing in and out of my mouth as he drove. It was so erotic not to know. Not to know if we were about to crash or be caught. I was an instrument for his pleasure, and it's all I lived for.

We went for a swim to temporarily cool things off, but that didn't work so well. We ended up leaving the pool and fucking in his gym's shower. It was porn-star hot: After he fucked my face, he pressed me against the cold wall and opened me with his fingers. Using only his spit and my own precum for lube, he began to fuck me. I grabbed the shower rod and held on, biting my forearm for silence. As he moved in me red hot pain became white hot passion.

Soon I was spilling my seed in searing shots all across my thighs and calves as he emptied inside of me. The world narrowed to the sacred tawdriness of our sex: the smell of cum and sweat, the industrial soap. The sounds of people exercising in the rooms adjacent to our shower.

He came again in my mouth, later that night, as I played his prostate like a favorite song on an instrument I've held my whole life long. I ate his seed and his screams, and wished him a very happy birthday.

Smoke Falls

2011-06-12T21:09:00.000-07:00

It's taken a good long time for me to write about this. I thought I'd given up the ghost. I was so nearly one myself.

Some time ago, between midnight plus 12 minutes tonight and my last derelict post about sniffing opiates-I almost died.

I'd had a nice night at Daniel's house. It was the usual that I've written about for years now. Nothing new: wine bottles and stories and a pile of Camel lights. Sister-laughter. I think it was Memorial Day. It certainly was a Memorial Night.

I woke sometime just before dawn, when the night is blackest. I don't know why I woke at all. I don't know what roused me from our (even for our standards) epic night of wine and laughter. I just know that when I did finally take my first twitching breath into life, it burned like hell. It tasted like the end of the world. I could scarcely breathe at all.

I was confused and disoriented. I could barely navigate the familiar terrain of my own home. I could see nothing for the thick, sick smelling smoke that filled my home. I caught glimpses of light-what I thought was fire. I ran first toward it, then away from it. I finally found my front door.

Either the Goddess or my Primal Brain took over. As soon as my bare feet hit the wet, dewy grass of my front yard, I began to run. My thoughts were simple, urgent, heedless of my body's ailing condition. I ran faster than I ever had, tirelessly, to Daniels door in that darkest hour of the night.

It was, I later understood, a miracle that he was still up at all. He should have been dead to the world, pardon the pun, hours before I banged on his windows and on his doors.

He and his partner phoned the fire department and took care of me as the Historic District became a parade of lights and and noises. Eerie, still smoke crawled from the open front door of my ancient house. It did not rush, it just slithered along in its own smoky cadence; its killing walk.

Daniel tells me that I was inhumanly collected during the tragedy. I only remember fragements: shattered-glass recollections of my near demise, my rescue. I remember how it felt: the hazy, underwater feeling caused by the carbon monoxide. The unquenchable thirst that oxygen deprivation brings. The disinfecting shower; the shivering, tearless state of shock as I tried to sleep, wrapped in Daniel's too-tight clothes and too-few blankets.

The strangest thing is, in all of that-is that my house is fine. For a week it smelled of death, of smoke, but the house is fine. The only thing I lost was my blue Marilyn Monroe couch-to one of my beloved Camel lights, I assume. It has been replaced by a nice brown leather number that honestly looks tailor-made to my surroundings.

Each day, though, I find reminders of the smoke that fell that night, of my near-death moments. A fine haze of revolting brown lined everything on an exposed surface. Each roll of toilet paper I reach for contains exactly three layers of smoke-tarnished tissue. Each towel I unfolded, before I washed them all, had six dead-brown lines criscrossing their material. Each glass, each plate, each rug I move leavese behind a whitewashed version of itself. A place the smoke did not touch.

The smoke touched me though. For days, I peed pumpkin orange. I was so short of breath and confused-yes, for days!-that I could barely work. The fatigue and the confusion have passed me by, thankfully, but the fear has not. Each time I smell smoke, my body runs with chills and fear.

I am not afraid of dying, no, not at all-I am afraid of the pain I'd leave behind. I am afraid, more selfishly, of the pain I chose to endure, or, I pray, the love I chose to experience, by choosing not to die that night. I do believe it was my choice. All odds were against me. By any reasonable man's accounting, I should have simply not woken up. I wonder if it would have been easier, or harder, on the weighing scales of heaven. On the playing field of life.

Smoke falls.

this little empire

2011-05-27T12:26:00.001-07:00

Up late last night sniffing opiates
Hearts on fire
In this little empire
Chain-Drinking-Chain-Smoking
living a life of hoping
Tangled, twisted, sweaty sleep
Terror dreams
Mine to keep
Hum, hiss, spit of the air conditioner
Dawn broke four times before I woke
Then down came the rain
like cymbals
and the Thunder
laughter From
the gods

Scorpio Moon

2011-05-19T23:27:00.000-07:00

Two nights ago on Daniel's patio, I saw black flashes. Faeries, perhaps. Shadow-things that flew across the space we shared. Once I saw a pair of furred legs darting towards a grove of hostas. Our everyday world was invaded by the strange, the oblique, the spirits of the marginal world.

Daniel shied away from the otherworldly wind that blew that night; I drank it like honeyed wine. An air of sidhe, of trickery was out that night. I was at home in it's fatal, fleeting night.

When I got home Bullock and I aligned our bodies. The room seemed to glow with the lights of our lovemaking. He came first, thighs tightening against my waist as he showed the liquid measure of his pleasure. I came a minute or two after with his teeth against my juggular.

That's my sweet spot and he played it like a song. As I began to drip and moan with joy, his teeth sank deeper into my skin, until the beginning of bruises became apparent. Tonight, I am covered in the marks of that moment; a slave to the power of its pleasures. Purple rings make patterns on the olive skin of my neck.

I touch that spot tenderly. It is a portal: the physical hematoma that marks the moment of my climax; the wound through which he both brought and consumed my orgasm.

Delicious darkness/Scorpio Moon

Float On/Celebrity Dinner

2011-05-17T10:14:00.001-07:00

Yesterday was lovely. Extended shopping with my evil sister Daniel. I bought haute clothes including mermaid shorts and Banana Republic blouses and sexy shoes.

I had dinner at The Lounge with Lucy and a new friend, Chrissy. I ordered the Indian two course meal, but the bartender (my favorite from my tenure there) decided that we needed copious amounts of food. So we had copius amounts of food. And tequila. And wine, wine, wine. It was...wonderful. And shockingly discounted.

I got a little nostalgic. I do miss The Lounge. It was the bright point of my life for years...it gave me Daniel, my home, my lover. It gave me myself, and I gave it everything I had until I walked out of its doors. There's a history of me, there-in the upholstry, the drapes, the arrangement of furniture, the menu.

When I return, its all hugs and love and memories. And tequila. I feel like a celebrity when I'm there. I like the special treatment. But what I really love is knowing the spirit of that place, knowing all of the customers by name, seeing the kitchen boys do what I'd done for so long.

There's a sort of continuity in leaving, I guess. And we'll all float on alright.

Damn Your Dick

2011-05-15T19:43:00.000-07:00

Eric,
If we still talked, I'd tell you this: Damn your dick. Just damn it!
What a cunning way to conquer me, from the inside out. How many months or years has it been now? Too long. And still I dream of you.

Sometimes when I'm sound asleep, I'm woken by the hot gushing your shadow cock provokes. When I'm with my partner, having a hard time finishing-its the memory of you that closes the deal. When I pleasure myself, the lines of your body parade behind my eyelids like blacklisted cinema. My memories of you are my guilty pleasure, my personal and autonomous taunt.

Why did I have to, in the summer of that year, meet you? Why did you have to fuck me, to show me the greatest sex I'd ever know? You made me late for work, late for my life, made me burn like embers. And then you left. I was OK being your secret, your consort on the side. Your courtesan.

Oh, those things you did to me. Those great and immortal things. I'll never forget the way you forced the sap from my flower, from my vines. The way you moved in me like you built me just for your pleasure. The way I'd (rarely) scream in pain...the way you'd slap me and tell me that pain was pleasure's brother. The way you'd eat me out until I begged for you to fuck me, and waited hours to do so until I was swollen and purple with need.

And once you were in me: the way you hit the secret places that no one else ever has or likely will; the thousand tiny orgasms to the two or three liquid ones. The way you ate those orgasms with your tongue and lips, spat them back into me and tasted that too. We were shameless, night-beasts, sinister things that met in sordid mid-light hours to worship each other like bats. Oh, the brown-green pools of your eyes. Drowning places. Although I tried, I could never swim deep enough to die.

Oh, Eric, I hate you. Thank you, but I hate you. You spoiled me for all men and all things before I'd even thought about reaching thirty. And now I'm still a ghost chasing you, but those days are dead and gone.

There is much to say for partnered love and pleasure; those infintessimal little luxuries that trusting men enjoy.

But when those trusting men are enjoying each other's bodies, my mind is saying the words we'd exchange, "Fuck me Daddy, eat my ass...let me suck your cock...harder...oh God, Oh God stop, never stop, I'll die if you will. Stay in me after you've finished..."

Embers.

The (Secret) Reeducation of Chef Green

2011-05-06T08:43:00.000-07:00

So, I've snapped. Lost my marbles and all that. I should probably go get a psych evaluation or something, only out of curiosity-you know...see how many disorders I can possibly be diagnosed with. But it turns out I don't care about that, either.

It's no secret I've been getting tired of my work for some time now. But I've finally broken. There is no love left in me for what I do, only an acute sense of dread. I'm crying on the inside all the time although my eyes do not betray me. I just can't do this anymore.

I've decided on a plan, and put it into action. This involves a quick reeducation in an allied health program to get a change of scenery. As soon as I land a hospital job, I'm going to throw myself into a more intense program (read, one that actually makes money) and do everything in my power to graduate. Quickly.

I've registered and paid for the prerequisite class to pretty much any program-be it phlebotomy, EKG, or whatever-medical terminology. It starts at the end of June, and it just can't get here quickly enough.

I long to take every last indication that I have ever been a chef and burn it. All of those coats, those weird pants with elastic waists, checks, tomatoes and the like-the stupid shoes, the thermometers, the pay stubs, the bandanas, the foul smelling refuse of my former livelihood. I can't wait until I no longer have to launder those greasy clothes. Until I don't have to deal with the refuse of society-my idiot employees, the stupid dining public, demanding owners. I just want no part of this game any more.

I'm actively looking for another job as well. Something different, more suited for a student. Like a job at a shop, or entering data, or filing papers, or pulling weeds. Just anything but this, as long as I can pay my humble bills.

I admit that I am frightened. It's been a long time since I was a student, since I was truly financially challenged, since I had ropes on my fiscal freedom. But I don't care. I just want OUT.

Not long now.

Oh, Hey Witch.

2011-05-02T09:13:00.000-07:00

Being a witch is an interesting calling. Or duty. Or circumstance or whatever.
I'm not talking about the spells and the potions and the beautiful circle celebrations that are part and parcel of the charmed life. I'm talking about the life itself.

Let's talk about the gift of "Knowing." Months ago, my friend Lucy introduced me to a new friend of hers, Anna. My bells started ringing, and I told Lucy in no uncertain terms that Anna would be her undoing: that she was untrustworthy, vile, and would quickly do some serious back stabbing.

My warning went unheeded. A few months later, Anna had fucked Lucy's boy of the moment in the service closet of a bar they frequent. A few weeks after that, she broke into Lucy's house and stole her purse to buy morphine. Nice.

There's a different kind of psychism as well. An old friend of mine once told me that in the life of a Witch, the greatest truths come out in moments of jest. Boy, was she right.

A few days ago, I was talking to a waitress. She seemed a little off kilter, so I just threw out a little bit of insanity: "What, did you get an abortion this morning?" Off color, I know, but I didn't really think about what I was saying. I just said it. Turns out no, she didn't just have an abortion, but she was trying to figure out where to get one. Ouch.

Yesterday, I sent my dishwasher home early from his shift because I was overstaffed. As he walked out the door, I said, "Hey! Have a nice day, and don't beat your wife!" I have no idea why I said that. The cook beside me gave me an odd look. When I asked him what his problem was, he said that the dishwasher and his lady had been pushing each other around in the parking lot earlier that morning. Under my breath, all I said was "Oh, hey witch."

I don't know what gives me these weird bits of intelligence from time to time. I'm thankful for them-especially when I can use them to help someone. But I also wonder if they come at a cost.

A few nighs ago, I had a dream. In this dream, I was crying hysterically, weeping tears of blood. My eyes had gone all scarlet and sanguine and my hands were covered in the hot red liquid. In ages past, priestesses and prophets often wept bloody tears. Its as if their eyes had finally seen too much.

The second sight can also fool me from time to time. Last night, I was rather distraught. My job had taken a big bite out of me and my ego was bruised, my heart was heavy. I drowned my sorrows in a bottle of old vine merlot and a pile of camel lights. I went out to the front porch to smoke and feel the cool night air. I saw a strange sight- a woman in black robes with her head hung down, her hair blowing in the wind. Her eyes looked unseeing, though she stared right at me. I truly thought that I'd seen a beansidhe or some other spectre that warns of death and sorrow. I halfway considered walking to her and seeing if she'd take me away from the Earth right then and there, but the concept filled me with dread.

It turns out, thankfully, that she was just another mortal, another walking wounded, taking a cigarette break from her own insanity. She flicked the fire from her smoke into the street, turned on her heel, and walked into her own house. My heart resumed beating, and I was glad that I had not just had another "Oh, hey witch" moment.

Sometimes, my mouth is not my own.

For Old Time's Sake

2011-04-15T09:48:00.000-07:00

Last night after I left the Pub, I drove over to the Lounge. I walked in the front door, not the service entrance. It took the staff a few moments to recognize me. Once they did, everyone was exclaming that I "looked so great," that they missed me so. A glass of sparkling pink wine materialized in my hand-poured in a white wine glass, not a champagne flute. It's like they know me or something.

We cut up and had a nice time catching up on gossip and talking business. Hot Cook, once Hot New Cook had turned into Hot Sous Chef, and he'd had a rough night. I remembered standing in his shoes. I sent him peace and inspiration, then I took a look around.

The Lounge was filled with former chefs. Root and Griffin were there...people who held the line down long before I found my way to that little corner of the city. We all shared a knowing glance, an almost-smile. I nodded, imperceptibly. Just to myself.

"Want to lock up, for old times' sake?"-a waitress asked me. It was with some nostalgia that I put the key in the front door and jiggled it in just that certain way, that practiced way, that would secure the Lounge after another busy night. I felt like I was finally locking that bit of my past away, turning the lights out on that love affair.

And I went quietly, silently making my way. I went to Daniel's house to sit on his patio and drink wine. I felt expansive, slightly greater than my body as the night wove itself around us. The words of a song in a movie filled my head, "eat, pray, love again/find that gentle voice within." And it was all alright.

Lucky Stars and Sacred Hardons

2011-04-11T19:48:00.000-07:00

I took a week off from my relationship.
It was easy to do with my busy schedule, with Bullock's. I did this quietly, not voicing any of my concerns about excitement or boredom or malaise. I just "worked extra hours." And I did. I didn't even have to lie about it.

For most of the week, I really enjoyed my quiet and my space. I needed that "freedom," not to cheat or anything-but just to be. When Sunday rolled around and my week ended, I started to miss my man.

He came over, and just like that the world was new and right again. The sex was like it hasn't been in months-wild and spontaneous and perfect. New positions manifested, he was wilder than I've seen him in the longest time. It was like he knew what I needed. And I guess he did.

Laying there in a sweaty heap and god knows what o'clock in the morning, I was reminded that I am so very lucky. I guess it just takes a week apart to turn the comfort button off and rev up the engines of desire. And that engine hums with the well known, familiar thrum of that familliar heart. The man I love.

We stayed up late into the morning hours drinking wine and talking about the Spirit World, about God, about the uncommon intimacy shared by men who love each other. It is most unlike any other type of relationship. It is most exquisite.

That night, those talks...each time I think of it, I grow hard and my pants grow taut. And that's what I wanted all along.

I'm counting my lucky stars and sacred hardons tonight.

VooDoo Cigars

2011-04-09T10:57:00.000-07:00

I just lit a little clove cigarette that my friend Erica left here many months ago. I was out of Camel Lights.

The taste of it threw me. It took me for a ride. Suddenly, I was younger, sitting in her mother's living room with a circle of witches all around me. We each held a drum and smoked absinthe soaked cigars. We called up Papa Legba and Maman Brigitte. Their sacred summoning beats resounded in the wood and the goatskin of the drums, in the walls of the house, in the hearts of we, the witches.

Each little puff of this strange clove cigarette draws me further into that world, that heavy, heady world of veves and spells and charms to begin, to end, to love...

I was told long ago that once one stands in a circle with the same people for so many moon cycles, so many turns of our wheel, that the circle will always stand no matter where the people go.

We have all scatered to the winds of time and fate by now, but today, I am reaching out to them, to the circle that still stands. I am pulling them near to me with golden strands of light, and I feel them pulling right back in unanimous answer.

Sheets In The Yard

2011-04-07T20:21:00.000-07:00

Last night, sitting on Daniel's patio, we drank wine and smoked our Camel cigarettes. Another night in the Historic District.

The temperature started to fall fast. We pulled our Abercrombie jackets tighter around our shoulders and took deep, blood red sips. My heart was heavy; a freeze warning was issued.

Of course Daniel would do this. Of course he would. He took his potted plants inside and brought out armfuls of sheets to cover up the plants in the ground. Mama used to do that. I remember being called upon to help with the task on every unseasonably cold night.

His yard, like hers, was wrapped in bedlinens, as if awaiting a giant to lie down and sleep. It warmed me more than the red wine to see Mama in his yard. To feel close to home for a minute.

I'm lonely tonight. After a long day at work, I'm home alone drinking wine again. I'm trying to booze it up at only half mast this time: I have three fourteen hour shifts ahead of me before I get a day off. Fourteen hour shifts suck. That's almost all of the daylight in a day. It kind of breaks my heart sometimes.

I can't hang out with Daniel because I'll definitely go full tilt and feel like hell all day. I can't hang out with Bullock because he's sick and frankly I just don't want to right now. In the Bullock regard, I just don't know what I want at all. I do know that I don't want to hurt him. I don't know that I want to do all of those things that I've looked forward to: moving in together, getting hitched, sharing cash, making babies...

I do love this relationship, but more and more these days, I just want to take a bath and get wild all alone. Lord knows "wild" isn't his speciality. Maybe I'm bored, maybe I'm not cut out for all of this, maybe I'm just fundamentally exhausted and not thinking clearly. I'm not stepping out, but I'm definitely going within. How does one stay excited and fulfilled in a relationship?

I want to be younger again, in some ways. I don't want to be poor like I was when I was younger, but I want to feel that way again. Like the night time was a promise-a great world of possibility that opened up after the sun went to sleep. I want to make out with a boy I barely know, listening to Dashboard Confessional...hands making a map of skin with limitless opportunity for joy and pain. Yes, it seems I am missing the instability I so long sought to eliminate. Ever a contradiction.

I touched a hot waiter's pecs tonight. Held them in my hand and shuddered with the unspoken promise of hot breath between us. Even through the red of his shirt, I knew it was a place I'd like to explore with my lips, my fingers, with the stubble on the side of my face. I miss mystery.

Some Chefly Press
Get this. On my ONE fucking day off in forever, Robert Irvine came into the restaurant. Of course he would. He's a big deal famous chef that I'd love to cook for. Of course on the night I was not there someone of gravitas would appear. Of course. And no one called me to come in. Thanks.

I've lowered food cost by almost fifty percent. I've increased sales by $14,000. And you won't call me for THAT. I am pissed.

I made beautiful raspberry tarts tonight...presented them so elegantly with golden raisins and garam masala. It was a sexy dessert.

