Anima

A question I've been asked more than once in my lifetime in a variety of ways is "Are you gay?". The people asking these questions have ranged from associates that I had only a passive knowledge of their acknowledgment of my existence before the question was asked to girlfriends (why yes, that is a plural for significant others who have asked me).

So I ask myself, "Self, what might lead someone to ask this question of me? Might it be because I write poetry? Or maybe because I am an avid listener of Sarah McLachlan songs? Could it be my four years on a gymnastics team? Or perhaps it is the fact that I can knit and identify a gingham pattern."

And self answers back, "Why in the bloody hell does it matter?" (self can be quite tactless when he is feeling English but also infuriatingly poignant). I thought about his answer yesterday as I was french braiding my scene partner's hair. Sure, it can be awkward when I don't know whether a person is asking me because she wants to find a nice, unassuming man to develop a strong friendship with without worries of said man becoming attracted to her (to insert a thinly veiled cheap-shot here, I'm quite certain that she was in no danger of that becoming true in my case) or if that person was attempting to stuff me into a ticky tack box (now that I think about it, I'm pretty sure it's safe to assume both in this case). But really, any judgments made upon me are made after the fact of me and whichever my interests happen to be at the moment (right now, for example, I write this blog for the gaiety that it instills in me).

And what of those judgments? Am I to assume that these things I do swing me towards some solidly defined line of femininity beyond which there is no return? To those who say so, self says, "Shut your damn piehole! The ideas of masculine and feminine are afflicted by the same circular reasoning that plagues the romantic poets; they are defined by the very thing that they define. Men are masculine when they do things that are done by men and women are feminine when they do things that females do." I'm a man, I do things. I'd much prefer to be defined by how those things affect people in specific rather than in general as they correspond to some inconstant and fundamentally flawed checklist. I'm afraid I'm not going to fit into any of your paradigms. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm either going to replace the brakes on my car or plant some poppies outside my window. I haven't decided yet.

An open letter to L

Dear L,
A very long time ago I made you a promise I couldn't keep. I told you I would wait for you. After those two years you came back and we picked up right where we left off but the person you came back to was not the same one you left. I was older, wiser, and afraid. I only gave you the half of myself that I knew you couldn't keep.

I'm so sorry I gave up on you. I'm so sorry that I was so wrapped up in protecting myself that I couldn't see how much you were hurting. I'm so sorry that I distanced myself when I saw you coming to me. I'm so sorry that I couldn't make myself available to you.

When I came to visit you in the hospital you told me that I was a good friend. I didn't believe you. I still don't. I saw so much more than I told you I did. I guess you did as well. When I see you in town I don't want to hear about your life. I'm still afraid that if I let you in, I wouldn't be able to protect myself anymore. You're too real to me.

This isn't any sort of atonement for these things. I don't expect a medal or any fanfare. I couldn't keep my promise. I'm sorry. That's all.

-P