Journal

Last week I started touring web sites in New Mexico. I’m just trying to get a feel for the place. Well as much of a feel as one can get over the web. It’s only six months before I’m eligible for relocation benefits, so I guess it’s time to begin looking in earnest. After my mom’s birthday last week, I’ve decided there’s really nothing keeping me here but force of habit. Time to move on.

Anyway, it’s time to get real about moving.

Phoenix, AZ is on the list because of the concentration of technology there and because the firm I work for, Ajilon Information Technology Services, has offices there. In fact, it’s one of the reasons I chose Ajilon during my last job search. Relocation benefits are available after one year of service at the discretion of the local office. I’ve been watching the Phoenix job openings on the Ajilon web site. I haven’t seen anything up my alley yet. There’s still plenty of time, and I won’t have a year of service in until the end of August anyway.

Albuquerque, NM is on the list at Jeffrey’s suggestion. He’s lived there before and recommends it highly. I know less about both the city of Albuquerque and the state of New Mexico than the other cities and states. So I need to do a bit more research.

Even if I could afford it, which I can’t, I made the commitment to myself and to Jeffrey, that I will never post bail for him again. It’s something that I repeated to him at least three times this past week. And exactly zero of his friends and relatives can come up with that kind of money either. He’s in until the end of all his sentences, which could be a long time.

The Resisting Arrest charge is completely out of character. I’ve seen him arrested several times, I’ve seen him in the back of a car after being picked-up just on general principles, and I’ve put him in the back of a car personally. (I later decided not to file charges.) Never has he been anything other than polite, respectful, cooperative and even friendly with the officers. This one really puzzles me.

Other than that, I’m still working on my feelings and reaction to this new plot twist.

Naturally I felt quite a bit of anger this morning, being awakened by the phone at 5:10, learning what he’d done, seeing the patrol car zoom up Goodman Street with it’s window frame all askew, hunting down the car, and discovering the spare on it, again.

As the morning’s progressed, the anger has been replaced by the sick, sinking feeling in my chest and abdomen. It’s as if gravity has tripled its grip on my internal organs.

Earlier, I phoned Jail Administration who referred me to Jail Mental Health, who referred me to Jail Medical. I wanted to alert them that Jeffrey’s been feeling suicidal for the past few days. We talked about it for nearly three hours Sunday night, and again Monday night. Last night we settled some issues between us, and when he left at around 7:00, I figured the crisis had been averted.

Silly Bruce. I should have known by his tears when we hugged.

Early evening Wednesday March 3, 1999

Jeffrey called from the jail as I was posting that last entry. He had just awakened from sleeping it off, and so they had only just processed him in and given him his one phone call. I’m touched that he called me.

In any event, between the time I wrote the lunchtime entry and the time I posted it, a couple of things came together in the back of my head:

1. Jeffrey’s been having suicidal thoughts lately.
2. It’s completely out of character for him to resist arrest.

Could his resisting arrest have been a suicide attempt?

When he called, I asked him that question directly. His answer? "Yes." He went on to explain he repeatedly made verbal threats to the officers. Then he told them he was going to shoot them, and made gestures as if he were pulling a gun out from beneath his coat.

To their credit, the officers last night did not fire any shots as they apprehended Danger-Boy.

Anyway, I’ll not be attending his arraignment tomorrow morning. I’ll attend any evening court sessions, if I can.

Here’s a funny one. Just to see what his answer would be, I asked if there was anything he wanted me to do. Naturally, bring him underwear, socks and t-shirts, and put some money in his commissary account came up. I reminded him that I’m still persona non grata at the jail. He suggested I get someone else to make the actual delivery to the Inmate Property desk. When I replied that I’d think about it, but it wasn’t at the top of my list, he hung up.

I just got off the phone with Debbie. She didn’t know that he was still in jail, and, like Jeffrey, didn’t believe me when I said wouldn’t bail him out. And oh, by the way, he’s under the impression that he’ll be released on his own recognizance tomorrow morning. I laughed at him. Great big belly laugh. Then I told him he’d better think again. He won’t be out until the end of all of his sentences.

Then he said that the jail will probably run them all concurrently. Maybe so. But the judge in Henrietta, the one who issued the bench warrant, promised him the maximum sentence of one year if he fucked-up before sentencing. I think this constitutes a fuck-up.