The Wrap Up

Enough of my disjointed text. I am too emotional tonight. I feel like I belong on the Gilmore Girls or something tonight. I am hiding under water...afraid of my heart and tired. I'm sad and hopeful and embracing my alcoholic nature and wishing that I could change everything without breaking my own heart and everyone's involved.

I'm in the weird position of feeling like I'm not totally happy in a relationship, in a job, but knowing there's really nothing better out there. Jobs in my world will take it all out of you no matter where you work. And men are almost, almost, almost always cruel. So I'll drink some wine and count my blessings.

Whore Heart

2011-04-04T19:59:00.000-07:00

Maybe we should all take this post with a grain of salt?
11.01 PM. Same place. Couch in the Historic District.

I'm on my couch in the Historic District drinking white wine like it's a saving grace. Like I could save some face. That wine tastes good; it also tastes like compensation. I'm worked to exhaustion and beyond. These old lights look strange again. They are wavering things that taunt and irritate.

I think I have a whore's heart. I've so long pined and cried and been generally pitiful because I wanted love. Wanted it like oxygen, like words couldn't say. I've looked up and down and whored myself out for it. I've given up my ass for countless men. Most of the time I knew it was just for kicks, but sometimes I hoped it was for keeps. And I stopped remembering them at some point.

Now I'm in this generally lovely relationship. There's true caring and consideration. But, as I said, I must have a whore's heart.

Because-when did getting semi hitched mean an end to the things I loved in the first place? Why does the figurative ring on my finger mean it's not OK to suck your dick while you're driving? Why can't I eat your ass anymore? Won't you just slap me around a little bit?

I know I'm beyond the pale sometimes. But what's so wrong with that? I miss that dirty, hot, boundless sex that I've had in the past. Like in the Courtesan days. That big muscular guy pulling my underwear off with his teeth, choking me out in the shower. Flashes of the morning light becoming dark as I kind of died. The cold of the tile against my back. The hotness of his piss across my chest.

Sometimes I want that.

Sometimes I don't want this safe, routine fucking that we have. I think they call it love making. Sometimes it seems to me more like making my schedule. I know exactly what he will do, where his hands will go. I could recite it like a poem I'm tired of.

Generally I don't mind all this. I deal. I enjoy, actually. But tonight, I feel sarcastic and fucked up. I'm just a crazy fucked up bitch. After the days that I must deal with to make my living, to make our living nice-I feel like I deserve what I want.

Maybe I don't want to be the grown up anymore in this relationship. Maybe I don't want to deal. Maybe I just want to wear someone's collar and like the mistreatment. Call me a dog and I'll act like one. Call me a prince and I'll be that too. I'll be your doggy prince. Let me be as fucked up as I can. As I care to be. That's what goes on in a whore heart.

Night hours ain't nearly long enough and there's not enough wine in this town to make things right. The night is warm, it feels like Miami outside, and I'm drawn back to the decadently dark places I lived in there. To the delicious danger of it all.

Whore heart.

1500 mL

2011-03-31T09:05:00.000-07:00

That's what it takes these days. What it takes to get me right after the shit show. What it takes to give me that perfect ten minutes of peace after all of the words and wounds and worries are washed away. That perfect ten minutes between nothingness and before I hit the pillow, dizzy and drunk.

1500 mL. Cabernet, Shiraz, Viogner, Grenache, Amarone...
Those are my friends.
When did it come to this?

1500 mL.

We all do what we have to do, I guess, and we do the best we can. Some of us-the walking wounded in this business-find their escape a gram at a time, or a CC of some Forgetting Potion at a time. The lucky ones have their friends in Jesus, that's what I hear.

The song says it all. "I'm here, but I'm really gone."

Tequilaria

2011-03-30T16:28:00.000-07:00

Sky's hanging low over the city tonight. The tall towers have their heads in the clouds and all the world is white washed and frigid. The grayness gives the world a foggy, insular quality. Driving in rush hour traffic today, I felt like an outsider.
Gray world, gray mind.

I'm drinking wine at 7.30, unspeakably early for me. My mind is on fire. Work is really stressing me out. I do what I am asked, what I am not asked, and I jump up and down and make great scenes in order to get the necessary changes. I try so hard. It's an uphill climb, though. It feels like the chef is hindering me-not purposely, he is a good man-but through his carelessness. He's fucking up my budget and fucked up budgets drive me crazy. Truly fucked up budgets drive restaurants into the ground. He spent five hundred dollars on spices the other day. Spices.

My blood pressure is rising, the owners are giving me the business, and I am about to lose my grip on civility. I'm on edge. A stranger's false move could end up in a serious case of "wrong guy, wrong time." I don't like being edgy.

When I get this worked up, I tend to cry. I can feel those frustrated tears building, begging for release. It most not be time yet, though, because try as I might to allow them their course across my face, they do not take their sojourn. My mind flies though, it retreats deep inside me and begs me to change. To stop being a workaholic. To stop caring so much. To take my body somewhere beautiful.

I yearn for softness; my ears long for soft-syllabled words like tequilaria and playa. My heart wants a soft touch, a mother's love. My eyes want something beautiful, not the endless socialist gray that this week has been. My soul wants the softness of release, of living in a place that does not have so many demands. I'll close my eyes softly and become that part of the wind that we all long for sometimes...

I wonder if things would be easier if I figured out what else I can be when I grow up. Maybe I should go to hair school and make a life making people beautiful. I don't think I'd have to go home every night and drink my weight in wine to handle that job. Maybe I should just marry a rich old man, a rich old lady. Maybe I should carry my home on my back, go back back back to that rucksack life.

In my mind I'm a glamor girl, standing on a stage in a smoky room-woozy in my ballgown, singing oily blues like I'm the one that wrote it all.

Her Smell

2011-03-17T22:46:00.000-07:00

After a record breakingly busy night at The Pub, I sat at a table with Lucy in her restaurant which is adjacent to mine. I nursed a green beer while she did inane server work: sorting sugar caddies and filling salt and pepper shakers. Just when we were getting to a good part in our conversation, my flat screen phone flickered to life.

Daniel sent me a message that said he was being admitted to the hospital. I bade Lucy good evening, aimed my truck to the medical plaza downtown and hit the gas. Twelve minutes later I entered the emergency department. No Daniel. Unlike at the restaurant, it was a dead night at the hospital and he had already been checked in. A flutter of checked pants and pressed white cotton, I made my quickly to his room.

He laid across his bed impeccably dressed with his blonde hair perfectly manicured. His Desigual bag and iPhone by his side, he held court and joked with the admitting nurses. His way of not being afraid has always been humor. I stayed with him a while until it was time for him to strip and get some tests. I gathered that the problems were relatively minor: a staph infection and some subcutaneous skin issues. I hugged him and went hom, promising to return tomorrow with various goodies to make his stay more pleasant. I am confident he will make a quick recovery.

His nurse was kind and gentle. She radiated a calm that only comes from years of practice. I know a good nurse as soon as I lay eyes on her, and she was among the best I'll ever meet. I thanked the powers that be for giving Daniel that nurse.

Leaving the hosptial, I caught a wiff of something so familliar. It took a moment for me to realize that the fragrance was my own. My coat. I pressed my jacket arm to my nose and breathed deeply. It is the smell my mother wore for so many years. Her hospital smell. Her bleached, pressed scrubs and the intangible odor of a medical facility.

I smiled to myself, the bright lights of the city casting strange shadows in the cab of my truck. I thought of Mama's years in medicine and how I so wanted to be like her. How I wanted to hold the needle, how I wanted her calm, peaceful manner that eased people into health or out of life. That comforted in small, large, inimitible ways.

I may not have been destined to hold the needle, but I do hold the knife, so to speak. I am reminded tonight of her holistic, spiritual approach to a career perhaps more taxing than my own. I am reminded of her strange, unshakable love for humanity and the immense fortitude required to do the job she did. To be the midwife of life.

I may not hold the needle-but at least for tonight...I held her smell.

Nightbird

2011-03-17T11:32:00.000-07:00

I am very lucky. Blessed beyond my measure or merit, I know.
I am so thankful for Bullock's presence in my life. Without it, I think I would surely die. More aptly: I would be so unmoored, and work such long hours that I would grow old quickly and become very unpleasant.

My job is so much. I like it-read, I love the money-but it is not an easy task. Several days a week I work for about fifteen hours a day. Around hour thirteen, I start to get really snarky and hateful. In that haze of fatigue and heat, nothing looks bright but the lights above the range, or those in the dining room-they waver like lightning in the summer sky. I know this much work is unhealthy, but I don't really have a choice about it. If I want my salary: I work to exhaustion.

In that place I fear, that place where fatigue lives, I am insecure. Running on ten percent battery, so to speak, makes me sensitive. Sometimes I excuse myself to the office or to the freezer to fight back tired, frustrated tears. I regroup and continue. Wash, rinse, repeat.

I've never been a fan of sunlight, but I find myself missing it. I have been a nightbird for so long now that sometimes that beautiful blackness feels like the confines of an inescapable room. One of these days I'll figure something out and find some balance.

But I find my light in Bullock. He comes by in the evenings and soothes me and pours my wine. He brings illumination to my world, which is invariably constructed of steel and iron and ego and shot through with night. Things are only right, things only go back to normal, when I lay my head on his bare chest. It is then that I breathe easily and can let go of that strange world.

We are planning to move in together soon. That will be wonderful. It will be so lovely to live with love, to fill a house with it. I cannot wait.

Still I Long For Your Kiss

2011-03-09T22:11:00.000-08:00

I used to be a guy. A guy that would take a thousand mile road trip with five hundred dollars to his name and feel lucky. I never had a destination in mind. I just drove and drove. And I stopped, I slept and cheaply, and I made friends. I sang bad backup for good musicians and played out of tune accompaniments. I wrote novels and stories and sold my soul for laughs.

These days, I'm a suit. Well, as much as a chef can be one. You know the horrifying (but sometimes lovely) truth of it? I really don't even have to cook that much anymore. I just throw out a demo plate or two and it's done that way for the rest of forever, until I change my mind. I hire and fire people. I decide on mens' livelihoods. It's scary, but I'm good at it.

This lifestyle is interesting, but somehow more draining than a regular sous chef's life has ever been for me before. I'm a salaried man now, responsible for a restaurant's livelihood-and I indefinitely love my own money more than I love keeping another guy in his position. It's very taxing, and I am becoming something of a hermit.

If you're not Daniel, my mom, or my boyfriend, you don't see much of me these days. I work (a lot). I go home. I drink my wine and take baths in fabulous Lush products and get ready to do it all again. I find small luxuries.

I make small escapes. Bullock and I took a trip down to Charlerston and had a fantastic time. We stayed at a beautiful bed and breakfast and I seemed to age in reverse. The sea air, that Lowcountry smell (the smell of my childhood)...took years off of my age. I needed it. I miss the Lowcountry. I miss my family.

Sometimes, I miss myself. That gypsy boy that never worried about money, even when he had none at all. I don't think I want to be him, exactly him, again-but I miss his mindset. He didn't need much and always had plenty.

I'm settled now. I have a loving boyfriend that sometimes makes me absolutely insane. I have a good job that makes me thankful I have a great stylist (gray hair and all). I have a nice home.

But sometimes, Lucinda comes wafting on the thick night air, and I drink too much....and still I long for your kiss.

You, me, Duke, The Road, Stavros...Still I long for your kiss.

The Topography of Dreams

2011-02-25T09:34:00.000-08:00

March winds came early this year. Last night, sitting on Daniel's patio with a few bottles of red wine, the wind birds played with our hair and lifted our voices. Spring feels near, and I am ready for travel again.

My spirit is always light in dreams-it leaves my body almost as soon as my head hits the pillow. It took full opportunity last night to do just that.

In my first dream, I was younger. I was driving the red Honda civic that I owned in college. I was driving down to Charleston on a whim, as I always used to do. The Southern sky was expansive and full of possibility. As my dream-sky turned purple and dark, I decided I'd just keep driving. Maybe to St. Augustine, maybe to Miami...
Sometimes I miss my gypsy self so very much.

In the last dream, the topography of dreams did not exactly mirror that of the waking world. I was in some Eastern European country without a name. I drove down an abandoned, boarded up road high in the mountains. I got out of my tiny rented car and took in a vista. A boy came up to me and explained what I was seeing. "There is Belarus, he pointed out," and farther down the mountain range, almost out of vision, rested the palaces of Russia.

He took my hand and walked me back to the city I'd come from. I did not worry for my abandoned car. Some sort of local festival was in full swing. The streets were clogged with people, lights and sounds and the scents of their strange street food filled the air. We sat at a table at the base of an illuminated statue to some Communist god and shared our souls.

He was thin and quirky; afraid of numbers he confessed. He said that the number he associated with my name made him think something was wrong with me-like I might not be safe. Our attraction grew with the seconds that slipped away. Soon, it was time for me to go...back to America, I guess. I made him promise to meet me there again, at that vista that overlooked countries that don't in reality touch in such a fashion.

It was such a vivid dream. I halfway hope, halfway expect to see him there again.

For Their Reasons

2011-02-15T20:16:00.000-08:00

It's taken me a while to write this entry. It's taken me a while to live it and to clean up behind myself after all that living.

Leaving The Lounge was very, very difficult. I had a home there. I know I'll make a new one-I already am, but leaving that family was personally traumatic. It ripped something from my heart and left a big, gaping hole. It's still home, but a home I can't go visit every day.

But it was time for a change. I could cook that menu with my hands tied behind my back. No, really, I can. I'm doing it in my head right now. I feel the fire that the cold sherry creates in the hot pan. I can smell the shrimp cooking, hear my customer's laughter and their chatter. Its a love affair. It is also a record on repeat.

One night, I was wracked with sorrow. Last Friday, I'd had a particularly grueling night at The Pub. I went home displaced and confused. The road was a watery path before me as I drove back to the city. When I was entering town, I heard a noise. "Ting."

Something from my truck had hit the highway. Soon enough all of my truck's vital systems were failing. The lights went. The power steering went. It began to run very hot. I parked the truck and exited.

I grabbed my Gucci bag and my bottle of wine and began walking home. This featured me crying hysterically, staggering through the Historic District with a bottle of wine and a man purse, calling everyone I know for some help or sympathy with my fancy, flat screened smart phone. 4G, no less. Histrionics on 4G. It was tragic.

Daniel arrived first to help me find my way and Bullock came by shortly after to comfort me and pour my substantial amounts of wine. Then he carried me to bed. It was very touching, and I was rather nervous about having he an Daniel spend much time together, but the hooch and the harrowing emotions prevented me from caring too much. Later Daniel told me that he'd fallen for Bullock as he watched him hold me as I violently wept and slurred my speech.

My beloved boys put me back together. They were my glue, and Daniel was my ride the next afternoon, when I blearily and almost unwillingly stepped into his car to get to work in lieu of a certain Chef Green's Chevrolet.

I'm glad I stuck it out. The hole left in my heart by The Lounge and it's tequila swilling pirates has been filled with meaning. I have a business to run, a gorgeous menu to create. I have found that (it's absence being one of my closet fears) I am still a celebrity. I was well known at The Lounge-and all around the city because of it-and I am apparently even more of a hot topic than usual. Folks have come out to see me, to rave about me. I get to create beautiful special menus, the latest of which will appear as a full page ad in our local hip and groovy publication. Imagine that.

And I've grown closer to my boyfriend, too. The things that felt so very negative became great blessings. My truck's illness forced me to spend more time with Daniel and with Bullock. The boys took turns shuffling me to and from work. Daniel took the "early" shift, and Bullock took the late. Although I'm grateful that my vehicle will be ready in the morning, I will miss seeing my boys' faces as I go to and from my...new home.

I have come to know, not feel, but know, that everything happens with purpose. All things for their reasons.

I have, thanks to their encouragement, thrown myself into my work and am flourishing. I am so thankful for those that love me and for the great blessings that lie before and all around me.

I have so much to do. I am going to love every second of this.

Feast

2011-02-07T06:43:00.000-08:00

Life is changing so rapidly around me. I am a young child in my dreams...aging in reverse. My too-small, too-fat hands grasp at shards of glass and floating veils...things that glisten and glow and disappear. Everything is changing.

My new job will have profound impacts on my life. But there is more: Daniel might just have himself a new job as well. With Delta. With a company that might fly him all around the world, and rarely back to me. Deep breaths taste like seawater, silky and salty-like tears. Drowning in the air.

But life is a feast, my loves. And sometimes the courses come all at once and you just don't know what to do. So you dig in and fill your plate up and eat your fill. And you keep eating, you just don't want to miss a single thing. A single flavor. A single memento of heaven.

When I got home from shopping with Daniel last night, Bullock was there waiting on me. He helped me unload my purchases and Daniel peed in the yard beside my truck. I laughed and laughed...bliss of so many kinds.

I have said again and again that I cook to honor and to fix my life. So last night, I cooked and cooked and cooked. I cooked an overwhelming feast to simply accept that yes, right now: things are getting wild, getting amazing, coming very fast.

I made a gorgeous pasta dish with masala marinara sauce and four foot long hollow noodles, chicken, squash, zucchini, and radish sprouts. I made a quiche with smoked Gouda and roasted red peppers. A fancy salad of watercress, apples, almonds, and green goddess dressing. I made my witch-aunt's Seawater Pie, which is something of an adaptation of lemon chess pie.

While we ate our giant feast, Bullock and I talked about moving in together in the near future. The idea made us very happy, and the food tasted even better. We negotiated with practiced grace the ideals and compromises involved with that decision.

Seawater Pie
Mise En Place
Juice and zest of 3-4 large lemons
1.5 cups sugar
5 eggs
1/3 cup melted butter
One unbaked pie shell or 9 inches worth of dough.

Procedure
Preheat the oven to 325 Degrees F. Dock the crust lightly with a fork, but don't par bake it.

Combine the sugar, zest, and juice in a mixing bowl. Beat in each egg separately, stirring all the while. Drizzle in the butter in a slow, slow stream. Continue to whip.

Bake for 45 minutes, or until the pie is nice and brown on top and only a little wiggly when you shake it.

Remove to a rack or cold counter and let sit til' completely chilled. Don't worry when the filling seems to fall-it's all a part of the delicious plan. That's how Seawater Pie becomes very, very rich and silky.

Serve with love, and take those deep breaths boy...keep remembering that at the end of every Feast is something sweet.

Champagne Toast

2011-02-06T09:13:00.000-08:00

So this is it. It is done.
Last night, I cooked my very last dish at The Lounge. It was a busy, busy night. A typical Saturday. The world walked on eggshells around me. No one was sure of what to do. The energy of my leaving was tangible, the ghost I left behind still paces the floors of my tiny kitchen at The Lounge.

There were lots of hugs and tears from customers and co workers alike, some well wishes.

The Lounge seems to be floating, now...up in the air without me to hold it down. I have for so long been the anchor in that crazy world.

With a midnight thirty champagne toast, salt water tears flowed into an ocean of emotions, and they sent me on my way.

And I went.

On Tuesday, I become the anchor for another world, surely crazy in it's own right. But for now, I just want to do the things that keep me sane. I want to cook for my boyfriend, I want to shop, I want to drink wine, wine, wine, and I want to read.

I want to not feel so acutely the trauma of my departure. I want to feel more dearly the joy of my new life.

Witch's Kitchen

2011-02-03T10:32:00.000-08:00

It's cold and gray outside. The weather seems lonely, but my heart is full of joy and confidence. When it's ghastly out, or worse yet-in, I always turn to the kitchen to cook up a spell.

My heart and my profession live in kitchens. Of course my spirituality would live there, too. When my work kitchen overwhelms me, or my life gets freaky, I head into my own kitchen. I'm a compulsive cooker. I can't tell you how many works of magic I have made and consumed, or served to my loved ones. I can't tell you the amazing results, the looks of peace and acceptance after a dish/spell has been eaten. Food is my magic.

I thought I'd share a spell with you today. I wish I had the day off so I could make it in my home, but perhaps serving it to hundreds of people tonight might be even better.

It's a go to dish that I make on the line when I need to impress. The secret of the dish is that it's not only beautiful, but it carries a whisper (or a shout) of a sentiment-love. I made it once for a business traveler as a special goodbye present. I've served it to senators and sinners and lovers and high class bums.

It is Braised Lamb Chops with Olive and Red Wine.

MISE EN PLACE
Lamb, per person: I use three 1.5 oz chops, generally. Small New Zealand lamb.
Cornstarch/Flour to coat.
A generous handful of good chopped olives.
A handful of julienned red onions.
1/4 cup red wine.
2 oz demiglace/veal stock. Optional.
1 T Butter, cold.

PROCEDURE

Set a large skillet to warm up on high heat. Season and evenly coat the lamb chops in cornstarch or flour (starch is better). Shake away excess.

Add a generous amount of olive oil to the pan, add the lambchops. Sear on one side. Add onions and flip the chops. When the onions are tender and a little caramelized, add the olives and red wine.

Season with salt, pepper, and fresh garlic. Add the demiglace if you're going to use it.

Reduce on medium-high to medium heat. When the liquids have condensed to 1/4 of their original volume, remove from heat and swirl the cold butter into the sauce until it is completely melted and the sauce is glossy.

SERVING
I've served this dish with any number of accompaniments. Risottos, wilted spinach...you name it. I have occasionally topped it with crumbled blue cheese, which was rather nice.

Remember...the magic lies not only in the cool ingredients, but in the sentiments with which you prepare your food. As this dish reduces in liquid volume, I think of the essence of love being made more rarefied and concentrated. Serve with love.

In Our Jocks

2011-02-02T07:11:00.000-08:00

Last night was fun. The boyfriend cut class, and we went out to eat Pizza at Labrasca's. This place is unusual for the city-it's a relic from the sixties. They only play country music. The waitresses are beyond redneck, and it reminds me of home. The pizza crust tastes just like Mama's.

Before we left the house, I had him put on a new jockstrap. Secretly, I had a matching one on myself. When we were back in the Historic District, he discovered just how hot this could be as he pulled my Flypaper denim to the floor. My cowlneck sweater in a crumple beside the denim, two boys made love to each other. To themselves. To mirror images.

Scratchy cotton, smooth skin. Elastic bands crossing pretty asses, their electric sting when popped at just the right time.

After those sweet hours, still in our jocks, we fell asleep in a tangle. My spirit left immediately, and found places that I'd left behind or never been. Big houses in Charleston. Bay breeze and purple night. Tinkling sounds of bottles and forks hung in Gullah trees. Lowcountry love affair.

When his chest separated from my back, my dream travels ended. He went home, and I stayed up all night listening to the sound of a strong rain storm on the tin of my roof. I drank red wine and was happy.

Karma

2011-02-01T09:19:00.000-08:00

Midday in the Historic District. I'm enjoying a cup of dark, dark French pressed coffee and thinking about last night. I'm listening to Damien Rice. And I'm thinking about Karma.

Things go in circles sometimes, especially when folks are entering the gravity-pull zone of great endings or great beginnings.

Last night was a charity event at The Lounge-a women's only affair that raises a ton of money for local causes and is generally a fun night. Just as when I first took up residence at The Lounge, I drank champagne and put out beautiful food and watched the festivities. I threw my bandana at Our Sainted Owner, who was doing an excellent job of being a local rockstar on his guitar...my kitchen guy version of groupie panties, I guess.

After the night had wrapped up, I stayed late at The Lounge. My kitchen boys were jamming out in the dining room, tearing up guitar riffs and singing Jimi Hendrix songs. I took photographs, I took pleasure. Souvenirs from a life I am leaving. Beautiful times when the hours move like light under water. Precious hours.

My initial response, when the girls invited me out to a shady little bar was "No," as I have said for nearly every night for two years. I don't go out much, and when I do it's with Bullock or Daniel and not the waitstaff. But I said "yes," just to shake myself up a little bit.

I followed the line of cars to a place I'd been to once before-the very week I started working at The Lounge. Then, I was head over heels...tumbling into precarious love with Daniel. We brought our own bottle of expensive wine and tipped exorbitantly. Then, the whole world was new and bright. Last night, I sat at that bar and ordered a water, something I've never done before.

I'd already had two drinks, which I learned the very hard way before I began writing this blog, is my driving limit. I told the girls it was a "skinnytini," and they bought it. So I drank my water and bought a pack of Camel Lights, and decided to leave for the evening. I was not drunk.

I was not paying attention, either, because instead of putting my truck into "forward," I put it into "reverse," and softly tapped the bumper of the car behind me. Shit. "Glad I'm just drinking water," I mumbled to the night as I got out to inspect the damage. The bumper was pretty bent up and a piece of the grill was knocked out.

I exhaled a tobacco heavy breath and began walking back into the bar to find the owner of the car. "We didn't see anything!" called the voices of my waitresses. I hadn't known they where outside at all. "Just go, it's better that way," another called. "We won't tell."

I'm not going to say I didn't consider it, but it was a fleeting thought. I walked right into that bar and found the owner of the car I'd hit and brought him outside to figure out what to do next. He was a kind man, thankfully, and was as honest with me as I had been with him. He actually laughed at me. "Thanks for telling me, man, but you didn't really damage my car. I ran into something the other day and bent up my bumper, all you did was take off a few inches of grill," he said-pointing to the bumper of my truck where the red plastic rested quite obviously.

He pocketed the plastic and smiled, wishing me a safe night and refusing my offers of a check or an insurance claim. I shook that nice man's hand and drove home, thinking about maturity and about just how much people change. These two years have saged me, have made me wiser and kinder, and have treated me better than I could have ever asked.

Later that night, deep into a bottle of wine with Daniel in my living room, I recounted the story. We laughed and thanked the Powers that Be for human kindness. Then he reached into his bag and handed me...get this...two bars of Karma soap. "On me, lover," he said as he gifted me with the exotic smelling soap. It's one of our addictions, that soap. That KARMA soap.

Sometimes the Universe is very literal. Last night, I enjoyed myself and did the right thing, and She told me so. And I stepped close to that swirling gravity of fate and change and I stared into it's mouth, and I swallowed the cool night air and promised myself that the days and weeks and months and years to come would be nothing but as magical as the two that are dwindling out before my very eyes. As the path I walked so strongly and held with such vigilance turns to dust, and then to water, and then to a stone of another sort.

We wrapped up the night in typical Sister Style, with such highlights including redecorating my bathroom and planning repairs and improvements on my home. There was a "smell my leg" moment as well-Daniel adamantly propped his muscular calf right up against my face and raised his pant leg. "Smell it, bitch!" he said-and it smelled good. Another soap he'd ordered when he bought my Karma.

I'm off today, and I have exciting things planned. I'm going across town in a few minutes to find Just The Right Shade of Red Dupioni silk for new living room drapes. I'm getting my hair done. Dinner with Bullock. Maybe I'll get my taxes done if I have time.

So let me get to it.
Wishing you all lots of love. And lots of Good Karma.

Leaving The Lounge

2011-01-26T20:14:00.000-08:00

Eleven fifteen in the Historic District. I'm just home from The Lounge, and for once, I have not rushed directly to the shower to wash away the stench of my kitchen. I am savoring everything tonight, because I am leaving. So tomorrow, my Marilyn Monroe couch will hold the smell of wine and fire; love, stars-blood-and onions. And it should. That love and those onions have given me a gorgeous life...a life I am so very thankful for every step of the way for nearly two years.

My tenure at The Lounge has blessed me with: a beautiful home, a best friend, a lover, a family, dreams, a bit of local celebrity, and vast measures of confidence. I have carried this restaurant through the busiest of it's nights. I have set new records. I have shown kindness, I have been given the chance to heal myself and others. I have known acceptance. I have worked with the craziest bunch of tequila swilling pirates this city has ever seen. I've rung in the new year twice under it's roof, I've taken bows and toasted audiences of my dining public the best of their dreams.

I've been high high high and sometimes low, but I knew each step of the way that this time in my life would always stand out as a chosen time-a period of life that will always glow in my memory. I am the spirit of The Lounge in a way. My essence is everywhere-on the menu, in the wine, in the drapes that I bought and hung with Daniel; in the upholstery we have done. In the lighting. In the service staff. In the desserts (every day I see a design I taught my boys in my first days as a young Sous Chef). I have risen from something close to the bottom of the food chain to the top. I am Oroborus tonight, a great serpent of fate biting my own tail. Completeing the circle.

I've been through a storm of emotions since I decided to take a job that I never sought to find. A chef that I worked for long ago in the days of The Auditorium (briefly documented in my first days of writing this blog) called me up months ago and asked if I would be interested in being a key figure at a restaurant opening across town. It's a new restaurant with a chef I trust. Of course I said "tell me more."

The days passed. I eventually went to an interview and made outlandish demands. They hired someone else. Within a week of being open, they demoted the Sous Chef and called me. I mad even more outlandish demands and they hired me on the spot. I never cooked a dish. They didn't grill me about mandatory internal temperatures and mother sauces. They said, "We have heard such wonderful things about you. You are surely the man for the job. Sign here." It was very weird, and I felt very grown up.

In the dearly accounted for hours since I put in my notice, I look around and still see only reasons to be thankful. Oh, those faces. Those faces I will miss. Our sainted owner was very kind about it. He told me that he could not match the money, but he would always take me back if things didn't go well. That was amazing of him.

I've come to my peace about all of this. I have managed to see myself there, where before I saw only despair. I see opportunity. I meditated love into the heart of my new kitchen. I went through a few days of deep depression, as one would have at the end of a great love affair. I might still be in shock? I have wept softly in Bullock's arms, but I have not shook with sorrow yet. I feel like that's probably coming. But I am at peace. And I'll love and enjoy the sorrow that might shake me like the joy that led up to this very moment surely shook me then. I was verily vibrated with the pleasure of my existence.

But money talks and I had to listen. It was time to grow up a little bit. It's a big risk, but I'm putting my heart and soul into it and I'm going to make it work.

Every day is so strange. It's like I'm giving a piece of myself away. I live within long-walking distance of the Lounge. I'm giving up a quick commute for a twenty minute drive. Daniel and I sat and decided who we would give our early weekend markets to in my absence. I taught recipes I gaurded rather childishly to the young men that work with me. I chose one-the same that I gave the market to-and responded to his sweet inquisitiveness.

I understand that a time of sorrow as well as hope is amongst my kitchen staff. With the loss of my attention and protections, one of them will probably take my spot. They gather around me quietly, trying to figure out the best angle to take, and I wished them both luck. But I chose to help one of them along. I'd like to have a say in the man who walks the strange road that I have navigated. It is an intense job, but one that can be very fulfilling.

For the young man I've called "Hot Cook" here, I wrote out a list of every single item our restaurant uses, and put it into categories. Each list of products comes from a certain distributor. The relative contacts' names and numbers are listed. I have given a section on tips for the position and how to handle ridiculous purchasing bullshit. It is the bible I wish I had inherited when I signed on that dotted line. Maybe it will help...

It all feels so surreal.

I have too many words-not enough words-words are sounds from my soul; too many nouns with not enough punctuating sound. I am hopeful and frightened and ready.

I am meditating on the energy of Love and that of the rose quartz. In the end, it really is...All About Love.

Our Own Lights

2011-01-21T20:03:00.000-08:00

18 January 2011. The first of several New York City entries.

It is cold and rainy here. Gray-everything is gray. The city in its largeness makes me lonely. Lonely even amongst those I love the most. It seems ceaseless and futile.

I truly am a child of the Lowcountry. I already miss the soft, sea smelling air and balmy nights that we enjoy-often even in the depths of winter. The cold here is unforgiving. White snow quickly darkens to asphalt-dingy. No visual relief.

There are so many languages here. Babel right after the fall. Disparate voices all, each reaching out to the other in vain. Commonalities are hard commodities.

I miss Bullock direly: his soft wisdom and quiet acceptance of my strangeness. His unyielding love.

Daniel and I went to a gay bar on our first night here. It was truly trashy. I enjoyed, sadly, the Bacchanal of the place-the air was scented with poppers and piss, cum and cocaine. Yes-some wretched part of me did enjoy that place, but I fled from it, blanched bone white by the amorality I experienced.

Days later I am still shocked by the experience. Again, I note, and am thankful for the myriad ways Bullock has changed me. Where once I sought such places for fleeting fulfillment, today I yearn only for the lights of our love making. Our own, unique, sacred lights. The union of our two souls.

In my mind, a thousand miles away from him, I trace the milky outlines of his body. In reverence, I search out his scents-the variant fragrances of his garden. I reach for his flowers, not to pluck but to hold gently in my fingers: the sapphire of his love mine alone to explore.

He told me last night, voice crackly over the distant miles, not to mope and to enjoy my trip. I will venture out again into this erratic world of too much noise and neon, but in my heart I am heading to Carolina...

Beautiful Violence

2011-01-14T21:00:00.000-08:00

Today has been an overindulgence of pleasure. I worked the early shift at The Lounge. Natasha and I had our Friday "Wine School," which is essentially us biting back the edge of our deadly hangovers and learning something about wine.

Today we focused on white Burgandies from a tiny little village in the Macon region of France. We paired the wine with Brillat Savarin Affine cheese-a soft, buttery triple cream that paired deliciously with the softly honeyed flavor of the wine. We also sampled an Albarino that smelled uncannily of oysters. And by sampled, I mean we had a glass of each before noon.

After the early shift, I went home for a sandwich. I finished Daughter Of My People, a novel by James Kilgo. It was beautifully sad and incredibly written. Set in South Carolina (the Lowcountry at that) at the turn of the last century, I could have written it myself. The scenarios and the imagery was so familiar. I could taste the sandy-salty air that is unique to my place of origin. I took a short nap.

Bullock came over for a goodbye visit. Sunday I am flying up to New York City and I won't have a chance to see him until I get back.

We practiced our familiar rituals of men loving men. Each time we love each other it is better and better, more practiced and wilder. He took me first, forcing the seed from my body with such intensity. It was a tidal wave that I could not hold back; the way he moved within me...his sea to my shores...it was incredible.

We took a short break from our festivities to eat some Japanese food in the Star District and have a cocktail.

Back at home we resumed our naked revelry. Dream bodies in a cloud of desire and real love...shadows of each other moving seamlessly through the night. I was struck by the violence and the tenderness, the force and the surrender that gay sex entails. It is beautiful violence, even dressed up in silks and sandalwood smoke. It is a beautifully violent act. We are both sore from it and glowing because of it.

Those blue eyes. I can see how much he loves me when he looks at me. The beauty of his milk white body fades away when I look into those eyes. It is pure adoration; I often feel unworthy of such love. But I'm working on that, and I feel the same way about him. I hope my hazel eyes tell him the same, although they are darker and perhaps less capable of reflecting such inner light.

I am all packed and ready to go. I will indulge in far too many fun things with Daniel tonight, then I will work a Saturday shift at the Lounge, and then I will be on my way down to the Lowcountry to find my mom and catch our flight into the frozen north.

On Sunday afternoon, the three of us will step into a big black limousine and drink champagne as we are escorted to our hotel, right in the middle of Madison Square Gardens. And we will drink of earthly delight in the most fabulous city in the world.

Wish me luck.

526

2010-12-28T07:42:00.000-08:00

I had dark dreams last night.
I was in love with a serial killer.

Nameless. He may have given me any number of names. I needed none of them, his name was the pale angles of his jaw, the dancing blue of his pale, pale eyes.

I don't know how we met, it seems we had known each other forever. I began to notice him following me. He was where I was, always hidden, without fail. He was stalking me.

In my dream days and weeks passed. I would live to see the outline of his long, tight body when I was out with friends or walking alone. The edge of fear he brought out of me shimmered like heat, like lightning.

Finally, I caught his hand as he turned to leave, to vanish, as he had so many times before. I had finally touched the cool, soft hand of my stalker. And he could not deny me. His hand on the small of my back was insistent. There was no turning back.

He pushed me into his car, a big silver sedan that ran as soundlessly as its owner. We went wordlessly for some time, driving through the dark night. Headlights illuminated the forest through which we drove. Little mounds. Burial sites.

"How many have you killed," my quiet words broke the silence between us. Without hesitation, he said "five hundred twenty six, all around the world." I felt his pride. He said that when he killed, his hands were so skillfull that his mind relaxed and gave way to the truth of his nature.

In the fragmented way of dreams, the car ride with my serial killer was simply over. Years passed then, and I still noticed him following me through my life. I began to stalk him in return. I developed my own fearful powers, my own ghastly ability to know everything about a man by living on the sidelines of his life. I had never known such desire, such a fated sense of rightness as with this figure. This pale, tall, carved from marble man who's only purpose was to bring death.

The final scene of my dream was oddly beautiful. We had, after so long, come face to face again. Beneath an old oak tree, we knelt in front of each other. We brushed our cheeks together, the stubble on his jaw was like razor wire. My hands, smaller in dreams than they really are, traced the muscles of his chest, played with the softer hair that covered it. His hands held my face tenderly. He called me an angel.

It was at last the way I had always wanted it, I knew. His hands moved lower to encircle my neck like jewels. Sunlight filtered through the leaves of the oak, little glittering patches of light in the shade. It was a great senusal pleasure as he squeezed the breath from me. He murdered me gently there, with his lips pressed against mine, as if to collect my soul.

And I could not have been happier.

Keys To My Kingdom

2010-12-27T09:08:00.000-08:00

Last night was mine and Bullock's Christmas. He came over around seven thirty. Snow still swirled in the sky, the night air tossed it around like fallen stars.

Gathered in front of my tree, he opened his gifts. His stocking, black with crystal snowflakes was stuffed with candies and tangerines, sexy underwear, hot chocolate, and a strange text book that was printed in 1922. I knew he'd love the small tome, that little volume of egregious knowledge that rich college students memorized some generations before. At the toe of that black stocking rested a key to my house, tied in pewter ribbon. The keys to my kingdom.

"So you can be here whenever you like."

His face was a sort of etch-a-sketch world of wonder, then: I'm not sure he knew how to process the key. His features decided on happy-near-tears and then he kissed me. "I will. Be here, that is...whenever I..you..like."

Soon, my delicate wrappings were tossed about on the floor and he wore the new pajama bottoms I'd bought for him, and was snugly wrapped in the new Abercrombie jacket I'd selected as his most special gift.

I wanted his Christmas to be so special. His family never really gave him a nice holiday, and it was my mission to change that. I must have, because his face was all stars and smiles as he pulled me into his lap.

And the night wind went on with it's frozen breath, my old house creaked and groaned and two boys sighed and moaned. And Christmas in Love-was also perfect.

I have so many thoughts and emotions about me, about Bullock, about me and Bullock together. Most of them are positive, but I am not a simple man. The question marks and the what ifs took a holiday of their own as we celebrated the most magical season of all.

Snowglobe

2010-12-27T07:59:00.000-08:00

My Perfect Little Christmas was just that. Perfect.
The trees, the wrapping, the gifts, the food, the wines, the people. Everything was just perfect.

I thought it would be anything but, considering the way the night of the 23rd played out. It was five or six on that evening, and I was making beautiful food. I was celebrating the season in my own way, throwing down plated poetry at The Lounge. Something very unfortunate came over me.

It was the most violent of illnesses I'd ever experienced. The guy on the line with me traded places, so I could take the slower paced Expo position. This worked for a little while, but it soon became apparent that I wasn't doing anyone any good by being at work. I couldn't stay out of the bathroom or off of the back stoop long enough to finish more than a ticket or two, and the board was stacked nineteen deep. Shit.