With good time, one year is eight months. All he needs is one consecutive sentence of at least six months, and he’ll be there for 365 days, the maximum any inmate can be held in the county jail.

Of course, I reserve the right to change my mind … and other circumstances may intervene, but as I sit here now, I fully expect to be living in the desert southwest long before then. After all, while he was in jail in January, he told me that when he’s ready to move, he would go without me if I couldn’t or wouldn't go at the same time. Tit for tat.

Late morning Thursday March 4, 1999

Although I took an earlier bus, I never made it in to work today. Last night’s rain turned into about eight inches of snow by this morning. Several buses, a few cars and a van were all stuck on the same hill. It’s a long way up, with several intersections and an expressway interchange along the way.

After a couple of hours, (really!) we saw a bus coming in the other direction. The four of us who were left on the bus, (we all work at the hospital), had our driver flag down the other bus. We rode home for free. Three hours, and I got maybe three miles from home.

Jeffrey called just a few minutes ago. At the arraignment, they added Attempted Escape to the charges and he found out that Criminal Mischief 3^rd Degree is a felony. He has three prior felony convictions, so worst-case, he’s looking at 12½ to 25 in Attica.

"You were right," he said. "I’m gonna be away for a while. They’re not likin’ me at all."

"No shit Sherlock."

Except for his socks and boots, all he has to wear is the flimsy jail uniform. I doubt it would keep me warm on a summer day. "I know it’s not your number one priority," he ventured, "but it sure would be nice to have some warmer clothes."

"I’m afraid you got the wrong idea yesterday." I explained. "I get paid tomorrow, and I’ve got to pay the rent tomorrow. That will leave me with about $100 until next Friday."

"I guess I’ll have to suffer for a couple of weeks. I picked the wrong time to go to jail."

"And the wrong way to do it," I added.

He’s there with no bail, no bond, until Monday when he can get a pre-trial hearing on the felony. "Since I’m destitute," he told me, "they’ll probably set a fairly low bail. Like maybe $2,500.00"

"A little rich for my blood."

"I know," he sighed.

He asked the deputy how long the average wait was in Reception.

"Three or four days," replied the dep. "Now you gotta get off the phone."

"Well I may not be able to call again until Monday or Tuesday night. Keep the faith. I love you man."

"I love you too."

Click.

The events of yesterday have generated some pretty interesting mail. As usual, you guys have given me a lot to think about. And right now, I think I’ll take a nap. J

Sleep never came. In it’s place, thankfully, came the tears. I spent the rest of the afternoon alternately crying and writing, with a couple of phone calls thrown in for good measure.

I’ve known I’d have to make some tough decisions when a day like today came. And I knew a day like today would come. Preparation didn’t make anything any easier.

I wrote a letter to Jeffrey. It’s a "Dear John" letter.

The details in the first part of the letter are far too personal for me to share. Topics dealt with are the anger, hurt and sadness I feel. I again rebut Jeffrey's belief that "Everyone leaves me in the end." (It is he who has left us.) A few other things are covered, and then I got to commitments. More specifically, why I feel justified in breaking my commitments to him to visit twice a month if he’s ever in state prison, and to wait for him before moving to the desert.

How are you today?
I’m fine – Fucked-up, Insecure, Neurotic and Emotional.

Pretty much sums things up. I’m fine, thank you.

Jeffrey
c/o Monroe County Jail
130 Plymouth Ave S
Rochester, NY 14614-2213

Hi Jeff –

I can’t imagine everything you must be feeling right now. I fear that somewhere in that confusing mixture of feelings, that you think this is your destiny, this is where you belong. I sure hope not, because I feel differently. This is not where you belong. This is not your destiny. Your destiny, my friend, is elsewhere. This is but a stop on the way.

I still believe in that idealistic Jeffrey. The one who is caring, giving and kindhearted. I still believe in the Jeffrey who brings food to old ladies, who won’t kill a bug, who loves children and who wants someday to work with the disabled. I hope that you too still believe in that Jeffrey. Please don’t bury him, no matter how hard they try to knock you down.

You can harden your body to defend yourself, and keep yourself safe. But please, don’t harden your heart, don’t harden your mind, don’t harden your spirit, and don’t harden your soul during this bid. Here’s why:

I believe that because you’ve done so in the past, that the lessons to be learned have not had access to your heart, mind, spirit and soul, since they were hardened and closed. When you feel you cannot survive without hardening yourself, please remember these words taken from "The Rules for Being Human":

Every person or incident is the Universal Teacher.  There are no mistakes, only lessons.  There are no victims, only students.  "Failure" is as much a part of the process as "success."

This is a lesson that is being repeated, and it’s being presented to you in a more difficult form this time than the last. Please keep yourself open, so you can learn this lesson, once and for all. Then, and only then, will you be freed from the shackles of this lesson and be able to move on to the next lesson.

I know you’re sensitive to my quoting your words back to you. You sometimes think I’m using your own words against you. I do this, not to use them against you, but to remind you of the things you already know, things that may have gotten pushed aside.

These are your words. These are your thoughts. They were important enough to you that you wanted to share them with the world on the web. I hope you’ve not forgotten them.

In case you hadn’t heard, we’ve had wee bit of snow around here. Two feet in 14 hours on Thursday, a few more inches on Friday, and they’re calling for up to 18 inches more today and four to six tomorrow.

Since living in a high-rise frees me from all those nasty chores, like shoveling, there’s not much else to do other than web-surf. And than heavens for cable modems! The phone lines are all clogged. If you can get a dial tone, you’re likely to get an "all circuits busy" tone from the other end. You can’t even make cell phone calls due to the traffic. But Road Runner hasn’t faltered a bit. Web pages still fly in between 300 and 500 kbps, and downloads are still running around 800 kbps. Oh, sorry. I’m gloating. J

You may have seen national coverage of the storms, here’s some of the local coverage. Keep in mind these links all expire in seven days as new news takes it’s place.

The state of emergency has the roads nearly devoid of all traffic. Remarkably, the buses are running on time, no doubt due to the absence of traffic. Oh, I forgot to mention, the bus driver who got us stuck on the way to work Thursday was a substitute. Burl Ives arrived right on time yesterday morning and we only ten minutes late for work. Not bad for what’s usually a 45 minute ride. Traffic snaking around cars abandoned smack in the middle of the road was the source of the delay.

Main Street this afternoon was blocked at either end of downtown as front-end loaders cleared the snowbanks from the curbs and deposited the stuff into an endless chain of dump trucks. Then the trucks trundle down to one of the bridges, and dump the snow into the river.

The National Guard is cruising all over the place in their Hummers. Their dump trucks have joined the procession from loader to river and back. Man those things are HUGE. They make the run-of-the-mill ten-wheel dumps look like Tonka toys.

I’m in for duration after my trip to the jail earlier. I took Jeffrey some books and put $20 into his commissary account so he can order some toiletries and snacks on Monday. I stopped at The Corner Store on the way home to stock up on essential provisions like Ben and Jerry’s, cigarettes and Cinnamon Swirl bread. I snagged the last two loaves. J

Anyway, Jeffrey’s on suicide watch, which means he’s confined to a 5’ x 8’ cell 23 hours a day with 24 hour a day monitoring. Even when he uses the toilet. There’s not even enough room to pace the floor. They let him out for an hour each evening so he can stretch and exercise, use the shower and the phone.

I have really mixed feelings about this. First, I’m glad they’re making sure he doesn’t off himself. I’ve been very concerned about him in that regard. On the other hand it’s making him crazy. And I’m very concerned about him in that regard too. Besides being in a cage smaller than the ASCPA permits for dogs at the pound, taking a crap in front of the deputies and a video camera has to be terribly humiliating.

In between my tantrums, he did manage to update me on the incident and the charges. He has no recollection of his troubles with the police Wednesday morning, except trying to get them to shoot him. All he remembers after that is feeling terribly frightened and filled with anxiety wondering what he’d done that warranted waking up hog-tied, on the floor of a cell in county jail.

He said he’d spent many anxious hours crying in his cell over the thought of going to state prison for 7 to 15 years because of a broken car window. I guess the deputies couldn’t take it any longer and took him out to calm him down. Then one of the lieutenants started looking things up. He explained that the city isn’t likely to prosecute the Criminal Mischief as a felony. It’s too time consuming and expensive. The more likely outcome is plea to a misdemeanor, make restitution, and get some county time or community service.