Someone called the Sainted Owner and he graciously, and happily, took over my post. I went home to die or recover or whatever. The night was filled with my body twisting and bending and wretching. Fever dreams and sweaty sheets.

In the morning, I was fine, if not delerious from dehydration. I was so ashamed that the owner had to come do my job for me, but my friends reassured me that human bodies sometimes do very strange things and that everyone knows I'm dedicated to my job.

Wrapped in sweaters and scarves and comfy denim, I made the drive down to the Lowcountry.

Christmas Eve was as it always is with Mama, a wonderful evening of champagne and hors d'ouvres. I was still weak from illness so we did not dress exquisitely as we usually do, but rather enjoyed our fete in sweats and heavy socks. After our little celebration she dosed me with some mysterious pills that eased the aching, worn out feeling in my body and allowed me to breathe deeply.

We went out to watch the night for a while, and imagined Santa Claus making his way across the world. Her potion was making my head light, so I turned in early. A few hours later, I felt her crawl into the big four poster bed with me and as I drifted back into dreams, I smelled her soft scent and was happy.

The morning was our own, as it has been for twenty six years now. Coffee and croissants, butter and jam. Stockings and gifts. Perfectly perfect.

When we woke the next morning, the world was white with snow. We drove around the countryside for hours, marveling that although the roads were so familiar to us, nothing looked the same. Her face aged in reverse as we sat in silence with the windows down, listening to the glittering sound of snow.

Twenty Five Again

2010-12-23T08:57:00.001-08:00

Yesterday, I turned twenty five for the second time. I'll probably be twenty five for about three more years.

It was not the best of days.

Bullock came over for some birthday sex, which is one of our traditions. For our last two birthdays we've granted each other a morning or an evening of sex the way we know the other partner likes it. Last year's for me was incredible. This year's, not so much. We were both a little hung over and things just weren't working right. We got off but I didn't have a great time. It does count for something, though, that the birthday sex was with the same guy. And he is a great guy.

I should have let him take me to lunch instead. Bad birthday sex primed my day for bitterness.

It was slammed at work, crazy to the hilt all night. I drank bourbon in a plastic cup to survive. I was pretty unpleasant and it did not hurt my feelings to leave the restaurant.

A sweet point was that one of my kitchen boys bought me two bottles of champagne. My gift from my line-mate was that I didn't have to clean anything up after I cooked, so I sat with the other guy and drained one of the bottles. All of the waitresses came up and offered me salutations and shots. That part was fun.

My mind was heavy though. The night was balmy and felt like spring instead of winter. I wanted to get high on codeine, but I didn't have any.

Driving home in the oddly temperate night, I called my mom. She listened to me complain a little and tried to cheer me up. I felt selfish for being whiney and bitter on my birthday, but I couldn't really help it.

Daniel came by a little later to drink wine with me. That sister time did a lot to lift my mood, and I was thankful for that. Soon I was too sloshed to make coherent sentences, so he went home and I went to bed.

Today starts with a birthday sized hangover and the joyous knowledge that after tonight, I'll have a few days off work. Soon it will be another Lowcountry Christmas with my mom and her elegant, dark featured clan. Those are the moments I live for.

Keep Vigil

2010-12-20T23:56:00.000-08:00

Tonight, the Mother Goddess is in labor. When morning breaks in a few hours, the Sun King will have been reborn. The night is full of an eerie electric charge. Energy flashes through the moisture that hangs in the frozen air.

I've got my candles burning, as is my tradition. Witches keep candles going all night to welcome back the Lord of Light.

The Solstice is a floating holiday. Twenty six years ago, I was born on this night. That year, the God's return took place on the twenty second day of December, but I feel a strong kinship with the celebration, regardless of the technical hour of delivery.

A lunar eclipse occured tonight, but I couldn't see it. Bullock and I rose from our tangled sheets at two to search for the Mother's face being covered by the shadow of the earth. Clouds obscured the skies, and we prayed for snow since we could not see the miraculous motions of the planets. I had so looked forward to watching the Divine play.

Bullock has gone for the night, and I sit alone in the quiet darkness. My tree provides soft, luminous light. A magical glint through glass icecicles; the smell of Frasier Fir. The stack of presents beneath the majestic tree is dwindling, and it makes me a little sad to know that the most wonderful time of the year is yet again nearly over.

Bourbon tinkles in my glass and fatigue settles in on my eyes and makes them heavy. Only a few more hours til dawn. Only a few more hours until the infant King rests in His Mother's arms once more. Only a few more hours to keep vigil.

Cremains

2010-12-15T21:13:00.001-08:00

I'm so lucky that I can love you, Bullock.
I'm so lucky that I can love whomever I choose without much fear.
Much fear.
Imagine if these days had persisted longer than their frightful course. Imagine if things were still this bad.
Imagine that, and know that we are all so very lucky.

That is, and was, a generation of forgotten people. Of abused people. Of people burnt to death because of love. Because they loved their own gender, or a God that was not en vogue. Because of love.

The Bowmaker's Guild

2010-12-14T23:17:00.000-08:00

It has been a flurry of winter holiday parties and food. I've been loaded up on red wine and fabulous things. Hanukkah with Daniel was extraordinary. The weather is frigid, I am in love.

For the perfect Christmas, one must consider the packaging. My tree is done in silvers and red, and the wrapping reflects that in subtle and whimsical ways. To properly present all of these gifts, I have made dozens of bows.

My friend Lucy and I sat one evening drinking and making bows. We decided that bows were essential to life, and that we should start a Bow Maker's Guild. If you think about it, bows really are a fundamental of a well documented life. They appear at weddings and funerals, birthings and baptisms, birthdays and bachelorette parties. They are everywhere.

Perhaps the weaver of the bow posesses a certain power over fate and fortune. I like to think back to my ancestors who tied wishes and hopes into the knots of bows and ribbons. Maybe they hung them from trees or fastened them to their beautiful gowns. I dont know, but I remember a legacy of special words in specific knots being taught when I was very young.

Last night at Daniel's, we drank and I made a bow for his wreath. The previous occupant was a wretched bow made of awful ribbon. My replacement added a little of the graceful tradition my mother's family follows. I am thankful for my odd upbringing and the quiet magics our black Irish blood provides. And I am thankful for our whiskey tinged melancholy and our star dreaming souls.

Tonight's chicken curry and nasturtium salad with my guy was enchanting. In the moments after pink champagne and naan, blossoming greens and Indian food, we huddled under a blanket. With naked bodies, without vision, we fought off the cold and found ecstacy. I tied another knot in the bow of time and fate, and prayed with all my heart that the choices were the right ones, and that love could last forever.

"Seven folds of fabric godes
The wishes you enfold
In silk and yarn or twine
Change the slated step of time
The weavers breath and fingers tell
Of lives lived happy, hearts filled well"

Or something like that...

2010-12-08T09:45:00.000-08:00

Yesterday was a nice day.
Bullock and I went to breakfast at Cafe Strudel. We have history in that place; we've shared many a meal there in the old mansion that has been transformed into an eatery.

In the frosty, blustery morning, I met him at the State House. I was a trail of long black coats and scarves, he shuddered in the bleached out air. The warm coffee and croissants nourished us.

He went back to work for a while, then came over for an afternoon of miraculous sex. Tousling around in the daylight felt naughty; somehow stolen. We slumbered after a simultaneous finish in twisted positions-one great beast, exhausted and sated.

Day became darkness as we lay entwined; Christmas lights sparkled on. In the quiet after his leaving, I found his discarded sweater. I held it to my face. Memories live in scent. My body filled with that mysterious tightness again that he always brings.

The night was filled with fun as well. I joined Lucy at The Lounge for a dinner of red wine and pate forestier, a creamy seafood dip and more red wine. We went on to an underground bar and ate fifty cent tacos and drank draft beer. Laughter flowed like water in the frozen night.

In the latest hours of the evening-midnight thirty and some change-Daniel and I exchanged more Hannukah gifts. Six nights' worth of lights blazed on, and we were thoughtful. Loaded with treasures and love, we separated for the evening, holding Thankfulness and contemplation around ourselves like capes against the wind.

Midlight

2010-11-29T14:29:00.000-08:00

Twilight in the Historic District. I am stringing lights on my Christmas tree. I was mid-light, humming along to some holiday jazz when I was hit by a sentiment so strong I had to stop my work. I had to come write about it.

There's so much I wanted to tell you about before I wrote a Christmas post-about The Year of Three Thanksgivings; boyfriends and cornish hens, Seawater Pie, about magical aunts and mossy Lowcountry trees-and I will tell you all about those things. But this first.

Lights in hand, I realized that I'm so excited about this holiday season because I'm trying to make it so perfect for the one I love. My boyfriend comes from a family that does not really celebrate Christmas. His mom was on a tight budget when he was a kid, so it was never a big event.

I remember my Christmases with Mama. She was on a tight budget of her own, but somehow Christmas morning was so magical. The living room would be full of presents. We would have our croissant breakfast. She would drink her strong black coffee in her best china, and I'd sip fresh squeezed orange juice in a champagne glass. Stockings overflowed with candies and beautiful things. Christmas was...perfect for me.

It makes me sad that he never had those wonderful experiences. I realized with my hand shoved into the innards of a handsome frasier fir that I was doing all of this for him. I want it to be that for him, wrapped in the ribbons of love. I want to give him everything he has missed out on, kiss him down into his soul, and see the joy of it all on his face. I want to see him become a child for a second...let the world fill with wonder.

I love you Mr. Bullock, I hope I can make this season as grand for you as you have already made it for me.

Black Ties

2010-11-22T23:06:00.000-08:00

Home from work early havent seen you for days
business clothes on the floor
wreck of neutrals
Your Black Tie on our dicks.
tying them together I pulled tighter and you didnt complain
Drips drops to think of it
and our sex there
olive oil drops
pain like peppers
burns in a good way In Memory
breathy cries,
frosty night.

Hungry Hungry Hippo

2010-11-20T09:03:00.001-08:00

I ate an entire pizza last night. By myself. In one sitting. Well, there was one TINY piece left...but it too, is now gone. There are empty wine bottles on the floor. Am I in college or something?

Oh well--now I'm off to the Lowcountry for an early Thanksgiving with the family. Where I can eat even more delicious food. Nomnomnomnom...

That I Love

2010-11-18T09:16:00.001-08:00

The coldness in the air this morning.
Wonton soup.
Janis Joplin.
My hair.
The smell of turpentine and hands that are multicolored after a night of painting.
The pate de campagne I'll be eating at work tonight.
Tempranillo wines.
My boyfriend's new beard. It's so sexy.
The marks of passion on my neck. Its been like fifty years since I've had a hickey, and I'm wearing it with pride.
Working with my favorite kitchen crew; its the A Team tonight.
Dreaming of New York...I can't wait.
Sunday dinners. Mine and Bullock's weekly tradition.
Fireside nights with Daniel; staying up too late looking for shooting stars.
Seeing my Mama.
Banana milkshakes.
Oily, bluesy jazz that makes my very skin want to cry.
New Orleans.
Korma sauce from World Market. I could eat it on everything.
Bullock's sexy manly chest. I love to lick the sweat off of it; he thinks this is strange but I do it anyway.
; marks.
Russian tea. I drink this on winter mornings.
Wrapping paper. I've already bought mine for this year-all silvers, blacks, and whites. I'm kind of obsessed with it.
This town. I've made so many great friends and feel that I know the city's pulse.
My restaurant. Its a family of crazy lunatic people, and I love almost every person there.
Reading a day away and eating chocolates and drinking wine and not answering my phone. This is a regular practice.

What do you love?

New York Dreams

2010-11-17T09:29:00.000-08:00

So, my impromptu New York trip just got a whole lot more fabulous. My mom's coming with me. I booked her ticket this morning. We're going to glam this up Old South style. Us Southern boys love our Mamas!

I'm dreaming of: Noodles, noodles, noodles in Chinatown. Brunch at Balthazar. Pretending like I'm in Sex and The City. Underground poetry slams, oily New York jazz. The Met. Snow!

Maybe stalking Billy Cheer.

Enjoy the music.

Wild Child

2010-11-16T09:12:00.001-08:00

I did something crazy this morning.

I was feeling kind of mischevious and restless.

I randomly booked a flight to New York City.

In January.

Here I come, big apple!

Elegance For One

2010-11-11T06:22:00.000-08:00

Yesterday was a magical day. And I spent it all alone.

I went to my stylist for a new look. My hair is now quite a bit shorter and a bit lighter. It is a luminous brown. So many shades of pale and dark and russet brown. I love it. I wanted to go a little lighter than that, but I still love it.

When I got home from gettng all polished, I put on some nice clothes: my best denim, a rich black poplin shirt, velvet jacket, and Italian leather shoes. A spray of Escada finished me off, and I was out the door for dinner.

Entering the restaurant, it's owner greeted me. He's a friend of a friend. I think he's smoking hot and he calls me "baby" just to tease me. But I like it. While I was schmoozing with sexy owner guy, a lady came over and grabbed my arm. "He's with us," she announced. It took me a moment to place her: she was one of a trio of ladies I'd met at The Lounge the night before. We'd had a fun time talking and eating.

She took me over to her little group and we drank earthy malbecs and cigar-box smelling zins. We talked about wine and food and world travels. It was lovely to be welcomed so unexpectedly into their group. We joked that the hip bistro's dining room looked like the spill zone from the State House. So many representatives and senators were there.
After a few glasses of wine, I excused myself to the bar for some dinner.

The food was sensational. I had a caesar salad. It was served in a puff pastry bowl with asiago crisps, chive oil, and a white sardine on the side. A gorgeous presentation, I fed with my eyes before I launched into it with gusto. Seriously one of the best caesars I've had.

Another glass of wine materialized, as well as an amuse bouche from the chef: canteloupe wrapped in proscuitto de Parma with balsamic syrup, sunflower sprouts, and rice paper thin red peppers. Exquisite. Sexy owner guy stood behind me as I ate it, his fingers playing with the collar of my jacket made it taste exponentially better.

My main course was braised beef short ribs over pan fried polenta in a red wine sauce with blue cheese, cabbage, and jicama slaw. I forced myself to eat slowly, although I wanted to upened the plate and feast like a wild animal. It was a food orgasm, and I felt odd being so pleased in public. Oh. So. Yummy.

I sat at the bar for a while after I'd finished, sipping my wine and reading the book I'd brought. It's called Blood Kin by Ceridwen Dovey, and it's the story of an unnamed presedential coup told by his chef, his portraitist, and his barber. Good reading.

Although I hadn't planned to spend the rest of the night alone, it worked out that way. Bullock callled to cancel, citing deadlines and fatigue. I understand that. It just seems like we're doing alot of rescheduling lately.

I looked up into the growing crescent moon as I walked in the crisp night air to my car. I wondered what would become of us. I wondered what life would look like next year; I wondered about my relationship. I love it, and I feel it to be a good and safe place, but sometimes I feel like Bullock and I are from different planets. Differences aside, we generally get on well.

Still, in my small ways in those cool hours...I felt like a soldier of fortune.

Loving Me

2010-11-10T09:26:00.000-08:00

Last night marked the first time in a week that I actually felt good. My sickness had finally run it's course, and I was up for an epic drunk fest with my home girl Daniel.

After work I made a quick stop over at Bullock's apartment to have a healthy roll in the hay with him. We did so in record time. I felt kind of like a Hesterer as I left his bedroom. The taste of him still fresh on my lips, we emerged from his room. I was in good denim, a pashmina scarf from Rome, and a hot jacket. He was wearing gym shorts and a tee shirt; college students mulled around the apartment. Where had they come from? I threw my scarf over my shoulder and decided not to care that they all knew what I'd been doing. A kiss in the door frame and I was off to the Historic District.

Daniel's patio was lit up like love for us. A fire burned, candles were everywhere. Two deck chairs with plush ocean blue pillows stood ready; a table between them offered two wine glasses and two bottles of expensive red wine. My heart fluttered. I live for these nights when the air is cool and the fire is warm. When Daniel and I can just do what we do.

I'm lucky to have a friend like him. A friend who's house I can show up at and immediately announce that I must use the facilities, like that was my real reason for coming over. A friend that will laugh when I return from said facilities and tell him that his toilet paper is too thick and that it felt like cleaning off with a cloth towel. A friend that will listen to me rattle on and on as I get drunker and drunker. A friend to dream with.

Last night we spoke about a thousand things. It was our catch up after my extended absence from life. We spoke about the ghosts in our lives. The good relationships and the bad. He spoke about living with a man for eight years that took him for all he was worth, about chance meetings in foreign cities and memories that would last a lifetime. I talked about falling in love with Duke in Charlotte; about the amazing ways we fucked each other, about the drugs we did and the fantastic restaurants and clubs we frequented. About being a younger man with a smaller waist and higher hopes. We talked about the boys that left fingerprints on our hearts.

We both have caution signs around our hearts, I think. We talked about what it takes to love us. To love Daniel, one must deal with decades of disappointment and his insistence that the rest of his life be nothing but incredible. To love him, one must realize that one will rarely be in the spotlight; he's too fabulous and has too much going on. To love me, one has to either be completely crazy or just accept that I am. To know that I'm serious when I said, "I just saw a ghost," to know that although I am stable here in my life, I am a gypsy.

We spoke about our unexpected relationships. He and his guy, me and Bullock. About what we love and what we wish was different. We spoke about staying forever. Or running away. And as we always do on these Autumn nights, we fell in love a little. Me with the blonde of his hair and the blue of his eyes, him with my irreverence and untimely wisdom.

In the voice he uses when he is telling me he loves me, he told me that I was the perfect man because I look like a twenty something but act like a forty something. I told him he was the perfect man because I'm never not me when I am with him. Because he makes the simplest things so magical.

I wonder why I've rambled on and on this way. I must get on with my day. Today's going to be a fun one. I'm going to get my hair done. I love going to the stylist. It's a soul nourishing thing for me. Me time. This evening I'm going to a wine tasting at a smoking hot friend's hip restaurant. I'll get all glamorous and have a fantastic solo date.

This is me loving me.

Coming Clean

2010-11-07T17:46:00.001-08:00

What is it about relationships and illnessess that make people absolutely crazy? What is it about "crazy" that makes one think about the truth?

I've been under the weather lately. I have a nasty upper respiratory infection going on that is making me something of a lunatic. It's weird: when I get sick, I usually just want to be left alone. Like, totally alone. But this time, in addition to feeling completely exhausted, ill, and feverish, I am also whiny. I texted my boyfriend Bullock for some sympathy. "I could really use a hug and some wonton soup right now." His reply made me irrationally angry: "If I had cash and weren't afraid of getting ill, I'd be right there with a big bowl for you."

WRONG answer! You SO have the cash for a bowl of wonton soup, or we would not be dating. I get that he is afraid of getting sick: he's finishing up a masters degree in a very challenging program. He has a very extensive unpaid internship and a job to think of. Getting sick would really suck for him. But it sucks for me too. I'm always everyone's caretaker, and for once I just want to be taken care of. Maybe I'm crazy, but that hurt a little bit.

Whatever: I'm a big boy. I have plenty of cash and can order myself all the delivery wonton soup I can possibly consume. I know I'm ill. When the sinuses become inflamed and crazy acting, the brain seems to comply: I was standing in line at Starbucks today and forgot what I wanted, so I just ordered "something big with lots of caffiene." I forgot what the hell I bought from Abercrombie by the time I'd walked to my car. Turns out it was a nice jacket with a flattering cut and high collar. When I finally got around to ordering my wonton soup, I almost cried because my favorite restaurant was not open on Sundays. Then it took me fifteen minutes to put an order together at the alternate restaurant. What the hell is wrong with me?

Mucinex, cold medicine, camel lights, and pinot grigio seem to be my only solace. Oh, and plenty of cough drops and syrup to allow the smoking of said camel lights. I hate being sick. It makes me a real bitch. Apparently a forgetful one as well.