I can’t describe how bad I feel about our phone calls last night. I mean Jeffrey wakes up from an alcoholic blackout hog-tied on the floor of the jail, then learns he could do years and years in state prison, then is confined to observation, and I’m all over him whining about the hurt, pain, anger and loneliness I’m feeling while I sit in my cozy apartment.

I can be so dense sometimes when it comes to other people’s feelings. The conversation escalated into a contest of who felt worse and why, with neither of us acknowledging the other’s feelings. I’m such a shithead.

As I was writing this, mail arrived from Willie!

I thought maybe he’d disappeared into the Nicaraguan rainforest. No, not really. He left his computer with his sister in London in payment for room and board for the three months he was there. His only computer access now is the internet café in Managua.

He wrote that his father is still very ill so he’s running the hardware store for him. He’s frustrated that he seems to be unable to find employment anywhere in the world except his dad’s store.

I’ve got a real mixed bag this morning. I little of this, a little of that. There could even be a common theme. Lets see where our journey takes us today.

Starting with creative expression …

In music, as in fashion, everything old is new again. Last year at about this time I noticed several remakes of early 70s dance music songs. This time around, it’s late 70s. Since the 70s were when I was a club DJ, I have many fond memories of the music, the clubs, the crowds, and regrettably, the drugs.

And the discovery that as I wove my nightly tapestry of music, sound and lights, I could manipulate hundreds of people at a time, without their consent or knowledge, shifting their moods to where I, and the club owners, wanted them to be.

Dance music, DJs and the clubs where we practiced our craft in the 70s have not been treated well by the historical record. I blame pop culture for this. As soon as the dance clubs and our music broke out from the underground into the world of pop and fads, I knew we were doomed. Those of who were there, all pointed and laughed at how stupid the films "Saturday Night Fever" and "Thank God It’s Friday" were.

Over the course of seven years, I worked over 20 clubs. Everything from Jim’s, the largest gay bar and dance club between New York City and Toronto, to the equivalent in the straight world, Club 747 and Club 2001, corner neighborhood joints and everything in between.

Several times I ventured to the Mecca of the US dance club scene, New York City. I’ve been to all the clubs Andrea True immortalized in her late 70s hit, "New York, New York You Keep Me Dancin’". Twelve West, The Barefoot Boy, Regine’s and all the others were burned into my memory long before her record even came out. I worshipped at the altar (the sound booth) of the legendary Studio 54.

And I’m here to tell you, I never once saw anyone in a white leisure suit pointing his finger up in the air. I don’t know anyone who has! And any DJ who played as badly as the ones portrayed in those movies would have been driven out and publicly flogged, tarred and feathered by midnight.

Wow, there’s a digression.

Anyway, what sparked all this was as I sat down at the keyboard, Music Choice played one of the several mixes from the remake of Rose Royce’s "Carwash". Again, a stupid movie about the dance music scene in the 70s, but at least the music was better.

"Carwash" was one of those records, that as corny, as formula, and as blatantly commercial as it was, was drug-like in the way it attracted the attention of everyone in the club, DJs included. And from the sound booth, it was one of those records that was so easy to disassemble into it’s component parts and reassemble that I don’t think I ever mixed and remixed it the same way twice.

The remake is true both to the original record, and to the way we would dissect it and put it back together again. It really doesn’t seem to lose, or gain, anything it’s latest incarnation 20 years later. And the memories …

I’ve often said that I don’t have any original, or first-hand, creativity, but rather I have second-hand creativity. I could never compose or play music. Perhaps I could produce, engineer and mix it, but it would be a real stretch. But give me three or four turntables, (okay, they use CDs now, I’m a dinosaur, so shoot me,) a mixing console, a monster sound system and 800 or more people, and I’ll pull things out of nowhere and put them back together again in ways that surprise even me.

This site is much like that. I’ve been a year on this server at Hiway, and in this format. I started two or three months before then with only an idea, that of the journey of life, and my wanderings along it. The name, Scenic Route, came to me as I looked for a way to express the jumble of thoughts that pass through my head as my mind wanders, bumps and ricochets around, no doubt due in part to the ADD, part to my years of drug abuse, and mostly just due to the plain disorganized heap of protoplasm between my ears.