So am I crazy or selfish for being offended by Bullock's message? I really am sympathetic. But I am also sick and feverish and not thinking clearly. Then again, I'd always be there for a boyfriend, or even a friend, in his time of illness. Contrarily, not even Daniel is bringing me soup-so either I am demented and need too much, or this is normal behavior in this century, or my friends just aren't as good as I thought they were. Whatever.

Here's to getting better. I raise my solitary glass to my solitary recovery. So I can go back to being everything for everyone else.

Thus concludes my sob story and tale of doubt.

Crazy Fucked Up Bitch

2010-11-05T09:50:00.000-07:00

It's Guy Fawkes Day, and I for one am feeling super inspired. I want to blow up the establishment, punch people who need it, and generally act like a real bitch. And ya know what? Today's the day. I've been on the edge for a hot second now, and that's grating on my last gay nerve. SO: Lounge Lizards, be warned. Today just ain't the day to fuck with this boy.

Because I wanna drink cyanide want a white line wanna get wasted...and I'm kind of a tornado today. So there.

Off Days

2010-11-04T08:43:00.000-07:00

I've spent the last two days holed up in my house. I've had a good time. I've overeaten my favorite Asian foods. I've had tons of white wine, sometimes at inappropriate hours. Like noon. I've watched about a dozen gay themed movies.

Waiting for my delivery order of wonton soup (a whole quart, yeah...), chicken lo mein and the house speciality mei fun (not YOUR fun), I guzzled pinot grigio and laughed along with the boys from The Noah's Arc: Jumping The Broom movie. Stuffed full of greasy noodles, I cried when things didn't go well in Mr. Right. Hazy with wine and leftover Halloween candy, I had confusing dreams after watching a murderous tale called No Night Is Too Long. I howled while I woman searched for the father of her baby in a sea of possibilities called, appropriately: The People I've Slept With.
All in all, it was a blast.

I've been dealing with some malaise. Maybe it's the weather, which is gray and rainy and cold. Maybe it's the truth: that sometimes life doesn't look anything like what you've expected. In so many ways I am happy: I have all I need and a wonderful boyfriend to boot. I am very lucky.

But the stresses of this business are ever present. The crappy attitudes of my employers are exhausting, and the pay isn't enough to justify losing sleep. I'm trying to change: to change me, it, or even my scenery, but I'm scared. It's a messy situation. I don't know what I want to be when I grow up.

Beautiful evenings make life much better, though. Lucy came over last night. We ate chicken korma and painted pictures into the wee hours of the morning. It was lovely to be in her upbeat, careless company. Making art and drinking wine and laughing with her always puts the world in perspective.

I'm thankful for that. And I'm thankful for the days off.

Now go listen to this song. It's so beautiful.

Dumb Supper

2010-11-01T06:20:00.000-07:00

As a Witch alone in the city, I have had to rethink my rituals and traditions. I have tried to keep up the old rites that I practiced with my Circle, but that is becoming ever more impractical. One man just can't recreate the feeling of a Moon or Festival with a coven.

Samhain was yesterday; my most sacred day. I celebrated it in a new and unusual way.

Bullock and I had lunch together in the Star District. We saw that the fountain there had been dyed red-orange and that an altar to the Mexican Day of the Dead had been erected. It was full of flowers and photos and burning spirit candles. That set the tone of the day.

As we ate croissants with brie and bacon and a plate of pate and triple cream cheese, I thought about my dead. And I thought about the souls in my life that are living, that are beautiful, that make me so thankful.

Later that evening, we reconvened. I was dressed as an elegant vampire in leather pants, black boots, a purple burnt-out velvet poet shirt with a ruffled collar and an ankle length Irish wool coat. And of course fangs. Bullock was the white rabbit from Alice in Wonderland. We made an interesting pair, I am sure. I can only imagine what the trick or treater's parents thought about us!

I played "All Days are Nights: Songs for LuLu" by Rufus Wainwright. The disc is black, and the album has a dark undercurrent. They are songs of undoing. It felt right for the end of the Pagan year.

Bullock and I shared the Dumb Supper, a meal eaten in complete silence. I sat out a plate for the Ancestors and poured out glasses of expensive Granacha. It was sweet of Bullock to share that tradition with me; he is very much a Christian.

I thought of all the years of Samhain circles. In our coven, it was a ritual that took place at exactly midnight. Only the Inner Court was allowed entry into the black rite; the powers we raised were far too wild and primal for non initiates. I remembered the VooDoo drums my Erica would play; the lilting, ghostly voices of our gathered thirteen bodies as we sang ancient chants.

Raising my lace and velvet clad wrist for a final, meditative bite, I saw flashes of my future. And it was full of new traditions. It was a new life. A shared life. A life that was happy and magical.

Time Traveling

2010-10-29T17:31:00.000-07:00

It was a night for time traveling. I went back, back, back to another place, another set of hours. When I look back on last night years in the future, I will wonder if it ever happened at all.

I have a wonderful friend named Erica. She is the eldest daughter of the High Priestess of the circle I stood in for over a decade. I have known this girl forever. Our lives for so long were found in each other. By bonfires, in rituals, in restaurants, in phone calls, in crushes and triumphs, we have each seen the other's soul so clearly. My mother was sure we would marry and have beautiful children; their skin would be darkened by my olive complexion, their hair made more russet than brown by her auburn genes. And that would not have been a bad life.

Erica did something that I never expected her to. In fact, I would have sworn it would have been the very last thing she would ever willingly do. She joined the army.

She did her basic training here in Columbia. She graduated yesterday and was finally at liberty to have a night on the town. She came out to The Lounge with her sister (and oh how evocative that was of times before: we three looked out of place without spirals on our temples and black gauzy clothes) and a boy she's been seeing.

The night was tinged with urgency. I knew that before I rose, albeit with the sun-she would be on her way far across the country for the next part of her military life. Thousands of miles and endless airspace would soon lie between us. Between us, who have rarely been more than horse-riding distance from each other in all our lives.

While I wrapped up service, I sent her table numerous beautiful dishes. When at last I was done, I went up to table thirty three (I will sit there soon just to think of her) and sat across from her. Soon we abandoned her party and went out to smoke endless Camel Lights and drink Gruner Veltliner.

We were back at The Bistro, two or three years ago and a hundred miles away. It was just her eyes and her elegance as we listened to aimless service chatter. Our smoke rings, wine colored lips; server talk and cooks pacing off the stress of their nights. We were separate-each thinking the same thoughts, feeling the same things.

Soon we sat in the back of my truck in the temperate night. She had asked me to read her cards. How many times have I done so over the thirteen years of our friendship? An old hand, she took the cards and gently shuffled them. I mused that she looked so at home in the back of my beat up truck in her fine clothes and perfect hair. She looks at home anywhere she is. A girl of noble heritage.

Using the spread I always do for her, I told her the future as I saw it in those cryptic cards. We were each intoxicated-heady from the past that was blooming like spring between us. Dream child, swirling world. The familiarity of our shared moments was stunning.

The minutes moved like water, receding and then resurging upon the shore. I felt the hours tangibly. Those damned, beautiful, too-quick hours before the world stole her away from me again. I tried with all my will to halt the swirling hands of the clock, which in moments one wishes to savor forever insist on spiraling ever more swiftly.

Before I returned her to her party, I brought out an amulet from my bag which bore the image of the Tree of Life. I blew into it like her mother had taught me when I was still but a boy; a guest in my own body. I put into it the wishes that she would be kept safe and happy and remember her roots. I placed it around her neck, fastening the chain with one hand as I held her auburn hair with the other. I have so often helped her with her jewels. I kissed first her forehead, then her left cheek, then at last her right. Tears that neither one of us would let free ran like rivers in my heart.

We sat at table then, the four of us-al fresco, savoring the night. The air felt like linen against my skin. The sounds of the city seemed deflected; mirrored away by the bubble our energies create when they dance together. We sat with company, but we were alone.

I wondered when the next time I might have the great honor and luxury of sitting with her in such a fashion might be. I wondered what she was leaving me for; from what she was running. I wondered what we would become in ten years' time.

As she stood in the pregnant pause of her own bright future, I sat in silent respect of an era that was drawing to a close right before my eyes. My hazel eyes that would soon be rimmed with red remembering her lighter pair.

Our words were easy with each other. They were small animals and practiced rituals that came out for one special evening. I knew her time was coming, and our rules of elegance forbade me from drawing out the inevitable. After midnight was eclipsed and the morning hours loomed, I drew away from the table. "There is so little time," I said. So few our words, our bodies melded together in a final embrace.

She walked away with the handsome man who had escorted her. I returned to The Lounge, using the service entrance. I vowed not to look back at her, but I did once. And I caught her doing the same.

As the heavy door clicked behind me, tears burned my face. I was silent while I cried those tears that, had they words, would say "Please Gods keep her safe."

I am silent still as I cry tonight. Crying those selfish, gorgeous tears that taste like wine and love and a thousand nights spent with a woman I cherish like no other. There will never be another Erica.

We have plans to rendez-vous in Chicago soon. Let soon be soon, great Mother. Erica, you are Home to me.

Love Is

2010-10-28T08:21:00.000-07:00

Storms blew through the Historic District last night. My doors and windows were open to the cool, blustery night. Rain made soft, peaceful sounds on the tin of my roof. Candles burned and I sat drinking pinot grigio. Bullock had just gone home, and all was right with the world.

You know I'm in love. In love with Bullock and his oceanic eyes. But I'm also in love with my life and the way it has changed because of him. For so long, my life was an exciting, dangerous, sad place filled with way too much drinking and sex with relative strangers. There was rarely any real peace to be had.

These days things are so wonderfully different. I am real, whole, grounded, settled. Last evening when he knocked, I answered the door with a baking sheet in one hand and a bottle of dish soap in the other. A line of flour traced down my cheek; I am a messy baker. He laughed and kissed me, told me I looked like a male housewife from the 50's. I laughed too, but secretly I was thinking, "Thank you, thank you, for making my life the way it is today."

In my kitchen, warm and smelling the way love does when it's sauteed just right and the way hope does when it's perfectly braised, I stood rolling out a yeasty dough for a calzone. Bullock stood behind me with his hands around my waist as I sealed the edges of the dough, held his breath as I transferred the monstrous pastry to a baking sheet; nibbled my ear as I poured sun dried tomato oil over it and massaged it into the crust. Domestic bliss.

As we ate this casual supper off of my favorite dishes, I thought about love. He's taught me that love is not what I thought it was. It is not the fire flying, electric kiss of passion. It is not the aching need that I remember from previous attempts at partnership. It's not a live wire. It is, for me, for us, a slow glow. It is an easy thing that radiates warmth and makes us better. It is a shelter for weary souls and battered minds, a place of wonder in a world of unkindness.

The love we made last night was tender and polite. It was hands entwined over his chest as I moved behind him, it was the shadows of our bodies on the wall. It was the wildly erotic way he swallows my breath when I moan into his mouth. It was the sharing of all things; the stripping away of all pretense. If most of the love I have made, scratch that-the sex I have had, was animalistic and hot-this love, this sex-was something more celestial. It almost had a religious feel to it, when after he had anointed me with the elixir of his joy, I tasted it like a sacrament. An offering. Peace as he curled up beside me and rested on my chest. Sanctity as he spoke of his friends and loved ones, the breath upon which his words rode fluttering like moth wings against my skin.

Love is. And this love is the right fit for me. This is the love that saved me from myself; pulled me up from the dark tendrils of my mind and the monsters that lived in my dreams. This is the love that gives me courage, stability, and the love that drew new countries on the map of my life. This is a love defined by simple happinesses. Second helpings of home made calzones, late night walks in my historic neighborhood, midnight swims in his pool; holding hands as we sit on the porch like old men.

So this is what it's really like. What it's really like to love.

Purple; It Gets Better

2010-10-21T08:38:00.000-07:00

After an uneventful evening at The Lounge, I met up with Bullock and some of his friends at a fun, collegiate Mexican restaurant for a cocktail.

My boyfriend is a serious social activist to the tune of which I could not possibly keep up. Yesterday, he was championing the Purple cause-honoring the deaths of the guys who committed suicide because of gay bullying and spreading the message that things get better. He'd spent his day at the State House (his home away from home) doing all that.

So I met him and his friends at that restaurant. Everyone was in purple but me; I wore a cinnamon colored chef coat and the scent of sweat and Abercrombie cologne. We had a fun time drinking and chatting.

Afterwards, we went for a walk around the Horseshoe of USC's campus-this is the really, really old part of the grounds. We held hands and talked about the lives lost to hate and sadness; we decided to make an "It Gets Better" video together. Of course we have both lived through some nasty things because of our "choice to be gay." But yes...the years roll on steadily, and things really do get better. You get out of high school and graduate from college and fall in love and buy houses. That's the way it works. And then you help people who are living through what you stood in all those years ago.

Soft kisses beneath old oak trees, the moon rode the sky high and leant the world a sense of immediacy. I could feel Her full rays radiating down, drawing me up to Her as I tasted his tongue.

In Alternate Press, Chef Green Is Dogsitting.
Ew.
It smells. And it cries and whimpers and wails.

I'm not exactly the world's biggest animal fan. They're like babies to me: fun and stuff, but once they start acting out-it's time to turn around and run and hope the real parents aren't too far away.

I'm doing this for my mom. She ran away to Asheville for the (long) weekend with her sister. I hope we both survive, me and this dog. I told Bullock that he might have to emergently come over and knock me out if this dog makes me too crazy.

Being the wonderful man that he is, he immediately inquired as to what sort of "knock out" I was requesting. A charmer, that boy.

Leaving the Lowcountry

2010-10-20T09:33:00.000-07:00

Leaving the Lowcountry this morning, it was gray and rainy. The skies were cold and warm-colored leaves fell across the road.

Mama and I had walked in her garden when we rose, as we always used to when I was a child. Calling out the names of the flowers like they were old friends and relatives, we made our slow pace around her yards. Her coffee steam and cigarette smoke made fragrant tendrils as we walked.

Leaving the Lowcountry has always been emotional for me. Every time I have left in my past~to run to Miami, to Charlotte, to anywhere, it has always been hard. To again see that place of magic and walk away was no different today.

The past was walking in the present's shoes in those slow hours. I drove the roads I learned to drive on; passed the place where I totaled my first car care of a big deer. I smelled the scent of tea olive and cotton, even thought I smelled the fragrance of Mama's hand lingering on my shoulder.

And for no special reason, for every reason, I cried as I drove back to the city.

Welcome Home

2010-10-18T08:20:00.001-07:00

Another blissful Sunday; both of my boys are home. Daniel's done trotting around Europe, Bullock is home from the big city.

Daniel brought me back a gorgeous silk and pashmina scarf from Rome in my favorite hues of blue and green and bracelets from the Eastern Bloc. Bullock brought me back a whole lot of love and the smile that makes my heart bloom.

Daniel and I went shopping, as is our Sunday routine. We bought mums and pumpkins and cinnamon brooms for our porches. I got a good bit of Christmas shopping done. As a second year housewife, I will not be caught unaware by the holidays this year. I want to have the majority of my Santa Clausing done by the first of November. That way I can focus on decorating and just enjoying the season. I'm so excited!

The day was made electric because I knew I would be seeing Bullock for the first time in a week that evening. I made preparations for dinner: I decided to make my very special Engagement Chicken recipe.

Back at home in the Historic District, mums and pumpkins arranged just so, presents put away and some slow jazz on the radio, I poured myself a glass of Sauvignon Blanc and got to work.

My kitchen came to life as the age old recipe took shape. In my big gray Swiss stonewear pan, I placed a whole chicken and stuffed it with rosemary, butter, bacon, and red onions. I placed herbs under the breast's skin and topped it with more bacon, then surrounded the beautiful bird with zucchini, onions, and sweet potatoes. I seasoned it with pink sea salt (for love like the Ocean, ya know) and fresh ground pepper. Into the oven at 425 for an hour and a half. Soon my house started smelling like Mama's and life was good.

I whipped up a squash casserole and made my tea too sweet, just the way he likes it, and went to fix my hair. There's a whole lot of bang involved for minimal work when one roasts a whole chicken. And ya get time to fix up that weave, so it's a win-win.

The doors were open in my big old house and candles were lit in every window. My bedroom flickered and glowed with firelight and smelled of sweet incense. I dressed in cute jeans and long sleeve red tee with a short sleeve blue one over it, the picture of quiet domesticity. Bullock arrived in the doorframe at precisely 7.30 wearing the blue shorts I love him in and a big smile. I spun him around the room and sat him in my lap.

He told me all about the city and his adventures on trains and planes and boats. With his head resting on my shoulders, we were both happy. Life clicked back into "right," and we were comforted by our rituals.

We ate my Engagement Chicken and made dreamy, steamy love. We shared our breath; bodies, dreams and desires. Breathing deeply, we slept chest to back for some time. The dreamlike world of fire and candles and wine propelled us into sweet spirit voyages.

Welcome Home. Welcome, Home. You boys make my house a home.
Love you.

And some music~because I'm a southern homo and also a bit of an emo nerd, secretly. You would'nt know it from my wardrobe.

(here comes the Emo part!)

Hester's Day Out

2010-10-14T10:25:00.000-07:00

The boys in my kitchen call me "Hester." Yes, Hester. As in that broad from the Scarlet Letter. Every monday afternoon, without fail, at least one of them asks me "Did you do any Hesterizing this weekend?" That's their way of asking if I got laid.

The answer is invariably yes, especially now that I am a One Man Fran, much to their delight. When I'm being a bitch, they say: "Shut UP Hester!"

So, of course I had to go see the movie Easy A yesterday. I went on a solo date to the movies, and let me tell you-it was a blast. I felt a little weird, not because I was alone but because I was alone in the whole theater. Except for a really cute couple.

I sat a few rows behind them and laughed my ass off. They must not have had a very active sense of humor, because they kept looking at me like I needed to "shut UP, Hester!"

You must go see this movie. Let me tell you, I can identify.

After my little solo cinema experience, I went to Ruby Tuesday (hey, it was in the parking lot...) to drink two glasses of Sauvignon Blanc and eat some bar tacos. Yummy.

As I was leaving, Bullock called me. "I missed you. I'm walking on the shore of Lake Ontario. It's like the freakin' ocean! ...But without the salt." We spoke for a while, and time just sat down and was still. I could hear the lapping of the waves on the shore, the stubble of his jaw as it brushed against his iPhone, the desire in his voice as I promised him a Sunday he would not forget.

Oh, that boy. I'm swooning a little. Are Hesters allowed to swoon?

Cherish

2010-10-12T21:18:00.000-07:00

It's midnight plus twenty minutes, and I'm where I love to be. Right at home on my blue Marilyn Monroe couch. I'm drinking Malbec and listening to some tunes. In this post shift state of mind, I am sated. I'm wistful and dreaming.

I'm enjoying Daniel not being around for awhile, as I have said. Don't get me wrong: I love the guy to death, but he's freaking intense. I've not realised that I needed this break from him. This big ol' breathe in, breathe out to remind me that I'm an individual. And to remind me that I love him very much. I'm catching up on some me time.

Lucy might be coming over here in a minute or two. It's been a while since we've shared a cocktail and a canvas.

I'm typing with a beat up, waterlogged thumb. Kitchen life is dangerous! And sometimes comical. Here's what happened.

So, yesterday I went shopping and replaced the restaurant's dead food processor. I bought a nice one with a super fast motor. It was pretty expensive. It was with great pleasure that I used it this afternoon, for the very first time.

I was whipping up a sauce, delicately pouring in exquisite olive oil from far away. My fingers slipped and the bottle tumbled out of my hand, into the dervish spinning blades of the food processor. The next thing I knew, there were bits of glass, plastic, and creamy sauce everywhere. There was blood inside the food processor and all over me. The powerful motor had thrown the bottle through the side of the mixing bowl and into the wall. It took me a few moments to register the pain.

It's not a serious injury, but an unpleasant, unsanitary one that mandated lots of coverings for the evening. It's OK. I've had worse. It was just a case of the Kitchen Gods saying: "Well, sometimes you just can't have nice things." Guess I'll be shopping for a food processor AGAIN this week. Maybe this time I won't get one that goes faster than my truck.

Text Messages From Bullock:
"I'm on a train leaving the city. I have reservations in the dining car at 8. I'm wearing your sweater; can smell you on my skin."
"I miss you, love you."

When I think of him, it's like my chest is open. I can truly breathe. This is love, finally. This is the easy breezy spend your lives together kind of love that I've always dreamed of. And it was there all along. You were right, Alix: "Just look back and take your pick," you quoted once. And so it was~

I know it's the real thing because life seems better, easier. For once, uncomplicated. I'm in love with everything. With my clothes, my couch, my backwards state. My state of mind. The smell on my pillows when I rise, the moon in her glorious inconsistency. Everything vibrates with love, real, simple, kind love that says "cherish," not "anguish." And I am so, so thankful.

Sometimes, the world becomes another place altogether. And it just takes an instant.

New York State of Mind

2010-10-12T06:54:00.000-07:00

Both of the men I love are far away from me. Daniel is somewhere in Eastern Europe and Bullock is in New York. If I didn't know myself better, I'd call myself lonely. That would be untrue. I am rather enjoying my time of isolation.

I've gotten a bit of Christmas shopping done and have done a ton of reading. I've spent time in my studio making art. I'm going down to the Lowcountry to visit Mama tomorrow on my day off.

Of course I miss them both, but I am so happy. I'm happy to think of Daniel off doing his thing in the land of former Communism. It makes me smile to imagine Bullock (hell, thanks to the wonders of the Internets, I really don't have to do too much imagining) experiencing The City for the first time.

I do long to be there with him, holding his hand and walking through Central Park. Seeing the towers and drinking wine; living in the sunshine of his love. But the fact that he is doing it alone makes me proud of him. Sometimes I get these strange bursts of excitement that tremble right down in my stomach. My body is getting a second hand jolt of his joy.

Something else makes me smile.

Last Winter, Daniel and I bought matching sweaters from American Eagle. Thick with high collars and wooden buttons, Daniel got blue to match his eyes and I bought pearly grey to offset my darker features. I gave Bullock my sweater to keep him warm in the city rains.

I saw some of Daniel's pictures on line. There he was in Sofia or Prague, wearing that blue sweater. And there was Bullock, wearing my grey one in the most exciting town in America. There is a sort of quiet magic in that for me. I am with both of my boys, bound somehow to them by the subtleties of cotton knit cabling and brown wooden buttons.

But still my loves, it will be so good to see you again. Daniel: you and I will have a drinkdown of epic proportions, and you will ramble on and on about Europe. Bullock: I'm going to order us greasy Chinese or pizza or whatever your heart desires, and we are going to make love like you have never known. When the sweaters come home.

Skeewwzzzeeee Me?

2010-10-11T17:56:00.000-07:00

Um, this is a rant. A rant to my beloved Abercrombie. Consider it a dear so and so, if you will.

Dear Abercrombie,

I like your clothes. You make me feel all cute and collegiate when my days on campus have long since passed. Like, to the tune of seven years. Ah-your delightful, constant style. Ah. Your hideous, inconstant sizing.

Let's frame this picture.

I have a shirt from Abercrombie that I bought back in my college years. It's a medium. It stll fits. I have countless pants and shorts, purchased recently-in ridiculously small sizes. Like 30 and 32 waist. This is obviously fallacy. The last time I wore a size 30w 34l, I weighed 150 pounds and looked like I was on drugs far more serious than those I was taking. That was called POVERTY.

These days, in a regular brand like, oh I dont know-Marc Jacobs, Donna Karan, or Seven for All Mankind, I am a respectable 34/34. 33 if I don't eat or breathe that day. I am six feet three inches tall and have broad, manly shoulders. 34/34 fits. I wear a size medium to large shirt at normal design houses. I'm average. I'm not fat, and I can't see any of my ribs these days.

So why is it when I went into Abercrombie today for the holler-to-ya-mama sale featuring some surrrrious discounts-that I left the store empty handed and considering liposuction? I tried on a large tee shirt. It fit but it was a bar shirt (standing room ONLY!). I tried on large dress shirt. No way was that thing buttoning. Extra large: it fit but in the fashion of a corset. Skewwwzeeee me?

It was with great temerity that I reached for the XXL (the largest size they MAKE). Extra, EXTRA large, how did you treat me? Well, it "sorta fit." As in it was the correct size in some places. Torso was OK. The upper part was billowy and too big. The stomach portion veered inward, making a mountain of the ant hill that is my stomach. The sleeves hung down about five inches lower than my hands.

What gives with the incredible shrinking shirt sizes?

So ya know what I did? I didn't get liposuction. I walked myself down to Aeropostale and bought that shirt's twin sister in a size large. I bought that twin sister shirt for NINE dollars on sale instead of fifty, and I looked like a movie star.

Abercrombie-you can rest assured that I'll buy your pants and belts and sundries, but you have GOT to have a talk with whoever sizes your tops. Reeedickyalus.

Half Yours,
Chef Green's torso.

Hurry Home

2010-10-10T16:57:00.000-07:00

Sundays are mine and Bullock's night to cook in. This evening, his sister joined us. You see, this was something of a farewell dinner as well.

In the morning they will be flying off to New York City for a spontaneous week long adventure. I was invited, but was obviously unable to join because of my schedule.

Tonight's menu: slow cooked Boston butt with plums and rum sauce; asparagus gratin with rosemary scented white cheddar cream, and whipped parsnips. For dessert: individual peach and guava cobblers. I twined the cords of dough together, thinking about binding two happy hearts as one and placed them delicately on the fruit-the oven brought my wishes to fulfillment, I know.

We ate and retired to the back porch for iced tea and wine and gentle talks. Between us two boys, the week of distance seemed to loom large. I know I'm in love in a new and wonderful way. An easy, upper middle class white guy kind of way. The stubble on his jaw does me in; the curve of his calf is the curve of the Earth. When we kiss I breathe his breath and drink his oceans.

We held on to each other in the doorway for some time, each unwilling to free the other. I sent him off to the Big City with as many kisses as he would take from me and my favorite gray sweater to keep him warm in the colder weather. We kissed again with the soft fabric pressed against us; another entity with its high collar and wooden buttons nestled between our chests like a child.

Be well, my love, and be safe. My home is yours again when you return. Hurry home...hurry home to find your life in my eyes. Hurry home so I can see mine in yours yet again.

And if you were listening, I would play you this song. You heal me.

I. Hate. A. Waitress.

2010-10-07T21:45:00.000-07:00

I took a cab home from work tonight. I'd had my fill of customers, of waitresses, of burns and bruises. I needed a good drink down.

Back at home in the Historic District, I'm sitting on my Art Deco couch and thinkng about people's motivations. I know that as I close my eyes tonight, a waitress is losing her job. She's a lazy bitch and she deserves to go hungry. Newsflash: SIN is not for everyone: either you're us or you're not. And "you" are definitely not. So have a nice life and fuck off.

Daddy came in tonight. I knew he would. He always manages to come in at the busiest time. When I saw his face, I was 12 tickets deep and trying not to kill a bitch. I did the best I could and served him my heart's food. Sorry he had to arrive at the zenith of my stress and strife.

Can someone please install a valium salt lick in the nonexistant break room? Kthanksbaiii.

Essentially, I have seen and heard some shit that would make your average chef quiver in his houndstooth. Tonight, I say: bring it on. I will make ashes of your wishes, and you won't remember the horse you straddled when you sullied my name. FUCK. YOU.

Autumn Lovely

2010-10-04T15:00:00.000-07:00

I love, love, love Autumn. The cold months are my favorite time of the year. Blame it on my birthday being the Winter Solstice. I think its funny that my tribe (the Witches) call the period of time between 21 September and 22 December "The Dark Months." In the dark months, I am radiant. I find and cling to, manifest and sing to-a certain kind of light that I just treasure.

I wrote and prepared a Fall themed three course menu today. I made truffle, smoked gouda, ricotta and mozzarella macaroni and cheese. Squash and onion bisque. Sweet potato souflees with brown sugar and thyme crusts. And of course, my perennial cold weather favorite: braised chicken with apples and sage.

Wow: creating the link that will direct you to my luscious recipe, it strikes me just how much has changed-how much I have lived through since I wrote that post back in January. The world is hurtling itself ceaselessly towards that month of snows again~and everything is the same, but everything is different. I'm in a wonderful relationship. I feel anchored in my life. I've found myself. I've cut my hair.

And speaking of hair. I had an appointment with my stylist this afternoon after work. I showered quickly and put on a pair of blue and white checked Abercrombie shorts, a tailored white shirt and a sky blue cashmere sweater. She trimmed me up and applied wonderful colors to my hair-soft, heavenly gold and an alluring bronze, evocative of Autumn leaves. I. LOVE IT. Subtle and sophisticated.

Tonight, I'll dress in expensive denim and my favorite velvet blazer and join Daniel for dinner at a swanky restaurant for dinner. We will admire each other's new hairstyles (he got a cut and color today as well) and drink too much. And life will be absolutely swimmingly perfect.

My windows are open to the demure evening air. My house smells like ancient wood and crisp breezes; hearth fire smoke and big dreams.

With Kisses

2010-10-03T17:51:00.000-07:00

I'm sitting on my Marilyn Monroe couch wearing my boyfriend's gym shorts. I'm drinking last nights cabernet sauvignon and thinking about recent hours.

Last night was an enchanted evening. Bullock and I went on a date with the theme of "eat our way through the city." We went to a hip Arabic restaurant first. We sat on the patio and ate hummus and incredble flatbread. I drank Cotes du Rhone and relished in his company. The evening fell; Autumn's crisp russet light and smoke scented air begged us to sit ever closer.

Afterwards we went to a fun Korean restaurant I'd never visited. We ate food I can't spell until we nearly popped. The sound of acoustic music filled the streets of the Star district. We walked without direction, allowing our feet and hearts to find a path we have both longed to walk.

The night wrapped up with wine and the most incredible sex we've ever had. It just keeps getting better and better. With fondness and familarity, our bodies seem boundless, borderless-meant only for each other.

We slept soundly with the cold night air blowing through the open window. Our barely clothed bodies held each other and we shared the same pillow, the same dreams. And I woke him...with kisses.

Wedgewood Blue

2010-09-27T09:52:00.000-07:00

It's 1PM on a beautiful rainy monday. I'm drinking earl grey and wishing I had the whole day off to lay on my big blue couch and read. And overeat. That sounds fun.

Y'all. I'm really happy. Like...crept up on me by surprise and hit me on the head kinda happy. The kind of happy that makes you not want to talk about it for fear of ruining it. The kind of happy that makes you want to shout about it so everyone will know. But I don't have to-it is all over my face. I'm glowing like I have eaten sunlight.

Last night, Bullock and I had a quiet dinner in, as is our Sunday ritual. I made pasta with venison vodka sauce. I also made a fabulous chicken curry to eat later in the week. Halfway through our pasta, my internal chef clock rang out; I knew the curry was ready so I took it out of the oven. Bullock kept eying the stonewear pot like it was a big mystery.

"I'm going to have to see whats in there. And probably eat most of it," he said. So we ate pasta and then we ate curry. And then more pasta. That boy loves my cooking. And ya know what? I love cooking for him. He makes everything seem so magical.

We polished off a bottle of wine and cuddled together on the couch, talking about our upcoming week. We advised each other on suggested plans of action for the situations we would be encountering. It's nice to have a loving ear, a loving heart, a loving body to rely on when the world gets weird. I loving having that and being that.

And I love the monogamy. Yeah, you heard me. Love. It.

After the daze of pasta and curry and wine had lessened, a simple shoulder massage turned into wonderful, romantic sex. Preparing him to recieve me, I traced the letters that spell out "I love you" on his ass. I ate the energy between us as he shuddered in pleasure; his eyes deepened to stormy wedgewood blue.

We collapsed in exhausted joy, chest to back. Rain fell in silvery sheets outside, and the moon blanched my boyfriend's milky skin and made it seem to glow. I kissed my way up and down his body and tasted the salt of his soul. And all the world was perfect.

Prayers and Answers

2010-09-23T21:45:00.000-07:00

Who was the boy that fueled this blog? Where has that dedicated writer gone? The one who nightly confessed his sins and wishes for all the world to read...he is lost to me.

He's come to a literary impasse, perhaps. Maybe he thinks he's said it all already, that there are no more confessions, no more complaints, no more words important enough to write. But he'd be wrong.

Since the hate crime incident I've learned and lived through a lot. I've experienced so many new, fragile, frightening emotions. I've stood in court rooms and police stations and doctor's offices. I have learned the careful art of waiting. I have learned when to speak and when to be silent. When to cry and when to be as still as the grave.

I have promised myself not to take life so seriously-it is all so very fleeting and fast. My life could have been over on that night; it all could have ended so quickly. I've promised myself not to be motivated by fear or finance-but by joy. I will do what brings me joy. And right now that means not working so much. There's no need for me to put in eighty hours a week. Who cares? Its just food and green paper. I want to lay on my couch and read someone else's words until I fall into dreams, drool and happiness hanging from my mouth.

I want to travel. I want to live with the rest of the world, not against it. No longer on the sidelines, in stolen moments in cigarette haze and alcohol delirium. I'm tired of that. I'm tired of the hours I have kept like children needing to be watched. I have been ever vigilant in my nighttime work; I want to midwife something more substantial into life as I have so often welcomed the sun back to the earth after the peaceful blanket of night was burnt way.

I am absolutely in love with Bullock, perhaps I never stopped loving him. Reading back on the thousands of words I have devoted to him in this, my electronic diary, I would say that that is a truth. It feels good to be with him in this way. In this new-old, perfect way.

Last night we had a lovely date. We went for dessert and a cocktail at a fun jazz bar in the Star district. We went to see the 25th Annual Putnam County Spelling Bee at a nearby theatre. He'd gotten us front row center seats. We went for a nightcap. On an overstuffed couch in yet another bar, he rested his back against my chest and I held his heart in my hands. We have so often held each other's hearts.

I've met his mother and he's met mine. This seems very serious and beautiful to me. I've never introduced my mom to a fellow before. And you know there have been so many...fellows.

I thank the Gods for unanswered prayers, perhaps. Stavros was so beautiful and so wrong. It's hard, sometimes, not to pine for him. But I have advanced beyond that. Our life together would have been me longing, him turning away and being achingly beautiful. It would have been me compromising too much, me knowing too many more lessons that speak of self inflicted pain.

Life with Bullock reminds me that so often what we most seek is right under our noses. Our greatest desires, or mine at least, have been lurking right under the surface of my skin. Lurking, begging like the stars beg the day to let them shine in stellar darkness....and we will shine on.

I know I'm tired and not making much sense. But who cares? This is, after all, the diary of a crazy man.

A Hate Crime: Blood On The Beach

2010-09-13T09:33:00.000-07:00

I have wrestled with myself about this entry. I wasn't sure that I was going to write it, and I'm not certain that I'm going to press "post." Oh Fuck that, I'm sure I will. Y'all need to know. And I need to write it, to get it out of me. To free myself of some of the trauma.

On the last night of our beach vacation, I was awoken with fists to the head. Being punched awake was very disorientng, so certain details will be hazy. Hell, most of it is hazy.

Apparently Mama and her now ex boyfriend were having some kind of quarrel in the other room (perhaps about my homosexuality). She ran into my room for shelter, but he broke the door down and continued the assault. So I woke up with head trauma, and immediately began to fight with the man. I vaugely registered that he was naked, she was clothed, and there was (already) blood everywhere. He was screaming, alternately, "suck my dick, faggot!" and "I'm gonna kill your faggot ass!"

Mama and I ran onto the breezeway. The man gained the upper hand of the fight, so I simply crouched in the corner with my face protected and let him do what he had to do until she could pull him off of me. Something miraculous occured then.

As soon as I felt him fall behind me, I noticed a metal pipe on the floor. It was illuminated somehow, in my concussion-tinged vision. I know the Goddess placed it there for me. I wasted no time.

I threw him to the ground and used the pipe to beat his face in. The sensation of breaking bones and teeth was "unpleasant" to say the least, but a blackness filled me that forbade me to stop until he was either dead or in handcuffs. I continued my assault until handsome men in black uniforms came to arrest him.

They considered arresting me as well, presumably because I was visibly much less injured than he, but I avoided the state's metal bracelets and pressed charges. Unfortunately, I had already slipped into shock and was unable to give the officer all of the details he needed.

Mom and I woke in a room that smelled like hamburger meat and looked about the same.

I was still in shock-so freezing cold and shaking-but wasted no time. We went back to her house and threw all of his belongings into his truck. I called his mother and congratulated her on raising such an upstanding son. I told her that if all of his belongings were not removed by 9AM the following morning, I would have all of his worldly possessions towed to the impound lot.

Channeling Black Goddess Energy I banished him in every way I knew how and cast his soul at the feet of Kali-Ma. Lady, please be as ruthless as You can.

The bastard has already been released, but I'm in contact with an attourney who specialises in LGBT issues with a concentration in hate crimes. I hope he fries.

I don't know what else to say. I'm sore. I'm drained in every possible way: physically, mentally, emotionally, spirtually, metaphysically.

~~~~~

There is something of a happy ending to this story, though-or at least a pleasant reprise. First off is the assurance that he won't be able to hurt my mom anymore-I told her with a promise of the soul that was as heavy as the weight between planets that if she went back to him I'd have her locked up in a crazy house. I meant it and she knows it; she says that seeing him hurt me was enough to preclude any more bad judgement.

~~~~~

Last night, finally at home on my big blue Marilyn Monroe couch, I licked my wounds. The world had stopped swimming with tinnitus and too-bright light. Bullock came over. We ordered Chinese food and drank Moscato (his favorite. I'm a lush so it doesn't really matter to me...). I clung to him like he was my life raft, and in fact he was.