It was happy serendipity when I opened the box and loaded the CD, that I discovered Microsoft had thoughtfully included in Front Page 98, a theme called "Highway." True to form, I took the bits and pieces I liked, and reassembled them into the pages you see here. There are a couple of things I’d like to do, but don’t quite have the skills for, nor the time, energy and initiative to pursue them.

This past week, like the Phoenix, Noah’s risen from another of his rebirths. And true to form, his expression, his images and words, are several orders of magnitude beyond their prior incarnation.

Now I’m interpreting here, so see his March 1^st entry for the real deal. In it he writes that he’s found this thing we do, journaling, is a method of expression unlike any other. He felt he could achieve the expression he sought in his images, his poetry and his essays. Yet he was drawn back to this.

In the year or more I’ve participated in this medium, and in the years before as I observed it like any other web traveler, I’ve seen journals come and go. Some burst forth full of promise and light, then, their energy spent, vanish as quickly as they appeared. Others plod along out of the sense of commitment to the medium and nothing more. Still others wither and die. And a few, I can think of four I visit regularly, seem to be in a constant cycle of life, death and rebirth.

Biased as I am in these matters, naturally mine is in a category all it’s own. J I seem to be in a cycle of exploration, discovery, retreat, consideration, integration, and exploration again. Yet the things I seek are always just beyond my grasp.

Yet it has also become an outlet of creative expression, in a combination of first-hand and second-hand creativity. I didn’t create the language, the words, nor the idioms, metaphors and cliches I seem to rely on. As per usual, I take what, for whatever reason, I like and put it back together again. However the thoughts, the feelings, if not the words, are mine and mine alone. They may be parallel to yours, or at opposition, or way out in left field. But they are the only thing that in all the universe I can truly call my own.

It was, and still is occasionally, not without some trepidation that I share myself with whoever happens by and takes an interest. I am vulnerable to the thoughts and actions of each and every visitor. To date, nothing ill has come of me for it. Still there’s the potential.

Like other participants in this medium, I’ve learned that the people in my life all have different levels of comfort in what I share of them here. As with myself, I tend to push the envelope a bit, well sometimes more than a bit, with regard to how much of them I share here. Although I’m generally uncomfortable with them, (as demonstrated by my exploring and testing them,) I try to stay within the boundaries set by my acquaintances, friends and loved ones.

Other journalists have taken different approaches to the issue. Some use pseudonyms, others use unlinked "hidden" URLs, others employ secret passworded pages. And a couple of notables just ride roughshod over the others in their life.

I’m uncomfortable with each of these approaches.

Hidden and passworded pages fly against the entire purpose of sharing one’s private life and thoughts publicly. They turn the site into some sort of grown-up version of a treehouse. Anyone can see it, and desire to become one of the elite who are permitted access. But you can’t get in without having first learned the secret password and handshake at some sort of initiation. Unless of course you’ve brought cookies. J

Pseudonyms, or aliases, I associate with shame. I am not ashamed of myself, my feelings or thoughts. I am not ashamed of anyone I know and love. And although I have my moments, I don’t believe any of them to be ashamed of me.

I really do try not to ride roughshod over my friends. Since my last hiatus, for the most part, I’ve succeeded. But it has meant I’ve had to leave out significant amounts of what I’ve wanted and needed to write.

We hung out here for a little while, then he took me out for a very late brunch. Given the record snowfall(s) lately, the usual criteria for choosing a restaurant, menu, atmosphere, prices, went right out the window. The only thing that matters is parking. Nothing on Park Avenue has off-street parking. So Gitsis on Monroe won the toss. There’s nothing quite like a Greek diner to restore one’s depleted cholesterol levels.

A ride in the sunshine rounded out the afternoon. The expressways are clear and dry, and most of the major arterials are a half lane down, but still passable and for the most part dry.

Oh, and before I forget, I may not be able to write much this week. We’re finally switching over to the new Help Desk software at work. Unfortunately, we get only four hours of training on it. My class isn’t until tomorrow afternoon, but I have to start using the program first thing in the morning.

As a result, I’m likely to be flat-out exhausted by the end of every day this week. I’m prepared to be intellectually strained from learning the software I’ll be using 40 hours per week, after only four hours of instruction. I’m also prepared to be emotionally drained from the frustration of trying to solve my customers’ technical support issues while at the same time wrestling with new software and inadequate training.