We made careful, tender love. His movements inside me felt like the Hand of God fixing all of the bruises and traumas of my recent hours. I fell asleep against his chest, listening to the resonant sound of his heart. For the first time in a long time, I was...happy.

~~~~~

I have made the same promises to three people in the last few days. First to myself, then to Mama, then to Bullock: "I love you and I will never leave you."

Beach Wedding

2010-09-09T16:39:00.000-07:00

It's a gentle evening here on the Atlantic coast. I'm drinking Bourbon my way-two ice cubes and a cigarette. The air here feels soft like gauze on my skin. The light is unique to this place; tender like a soft animal. Tender like a lover's breath. The light and the waves are his chest rising and falling in the secret, stolen moments of voyeurism whilst one man sleeps and the other watches.

I am a voyeur on this balcony. I've just watched a young couple get married on the beach. I am not alone in my voyeurism: many other folks stood on their balconies to watch the unknown couple take their vows. What is it about weddings that draws such curiosity? The bride appeared to be made of sea foam herself as she walked to her groom. Soft, winter white fabric pooled out behind her in a gorgeous, although inappropriate train. Her hair is the color of daybreak; his of deep evening.

The ceremony was simple: quiet and lovely. Photographs were taken; I imagine them already yellowing in albums to be looked at in later years when withered fingers touch the faces that stood on the beach that day. The last of the sun reflects rosy in the wet sand; a young man carries a woman in a cloudlike gown away for their first night as man and wife. The ocean goes on in her peaceful cadence, having already seen everything there is to see.

I played "At Last," mostly for my own benefit, because that's what I want played at my wedding. They probably could not hear it, in fact I hope they did not. If they had wanted music, they would have arranged for it. The sky couldn't be more beautiful nor could the weather be milder. A perfectly auspicious place and time for the beat of two hearts to bind.

I raised my glass and wished them luck, love, and everything they'd need for a life together. I thought of Bullock.

I dreamed for a moment of my own wedding, and what type of soiree it might be. Would it be on the beach, two men in linen pants rolled up to the calves? A rooftop with an orchestra, black ties and expensive wine? Or a simple promise between two men to love, honor, cherish, and obey. Perhaps in front of a Christmas tree, or a fountain, or a family. In my heart, Edith Piaf is telling me all about La Vie en Rose.

I watched a wedding. I thought of Bullock.

Beach Reading

2010-09-08T15:46:00.000-07:00

You know me. In between all of this soul searching, sun bathing, and pill popping, I've been doing some reading.

I must suggest that you immediately (if not sooner) go out and buy this book. It's an incredible peek into the lives of spellbound, fate-hardened twins. It is, in a word: enchanting.

Her Fearful Symmetry by Audrey Niffenegger.

Rampant

2010-09-08T15:10:00.000-07:00

(Go back and read the previous post; I'm not at home and am writing rampantly.)

It's 6.10 PM and I'm two cocktails deep (Bourbon) at a beachside bar. What I posted seconds ago was written hours ago, in the deep stillness of an Atlantic night. I wrote the secrets my heart wouldn't let me say in Columbia, in my own environment. It was an ugliness-a needful release-that just could not have occurred in my own domain. My land of oil paintings and velvet sofas...of top shelf wine and bottom shelf sentiments.

So you have read (or will, if you are going in reverse) the difficult. Let me tell you the beautiful.

I'm two cocktails deep (Bourbon) at a beachside bar. I can hear the waves. I can hear the chattering of lost-out beach bums (I used to be you, boys...are you sure you can graduate? Not sure I wanted to.) as they imbibe their Miller Lights and variant Budweiser products. Even now, happier (thank you, Valium sleep and mother's Love), they still regard me as a stranger. I don't mind. I am that. The Stranger. L'etranger. But I don't mind because the emptiness is emptying, so to speak. And that means beauty is in store.

I'm sun-bronzed (I don't really burn, thanks to the ounce of Greek blood I carry). I smell of the sea. I'm not stressed. I'm not thinking about work. If the Lounge burns down before I go back "home," I'll just laugh and pack up my ancient possessions and haul myself on to another life. That's the peace that comes after you drink the potions of madness, after you push them into your veins like last year's heroin. After you have fallen so far you no longer recognize yourself.

But I Am Coming Back. Back To Me.

A part of my peace is that I have given up on Stavros. He may have been "perfect for me," but sometimes perfect comes at a price even the richest cant pay. I can't deal with the hard feelings, the rough winds of falling in love with someone completely unattainable. That just ain't me. Sometimes its a bitch and sometimes its a breeze-you get what you want but it's not what you need. Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye.
Goodbye my darling~see you around.

I have so much to tell you about Bullock. Allow me to end this post and begin the next. The Future need not be tainted with That Which Has Gone.

The Space Between

2010-09-08T14:48:00.000-07:00

I have come to the Ocean under false pretenses. I've come to "get away," to "destress." I've come to be with my family.

All of these reasons are real, but painful obviousness stares me in the face. It stares me in the face as I face the Atlantic, which is strangely blue-green today instead of it's usual gray. I have so much work to do. Not work in a kitchen this time, but work on my heart. It's broken, and it's no one's fault but mine.

No-this is not the fault of a lover. In fact Bullock and I have once again decided to love each other simply. I pray that words do not complicate this. I will use as few words as possible with Bullock. I will let hearts speak for mouths as much as I can. This is hard for me; it is not like me. You know I live on words. I am bright-hearted about Bullock. We never really stopped being special to each other, as you know. It feels...nice...to be exclusively special once again.

It also feels scary. I must come to peace.

I must come to peace with my sexual past; with the long history of names written on the topography of my soul. I am a map of men. A map of many men and even a woman or two. There are names written all over me in precise, bold lettering. They are each their own country, their own cities and states and rivers and oceans. I am at once omnipotent and useless in this world of names; I can vist each country in the quiet of my heart. I cannot control or even sometimes bear the weight of Memory. Memory so strong it deserves capitolization.

I have been a harlot, and I am at once ashamed and yet self-forgiving. What's it matter who I was? It matters because I feel that I need to protect others from myself. I don't harbor any communicable illnesses that can murder, but still sometimes I feel like poison. Like a thread one pulls to undo an uneasy tapestry.

Here by the sea I was pulled into a trance. The horizon caught me in it's siren-gaze and I left myself. My eyes didn't blink as I flew out across the waves, into a point of inviting emptiness. Mama sat beside me in a lounge chair. No stranger to the workings of my Spirit, she reached for me. I was touching on heavy truths, and she said my face made her worry. As her hand slid ever closer to my (mostly empty) physical body, the world got darker and darker until the moment of impact. It was not jarring, but she placed me firmly back within the six foot frame of bone and blood that she created some twenty five and one half years ago.

I am at the beach; my sacred place. Where I come to let go. Where I am the most at home. The Water itself is challenging me: you must change. You must go deep into your haunted heart and free some things or you will never be anything other than The Ruiner. The dialouge is dangerous, serious, and I fear accurate.

I look out at Summer's last faces. Large Latin women and beautiful prep school boys. All manner of bodies and souls and intenions have gathered here, but I look out and feel completely alone. Empty. An emptiness such as I have never known.

But it feels that once my master, the great encompassing ocean has had Her way with me, in me-there will be something lovely to fill the yawning space in which I dwell. The space that says "lunch is two Valiums and a half bottle of wine." The space that says, "you are not worthy and never will be." The space that is made of well crafted lies.

What's New?

2010-08-19T21:16:00.000-07:00

Seeing Stavros tonight was strange. I am strange, I behave strangely around him.

I felt like a war bride. Knew you a long time ago; slept in your post-collegiate bed. Your paintings and your writings and your beer caps all around, I almost-fucked myself. A guy I knew six years ago. When I would drive around Miami beach drinking alcoholic lemonade, smoking Benson and Hedges and daring the world to make me any less happy. I was...ephemeral.

He is that to me. He of his Island extraction, his cavalier attitude. His wild blue eyes like savage songs-you cannot imagine these eyes-all of it. The result of prayers and wishes; he is the "man that couldn't exist." And yet, as hard as I try: this is not coming easy. I see him nearly never. I have a wonderful "situational boyfriend" in Bullock. I won't give that up until something very, very serious comes along

But still it was all very rainy nights and a Marlene Deitrich song. It was both of us saying possibly very different thing in a mutually poignant moment. And eyes that either thrilled or killed depending on who you might've asked.

What's new? How is the world treating you?

Lightning Bugs

2010-07-28T17:07:00.000-07:00

Scenes:
The smell of the morning, soft and "cool" at eighty. It is nice when the world does not smell burnt.

In the wine section at Publix, two men browse the aisles. I hear their soft, lilting voices, smell their expensive cologne. They are tender with each other. I watch from the sidelines; from the bottom shelf where I find the bottle I am searching for.

Driving home in the late afternoon. Ice cream melts in my truck as I navigate the historic district's twisting roads. Old houses seem to melt in the white, sun washed air. I give thanks to my native blood and know that without it's partial immunity, I would surely die.

And presently, drinking beer and waiting for my order of Peking duck with pancakes to arrive, I feel sun washed myself. Even with luxurious air conditioners, the blaring, beating sun is restless and robs me of my vitality. We are a city of wilted humans.

I am wilted, a little in other ways. I feel, or fear or know somehow that Stavros and I will not end up together. I know that I have been foolish, and that I always want too much. But today with pink early evening all around me, I feel him slipping through my fingers like grains of sand. Pawley's Island prayers in my own voice, "don't leave."

But I know your Island, Stavros. I know that miracles happen there, that if you really are a son of the sea, you will come find home within me. But the seconds are so fleeting, like Indian summer phospherescense on the waterway. I can still see it glowing ghostly, promising green in the dark water. I am floating home, back to my family's ancient house. I am floating from the ocean to our porch, and I always will be. Your Island, too, claimed me long before ever I spoke your name.

I have loved you like a lightning bug, so brightly and so briefly that you might never know.

Funny, though: lightning bugs are the exact same color as Pawley's Island glowing water. The color of dreams and danger. Green light on the edge of the lawn; they are the smell of trees and vines and childhood sweat. And my witch aunt's violet eyes...

With all of that swirling around me, the bitter and the sweet and the healing and the broken hearts, I realize that I need something. I need something to define me, to sharpen the edges of my life and make me feel more complete. I'm not sure what that something is, but I'm looking for it.

It is not in any of the sometimes wonderful men in my life. It is something that this heart, alone must find.

Island Ghosts

2010-07-25T16:40:00.000-07:00

Two days spent in my own company. That's what I'm looking back on tonight. It's 8PM on a Sunday. Crepe Myrtle shadows play on my kitchen cabinets. Abstract animals and forgotten faces tenderly self animate against the plaster walls.

I feel dreamy; disconnected. Not quite real. I spent these last two days alone because I haven't felt right in the head. I needed it. I didn't even really spend time alone: I was glued to the couch reading ludicrous books and overeating. Vampires and sad forgotten girls sat in the room with me while I avoided myself.

I had to call myself out on some bad behavior.

I've gotten so taken with Stavros in a way that is completely unhealthy and virgin territory for me. I've just met him and already I feel and think way too much. I want too much. Maybe I knew him in another life or he is just what I've always dreamed of...But Stop Already. I'm a little too old to go through all of this now.

So I became unavailable to everyone and hid in my living room for an entire weekend. I feel more peaceful, in a strange way. It was good to do something so "classically me" as having a shut in. I wish I could go to the sea.

He is from Pawley's Island, a lowcountry boy just like me. He appeals to this mermaid nature that I have, this yearning for other people of the sea. My soul recognizes him, maybe just because he comes from a place I have haunted for years. A place of summer magic for me as a child. Even to this day...

I literally see our wedding there, the great event that it could be. Begin, lifetime of dreams.

But I've got to play it cool. I can't let my own foolish heart lose us the hand. This strange obession or desparation would send him running faster than any island ghost.

Tides come in and tides go out. I don't think the heart is much different.

In recent days Daniel and I have made up and forgiven each other for being very hurtful. I think we both realized that it was now or never and that we'd seen far too much of each others' shadow sides much too soon.

Things aren't quite the same but they are good. I don't spend my days alternately crying or very angry. I'm not tossing my new friends aside, though. I met some awesome people in our estrangement. Sometimes, you can become someone else in an instant.

Lucy, Lamps, Love

2010-07-19T08:15:00.000-07:00

Late night pub crawls and later night paint sessions. Drowned my heart in wine; made new friends.

Daniel and I are on the mends, I guess, but I don't think I'll ever trust him again. He's done some horrible things that I can't forgive; only accept and consider.

Mom always knows when I am heartbroken. She actually intervened and called my former best friend and reduced him to tears. He cried his heart out, but his tears don't merit mine. I told him it would take a long time to regain the things he had so easily destroyed. Can't stop loving you, but I sure don't have to like you.

I've found a new bestie. Her name is Lucy and she makes me laugh like nobody's business. We spend our evenings drinking and howling and making art. We go on spontaneous Bohemian adventures led only by our love of life and a pair of dice. She travels with baking powder in her jeep so she can "always be prepared." She's got gorgeous red hair and a heart that easily matches mine.

We stayed up until dawn on Sunday morning living like wild beasts, feral beings that drink creativity and eat ideas. That afternoon we went to an elegant brunch place and ate three entrees each and shoveled it in with delicious abandon. The waitress simply said, "impressive."

I'm glad to have her and her wild array of friends in my life. They make a tough time hilarious and exciting.

Stavros continues to make me burn. For you, lover, I am a lamp of your own creation. Burn me fast and hard or slowly through the night; but don't take for granted the luxury of that light.

All of the unnamable things that have taken place between Daniel and me have tarnished my ability to trust. I'm shell shocked and full of disbelief, and my shoulders are squared against him. My heart won't feel another break on his account. All cried out.

Turn Out The Light

2010-07-14T21:33:00.000-07:00

Midnight phone calls with Mama
And Daniel you are not what I thought you were
Held my soul and walked away
True love aint just a phone call away
Misguided angels searching for the sun
Searching for the other one

And you will grow old and die
And I'll move to Paris and live
On my lovers' couches
Half intelligible promises in a language not my own
But at least I'm speakin' baby
Wish I could say the same for you
Not the person that I knew

I'm in the future now, and it says
Sleep while I drive
I'll let it take me and make me
Something beautiful
Something less absurd
And you will be the one
That trembles in the wake of the world
When I have gone

No more lights to guide you home

Food Of Love

2010-07-13T08:54:00.000-07:00

Stavros and I had a double date last night, the first of my storied romantic life. Of course it was incredible. In stolen private moments: kisses hot enough to melt faces, bodies pressed so tightly together, squeezing atoms and molecules into more perfect shapes. And those blue, killing, loving eyes.

I made butternut lasagna, and it was sensational. Everyone had seconds and took a piece home. I'll share the recipe if you promise to make it for someone special-yes, solo dates SO count.

The Butternut Lasagna Of Love

Requirements:
2 butternut squash
1 bunch green onions, finely chopped
16oz ricotta cheese
2 large eggs
10 oz mozzarella
8 oz smoked gouda
7 springs fresh thyme
lasagna noodles
a dash of cinnamon
salt and pepper
your favorite pan

Procedure:
Par boil the noodles. There isn't enough moisture in this dish to start with raw pasta. Set aside.

Combine ricotta, eggs, green onions, a dash of cinnamon and half of the mozzarella. Reserve.

Roast the butternuts at 500 degrees until soft-about 25 minutes. Allow to cool some; separate the meat from the skin. Mash thoroughly. Season with salt, pepper, and the chopped thyme.

Assemble, beginning with lasagna noodles on the bottom of the pan. Layer half of the white cheese mixture and top with noodles. Add all of the mashed squash and all of the smoked gouda; top with noodles. Finish with the remaining white cheese mixture and the rest of the mozzarella. Bake at 350 for another 25 mintues, covered.

Serve to the delight of your guests.

If you are lucky, there will be some left over in the morning. If so, take a bite and remember the boy wiith the blue eyes that makes you feel like you are made of starlight and sunshine and who's touch makes you thank the gods you are still breathing.

Seraphim

2010-07-08T09:52:00.000-07:00

I sat in Stavros's kitchen last night. I'd changed clothes and wore too much Abercrombie cologne, but I was still sweating from the heat of the kitchen I call my own. We drank Gruner Veltliner and ate Caprese salad.

He made me eggs Benedict. We sang along to Joni Mitchell and The Mamas And The Papas as eggs poached and English muffins toasted. He wore little: thin jogging shorts and a gauzy, worn out tee shirt. No shoes; his feet picked up darkness from the floors. I think the sight and smell of him had me sweating as much as the kitchen I'd just closed down.

The midnight brunch was delicious, although his Hollandaise was a bit runny. Hey, it's a really hard sauce to make. I sopped up the nearly broken mother sauce with my muffin and ate with genuine delight.

Later, I had my head in his lap as he read me a short story he'd written. His voice was anxious, the story an intimate look into his psyche. "Slow down, say it like you wrote it," I whispered into the soft gray cotton of his tee. It was so safe, so erotic to be read to.

His housemate walked in and we all laughed. We all went outside and sat on a blanket in the yard surrounded by tiki torches. A huge bottle of pinot grigio disappeared.

Being with him is amazing. He is close to God, a Seraphim that I am drawn to. Light up my life, Angel Boy. Make me Hollandaise when we I'm seventy five and you're seventy two. If I had a country, I'd make your birthday a holiday with fireworks and songs.

We went to bed, naked bodies rolling around together. It was too dark to see. I wished I could see his eyes, burning blue lamps like I've never known. We still haven't gone all the way. We were both too drunk and the condoms were elsewhere. I'm glad we didn't, because when we do, the world might just burn down. Watch yourself if you live in the Southeast. There's going to be a heat wave really soon.

And so we woke, still one strange creation tangled together. Chests together, his harier and more defined than mine. Nose to Nose. The first thing I saw was those blue eyes that seem to glow and do for a fact sparkle. We bade each other a "happy fourth date" and shared a morning breath kiss. Flashes, hungover: his tan, gorgeous body rising from twisted sheets. His art on the walls. Me reaching for American Eagle shorts that still smelled like freshly mown grass and white wine and the greatest of all expectations.

Seraphim, take me home.

Tupelo Honey

2010-06-29T21:29:00.000-07:00

This post is hard and beautiful and a whole lotta things, and I haven't even thought of what to say yet.

12.30 AM. Juggling a certain Venetian white and an endless array of Camel Lights, breath-stealing moments lie like wounded butterflies in my hands. I'm looking at my life, and I am.. a lot.

There was drama in Mi Casa. I don't do a lot of drama as a rule. I like a pleasant existance. But you see: I am falling in to something that feels like love but better with a boy I've barely known. He. Lights. Me. Up.

This is causing me a lot of pain, apparently. I don't feel worthy of love. There, I've said it. I think I just realized it. I cause great drama in my own heart, in a way. I have become anxious in life and in my heart. Still there is smoke in my heart.

Let me break it down for you. Stavros is younger by three years-thankfully in my age bracket that still makes a difference. Not for long. He is smart and has had few, carefully selected partners. I am a whore and I know it. I like him so much, and I would never want to hurt him. He actually said, "is it wrong to want to see your 'walking papers' (gay speak for no HIV) before we really do this...whatever we are doing?"

"Not at all." Clear, even voice. Quivering stomach.

The night of the perfect second (I already know You and You Know Me) date, we sat on my washer and dryer and talked about everything. Everything. If he does not run he's crazy, and If I don't try I'll die of greiving. I do not know you and I absolutely love you. You are either my soul mate or I am a fucking lunatic.

Tears in my eyes again. They come like the ocean. Tides come and go on their own maritime watch. I'm the still but errant Earth. Wash over me.

I went to have the Test (capitol T) done. Due to budget cuts much decried in my own blog (I am so fucking pissed and heartbroken I can not tell you), no one was there to Test me. I got to thinking and I got to drinking. I got to crying and plannning for dying. It was so scary. Mama called and heard something weird in my voice that still puts a fist on my heart. She came to me.

That night she peeled an onion with the grace of a practiced healer. She has repaired torn tissue so gently that the unsedated patient was unaware and she treats hearts no differently. She is so much wiser than me. I am a child, a weed, something stupid at her feet.

We said everything and more and heard our souls speak out loud. We have not done that in some time. I thanked her so much for coming over and over, although I had not requested her persence. Two people that look and are essentially the same clung to each other in a well of tears. She said to me, "I will always love you." I heard and saw, and choke on my own salt now...something magnificent.

We were hundreds of years in the past and so happy, she was a he and I was a she and we were so in love. So young and so beautiful and nothing could ever be better if god herself drew it. I can't stop crying. I knew then as I have before that we are our real life partners, separated by words called "Parent" and "Child" and "Weird Destiny." Miss you, mom, when you were my husband.

I think we only agree to do lives together, and I know for a fact that we agree to our lives. I remember doing it. I remember warnings about it being "hard" and laughing in the faces of souls much wiser and older than my own. Essentially, I've said "after that last go-round, I can probably handle anything." Fool. But I'm glad I was foolish.

Anyone but someone special would call me a lunatic, but I felt and knew something incredible in that moment, when she held me like a child to her breast as I fell apart. So much has been on my mind. I knew it was in fact life after life with her. She is my chosen soul, the other half of me.

I scheduled another appointment to screen for HIV. Mom and I went the next morning at an ungodly early hour. Again, an emergency budget meeting prevented my testing. We came back an hour later and clung to each other when the fated moment arrived. A small, teal colored thing was produced. Why are all medical devices and doses marketed via the color teal? So impersonal.

A gloved finger pressed down on it and I heard a series of snaps. I vaugely felt my flesh give way to the lancet, then blood was pooling on the tip of my finger. Red. Bright red. Red is the color of stress and passion, and in a cold chair under flourescent lighting, I felt just that like hope in my chest and sand paper on my tongue. Hyperawareness.

The results were the most positive negative you'd never met, and we both wept. Then we bought perfume and cologne to celebrate the fact that my own foolishness had not given me a disease that almost never ends well.

I learned a lifetime of lessons in a few hours. I am so thankful. And so exhausted. "I'm always up for a good cry," Mama said. I think we cried out a whole lot of mutual crazy.

When last I wrote, I intended to tell you about a fabulous wedding that sis and I catered. In flashes: money and too much money. Fumbled graces; assinine behavior. Daniel and I hiding in the wine cellar, resting our weary bodies on the cold stone floor. Us drinking a weary bottle of incredibly expensive red. That was that and we made a ton of cash. Great blessings.

At a local bar in the Star district of this strange town, I handed Stavros my 'walking papers.' I'd written in my best hand "Becase you are so third date material."

"I know what this is," he said. His light was beaming on me like the autumn moon and I could do nothing but gasp out appropriate words. "You're worth it," I said after two too many free bourbons. What wouldn't I do for the right guy?

I am raw and austere but thankful to be alive and hopeful about love. It's been a really, really rough few days.

Things have changed.

I'm an imposter with my fancy Venetian wine and expensive cigarettes. I dont need any of it. The real joy of this moment is a sweet as Tupelo Honey.

Smoke In My Heart

2010-06-27T22:18:00.001-07:00

One AM is here again. It's a welcome pause in a string of busy days and hectic nights. In my absence I have seen some things that a boy just ain't supposed to see. I'll tell you all about it in the morning.

Tonight I have to tell you about lips and eyes and a heart that beats in my ears. I'm telling you in uncertain terms that with each passing moment I want more and more to be a thing possessed, to be a thing that burns for him. To be a light for him. To be the world to him. To be the world.

I can't tell you how I feel. I am happy, so happy. Excited. And so scared. It feels like death to open the box that contains everything you've ever wanted. I'm too brazen to leave the ribbon intact, but I don't know if I'm strong enough to look it in the face. Great, frightening, cavernous box of pleasure. How you haunt me.

Does anyone know what it's like to feel dirty and used when you stand before what might be the man you've always wanted and always loved. The man that fits the bill so well he could have written it. And maybe he did...

Does anyone know how this feels, to be the best and not be good enough? To be so fragile and so frightened? To be so accustomed to the world that papers spelling out "never again" have already been drafted just in case all of this becomes a force of spiralling torment. In case you fail; in case the world just ain't with ya.

I don't know you and I think I love you. I love the idea of you, I love the way your lips are, the way you believe in ghosts and the softness of your hair. I love you when you're breathing smoke into my mouth, counting out the heartbeats until I breathe. I love the way you are smoke in my heart yourself; ephemeral, prescient you.

I love the way you infuse me, like tea, a thing made only to be made better by you.

Don't be unkind, Great Universe. I cry already for nothing or everything. Please bless this and do not sully or complicate it. Let it be easy and let it be love. Let it be hand in hand for a long time. Heart in heart and body in body without woe or worry.

I am a small thing in the world of great beings. Wanton, unfocused, I trudge along, a shadow of the man I'd written myself to be. I want to be the whole man, the whole man for this man.

I will be unafraid. Unafraid of love, of illness, of poverty. I will not fear them as I soldier along, phantom like, to the off center center of gravity that the world calls Stavros.

The Dark Months

2010-06-21T22:52:00.000-07:00

Happy Summer Solstice, Darlings!

Witches all around my hemisphere are celebrating summer's arrival tonight. They are heralding the Sun's zenith, our longest day. Fifteen hours of daylight, today. Thats a whole lotta daylight.

It's 2AM, I sit post shift with Venetian wine and Turkish cigarettes. For me, in this overheated Southern city, I am something of a witch in reverse. I am so pleased that The Dark Months are upon us now, times of waning light and cooling environments. More night is awesome. Less heat is even better. Y'all. Carolina is seriously hot.

I'm a native so I've got a little immunity to the incredible heat. Sometimes, though, the unberable temperatures induce a sort of summer delerium. I see it in myself and others. It's symptoms include an inability to focus and a tendency to get very drunk very quickly. Throw in some irritability and a dash of psychosexuality, and you've got the recipe for summer delerium. It's a city specialty.

Additionally, the restaurant biz is hot. My customers complain about the heat from my range, ovens, grill, flatop, fryer, steamtable, and sometimes a pot of boiling water. The servers who have to run around don't have it much better. They do, after all, have to run around. If my job was done correctly in advance, there isn't much of that.

Short story long, The Dark Months change all that. Every day will be shorter and shorter, and eventually a little cooler. I am soooooo ready for pumpkins and pretty leaves. Summer just ain't my season. I can almost taste the Darkness in the air.

There's another kind of fever in the air, and I have to tell you all about it.

I am so taken with Stavros that I can't handle myself. I've known him for such a short time, and we have never even been truly alone, but I just can't get enough of him. The world is luminous in his presence; he is phosphorescent, burning brighter than everyone else and in an ambiguously different way.

That kiss on main street...

We are making CDs for each other like we are in high school. I think it's an awesome idea. I'm kind of obsessing about it. This guy makes my heart flutter like I AM in high school!

I want to drink with you think with you sink with you sleep with you play tennis with you, get lost with you, marry you, adopt children with you, retire with you, travel around the world with you, meet your mama, and someday die with you. Like, seriously. Deal?

When I see him again I'll have had my hair fixed back all pretty like and will wear my new AE shorts and generally live happily ever after.

Well, Shit.

2010-06-18T22:41:00.000-07:00

So it turns out that I can't read.

Veto #107, the total healthcare plan for my state, has been sustained. NOT overridden. Thanks, Sanford. You are the devil. Thank you Representatives: you, too, are the Devil.

Only blacks, fags, and junkies get HIV huh? It's smart to root us all out and allow us to perish in the sun. So good going, you've done just that. How long before people start to die? There is blood on the hands of the South Carolina House of Representatives. Lots of blood.

I am so ashamed for us all.

Say your prayers, beloved friends. South Carolina is going to need them.

First Date

2010-06-18T09:30:00.000-07:00

I've got a lot to tell you today! Let me get right down to it.

I took Wednesday and Thursday off. I needed a breather and it was wonderful. I am so relaxed, restored, and ready to rock at the Lounge tonight. You know me, though: no two days off can really be that low key.

On Wednesday I went up to the State House with the HIV organization. Our governor has a list of budget vetoes a mile long, the one of chief concern to me is the healthcare package. Included is the ADAP funds (AIDS money) as well as dollars to pay for immunizations, preventative screenings, etc. Also of particular distress is that the arts budget was also completely wiped out.

I spent a good part of the day up there talking to my representatives and getting the word out about how important that money is to so many people. I texted Bullock and he came up to stand beside me and fight for the cause. It was really romantic. After I'd done all I could do, he took me on a tour of the beautiful old building. We sat in the Senate gallery and watched the good old boys do their politics. Bullock loves it there and he was electric as he watched the voting. I looked at the few hot Senators we have and fancied that I smelled barbeque and dust.

I learned later that day that the veto had been overridden. ADAP was saved again! Thank the Gods.

Bullock and I ended up having hot afternoon sex. We tousled together, soaked through from the Carolina heat; we were lurid, tawdry, on the edge of life. Laying together in a pool of our moisture, we spoke gently. It was an auditory juxtaposition with the memory of our animal cries of passion lingering in the air.

It turns out it was his birthday eve. "When I turned twenty five, you woke up in my bed. We fucked and drank Russian tea, do you remember?" "Of course."
I invited him over to repeat the festivities in his honor, and he accepted. We parted ways.

*****

Showered and dressed casually in burgundy madras Abercrombie shorts and my favorite black linen shirt, I walked down Main street. Twilight was all around and the heat of the day had broken. My heart kept tripping in my chest with excitement: I was meeting Stavros for our first date.

Halfway into a PBR at an underground bar I have mentioned before, I felt his hand on my shoulder. An electric pulse flared in my nervous system as I turned around to meet his intense green eyes. It took every ounce of resolve I had not to lick his face or something. He is so, so, so HOT. Hottest guy I have ever been on a date with, hands down.

One of my coworkers introduced us a few nights ago, and I have been burning to see him again ever since. We were instantly the best of friends. I laughed so hard that my face begged me to stop. We had an incredible time drinking beer and eating pizza.

The Gods smiled on us and presented the best Urban Phenomenon I have yet encountered: The Perfect First Date. Things got really interesting...

After we'd eaten, a band materialized in the hazy pub. This was no ordinary band-it was a quartet of bassonists. The effect was very strange and it hushed the lively pub. Morgue silence ruled aside from the eerie intonations of the bassoons. A lonely projected road wound on behind them. Stavros and I were freaked out and went to the sidewalk to smoke and continue our rowdy talks.

Walking down the street a ways, a familliar voice called my name. I didn't see anyone on the street that I knew, so I looked up. It was my friend from the art gala that I attended! She waved us up and welcomed us in to her palace in the sky. She gave Stavros the incredible tour while I sipped my beer on her balcony.

At the end of the incredible evening, we walked together to our cars. Where our paths diverged, he looked me in the eyes. "I don't usually do this, but..." Our bodies moved together and all I could see was his perfect green eyes. The street corner seemed to expand and spin as he kissed me. It was...perfect.

*****

I stopped by the market and got provisions for Bullock's birthday celebration. White wine and a tiny chocolate cake shaped like a present.

In restful quiet, we ate the cake and drank our wine. He fell asleep iin my arms. I carried him to bed like guys do in the movies. When he woke we made love again and drank more wine.

Finally, we slept.

holdspace

2010-06-15T08:29:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, I prepped up a Greek menu that I had written. I spent the morning making moussaka and chilled cucumber soup; I tried to cook like a native of the land. I loved the feel of working my way through unfamiliar, ancient recipes.

Around four thirty, I left, contending with the violent Carolina heat (we are already seeing numbers in excess of one hundred). I sat in a puddle on my couch, shirtless and struggling to breathe the heated air when my phone rang.

It was one of my friends from the HIV center. In tears, she told me that all of the state's ADAP money had been cut, and with it the center's ability to help has been seriously restricted. Personally, she lost half of her salary and has been forbidden to work more than half of her usual hours.

"Leslie, let me take you out to dinner. Meet me at the The Lounge in half an hour." Tearily, she agreed and pulled herself together. We enjoyed many plates of the delicious Greek fare and had many glasses of wine. We spoke mostly around the issue, just eating and drinking and catching up. I think it took her mind off of things for a while.

She's an incredible woman and I know she'll make it. But we are all so heartbroken about the massive loss of life that is surely soon to visit this city. Without that money, people will die.

Isn't it midnight on the other side of the world? Remember the face of a dying boy.

I came home to drink champagne and fight back tears. Andres texted me-something about how he needed a place to stay for the night. I didn't understand the details of his situation, but I agreed that he could come spend the night. By the time I'd welcomed him, he had already found other accommodations, and thankfully so. I didn't really want to deal with him, but I couldn't bring myself to leave him out in the cruel world. It must be so scary to be so far from home-with limited language abilities-and no one to turn to.

Yesterday was all about holding space. Sometimes when life gets crazy and the winds come up, you just need someone to hold space for you. I was glad to stand behind Leslie and to have open arms for Andres.

I almost lost my resolve when Leslie was asking me about the men in my life, and if they approved of my spirituality. In rare honesty, I answered, "It wouldn't matter if they did or if they even knew it at all; no one stays long enough to matter." She looked on me with knowing eyes, then, and told me that the majority of her own life has been spent alone. Her quiet, almost violet eyes tentatively proffered that this might be my own fate. "It's fine if that is the case, because we are all strands in a web-and if one pulls hard enough on one strand, one can feel the rest of the world respond." Damp solitude visited our table for a moment, and then left like steam.

I counted my blessings yesterday. I am thankful for a job that I love, friends that I can turn to, family that heals me, and a home that shields me from the eyes of the world. I am thankful to be able to hold space when needed, to be able to confess to the occasional lonely sentiment. To be able to move quickly in life's unpredictable current.

There are several men vying for my time right now:
Will, a 21 year old college student with gorgeous blond hair and a body that just won't stop.
Stavros, an incredibly hot fellow of 22 years. He's handsome in a nontraditional way, and his white-green eyes make my heart stop.
Lastly, there is Mark. I met him at The Lounge-he was up on business from Charleston, where he works for a college and lives in one of those beautiful antebellum homes. He's older, at 39 years-but he is gorgeous and moves with a seductive confidence. I may have to go visit him soon...
More assignments for your friendly neighborhood Feral Boy.

Lovers and Lobsters

2010-06-08T10:15:00.000-07:00

This is a quick post before work. I have so much to tell you and no time to do the dishin'.

Yesterday:
I felt wrongness as soon as I opened the service entrance door at The Louge. The energy of unmitigated chaos was running rampant.

Delieveries came in all screwed up. I placed a Sunday order and the bitch that took my notes down was obviously on heroin or something. She sent me six CASES of crab meat instead of six CANS. She sent fifty pounds of ground beef instead of a case of tenderloins. She is on my hit list.

We were doing a huge lobster bash. Only-we had no lobsters. Chef and I paced together in quiet anxiety until they finally arrived at three. We then had the luxury of killing three cases of those nasty little buggers-only to finish barely before service.

We were sold out of all of those sea roaches by seven. Thats a hell of a lot of cooking in a tiny bit of time.

After work I went to a little pub to drown my woes in bourbon. I succeeded in so doing and also met a hot bartender. We exchanged names and numbers and dirty notes. I saw his eyes light up as he read my words across the room: "I'm not going to lie about it. I am going to make love to you and then make you dinner, and you are going to love it."

I had a blast at the bar, and was apparently something of a local celebrity. A rotund drag queen immediately heralded my arrival. "Look y'all its Chef from The Lounge! He has sexy hair!" "Hey y'all!" I called back to the room-and then they all began to chant "sexy hair!" It was so strange but flattering. Gods bless the gays.

I have also been something of a whore lately. Big surprise, I know.

So, I had a threesome with this cute couple. It was so forbidden and erotic...the feel of their very differently built bodies against mine at the same time was kind of hypnotic. Ah, the joys and duties of being a Feral Boy.

Stay tuned for more news in the land of lovers and lobsters.

Art Day

2010-06-04T09:47:00.000-07:00

Last week Daniel and I had pinned in "Off 3 June 10" on our respective schedules. From both sides of the house, a furtive happiness was brewing.

We shared an entire day devoted to art. Our morning hours were spent blowing glass. We each made enormous lamps to hang in our homes. Mine is colored like ancient amber and is as large as my torso. I used colors with romantic names: iris gold, silver green, bone white. Daniel's is a masterpiece in cobalt, red, and violet.

We shared a lunch of Daniel's chipolte chicken salad sandwiches and assorted melons with the gaffers before departing. We drove around the city admiring the architecture and the people from an artist's perspective. We spoke of perception and how the Other Side must be the best or worst of our minds. "What will it be like for us, Daniel?" "The colors will be so bright we will feel them in our stomachs and taste them with our eyes."

Dizzy loving whirlwind life with you...
And death with you as many times as you want to take this journey
Ask me and I'll be there to go around the sun again

We went home to our own glass filled rooms, only a few streets apart here in the Historic District to get all spruced up. We were attending a friend's sculpture showing (at her own swanky gallery of course) and wanted to make a splash.

I had a fashion mishap that nearly took to the streets. I had put on drawstring cream linen pants, a slightly darker linen blazer, and a light blue Donna Karan shirt. Fabulous sandals in a sea blue plaid print finished off my elegant art show look. Or so I thought.

As soon as Daniel walked in the door, he started laughing and pointing at my crotch. I couldn't figure him out, so he took a small mirror from his man purse and opened the front door. The sun rendered my linen pants completely sheer. I could see the white and bright lime green lines of my hot American Eagle underwear as clearly as if I'd not bothered wearing trousers at all.

I'm glad, too-because as we were emerging from the gallery, a lady style blogged Daniel! She liked his madras pants and nicely detailed tuxedo shirt. His bracelets where "whimsical and alluring," the style blogger said. She didn't say anything about my backup outfit of Flypaper Denim, a black linen shirt and a silver cuff from the Orient. Bitch.

The art show was fun. The sculptress had partnered with a talented painter and the effect was hypnotic. Daniel and I visualized our own installation hanging in that space and our breath caught collectively to think of it.

After the show we went into a pub that neither of us had visited before. We descended mysterious stairs that led us below the street and Civil War era buildings. The perilous stairs took us into a subterranean bar that we immediately loved. Exotic art lined the walls; Joe Purdy was playing on the radio. The bartenders were tatooed hippies and we set in a booth that was so tall our feet didn't touch the floor. Daniel joked about feeling like Edith Ann. We ate a delicious pizza and I drank PBR. It felt like St. Augustine; it felt like Heaven.

We stopped by another bar and mourned the passing of Blanche Deveraux with two vodka cranberries and a group salute.

Our plans to do something creative in the evening hours were dashed when I was taken by sleep before midnight. I had the strangest dream:

Hot Cook was crying; broken up with sadness about something. Somehow I was there with him all of a sudden, my hands opening his shirt and pressing against the center of his chest. I held a position of frozen cardiac resuccitation, and I felt his sorrow rush into me through my hands and out into earth through my feet. I did this for so long that I began to cry myself, my tears pooling between the palms of my hands. I felt that I had taken too much of him and began to push bright energy back into his solar plexus. I did this until I collapsed beside him, dizzy and exhausted.

Strange dream or psychic intervention? I have no idea.

Stormy Weather

2010-06-01T20:26:00.000-07:00

The Lounge was tense but uneventful tonight. Ravaging storms with bright bright lightning and hard rain assailed the city's center. The jazz sauntered on at The Lounge. The martinis poured and the guests laughed. The etouffe got 86'd.

Storms came and went as they love to do in the last of Spring here in this city. I was thankful for them. They watered my plants and cut the steam of the hot, humid day. Storms came and left elegant fog behind. In the tender pause after electricity and gusto I went home, loving the feel of the fresh, damp night.

I had my windows down, driving through the misty city's darkness. The moisture in the air made my clothes feel damp and heavy. I took a different road home after work. Why this evening of all evenings? On this route I saw a set of bridges and overpasses that seemed to glisten and shiver in the oddly humid evening. They looked lonely and it was contagious.

I was struck with profound loneliness then. From nowhere a sentiment so specific had arisen, or had placed itself upon me. Taking the road that veered away from it, back into my familiar downtown streets-I wondered what I was doing with my post shift hours. Drinking with Daniel didn't feel right, but I didn't really want to be alone.

Eric's name nearly spoke itself in the air that was passing through the cab of my truck. Air that was almost water. I know what Eric and I are to each other, and I love it. But fog brings out a sort of delirium that lives in me and I wondered why each night I go home a chef alone. No one there to draw me a bath or for whom to pour a glass of wine or with whom to talk about the world.

So for no reason, loneliness made my clothes damper than the strange Carolina weather ever could. Don't tease me with pictures of a boy to come home to. I didn't ask for that. I was doing great alone.

What is it that makes humans weak? Why have I turned to a man that can give me all except for everything and laid a bet on it? It's better than good and it'll do until or if I ever find the boy that lives in my mind. The boy that writes songs and makes pancakes better than I do. The boy that makes my eyes water to think of.

Strange sentiments prevailed on a stormy night. In inclement weather we all do what is necessary to survive and we hope that a little bit of humanity is left over after the fight.