So don’t think I’ve gone on a hiatus, jumped off a bridge, landed myself in jail, the mental ward or anything. I’m sure to be back after some recovery on the weekend. Who knows? Maybe it’ll be a cakewalk. I tend to prepare for the worst and hope for the best. Jeffrey says that makes me a pessimist. I feel I’m just being pragmatic.

Back to where we left off …

I’m coming around in that regard as I learn that expressing my feelings is a whole lot better than keeping them bottled up inside. And I’m also learning that not everybody who gets to know me is out to use that knowledge against me and hurt me. Those who do, I discard immediately. The rest seem to be warmed, sometimes amazed, but always feel closer as a result.

Jeffrey’s not there yet, and given his life experiences both in and out of jail, I can’t blame him a bit. This is why he asks many questions yet provides few answers. He gains knowledge, and power, through the answers to the questions he asks, and in self-defense, he gives up little useful information. But he too is sensing the same things. Shedding the mask and standing emotionally naked in front of the world is a mighty tall order. He’s up to the task, but it will take some time and nurturing.

So he and I have come to a gentleman’s agreement that generally I can share stories where our lives intersect, and some of my observations and opinions. Writing about his interactions with other people, dealings with the law, and the confidences he shares with me are strictly off-limits.

I’ve stepped over those boundaries a couple of times, but since he doesn't read the site, I’ve been able to get away with it. This week I’ve overstepped those boundaries, and tomorrow morning I’m going to print this at work (the laser there prints on both sides of the page so I save postage) and mail it to him, because he's asked to read it.

I know I’m going to get in trouble. I could make a copy of the file, go back and edit here and there, and he'd never know. But I won’t. Because if I did, I would be lying to him and I’ll not lie to that man.

But earlier in the week I did just that. I deleted part of an entry, the "Dear John" letter. I did so, not because I thought it overstepped the boundaries we’d established, but because I’m not yet sure if he understands that I go through a lot of feelings on the way to sorting things out.

When we speak some of those things, it’s understood that it’s a transitory phase on the way to some other feeling. When it’s written, it takes on the air of permanence, and it’s hard not to dwell on what’s already gone, because you can read it over and over and over again.

And so, I’d like to go on the public record with these words that Jeffrey will only see here.

Man, I’m sorry I betrayed your trust and wrote some of the things I did. I can rationalize it 20 ways from Sunday, but the fact remains I went against your wishes.

Yes, earlier this week I did feel like I should end our friendship, the same feelings you felt and expressed during the phone call between you, Debbie and I Saturday night. I felt hurt, angry and betrayed. I felt that you’d taken everything you had ever hoped to be, and everything I know you can be, and had flushed it all down the toilet.

And when I got over my hissy fit, I cried some more and slept. The following day I had remembered that first, you’re human and have feelings of your own, and I had trampled them. Second, I want you, no, I NEED you in my life. Our paths in life have crossed for a reason.

Everything we have in our lives is there because we’ve drawn it to us. There is a reason you and I are in each other’s lives. A purpose for all the shit we’ve been through together, and have put each other through. It’s said that every person we encounter is the Universal Teacher. I have learned so much from you (and not just how to smoke crack) that even if we never speak or see each other again, I’ll still be sorting it out for months, maybe years to come.

And I know that there is so much more I’m supposed to learn from you. I can only hope that you get from me as much as I get from you. I love you man, with all my being, and I don’t ever want to lose that.

 

Jim mentioned the other day that one of his friends observed that I write very little about him in these pages. The friend hypothesized that I didn’t really care much for Jim because I don’t write much about him. Although I understand and follow his logic, in light of the volumes I write about Jeffrey, that friend couldn’t be further from the truth.

Jim happened upon this place one day, and met me through what I write. Strangely, he liked what he read, and after reading most of the site, he began writing to me. Yet, to my knowledge he’s not read any other online journals. So he was unprepared for his reaction to reading about himself here, and reading about my thoughts and interpretations of the times we’ve spent. Just as he was unprepared for his feelings when he stepped out of the journal world and into the real world with Jeffrey and I.

Learning the lesson from Jeffrey, (thanks man,) I’ve played this one a little closer to the vest. I do have to negotiate with Jim what I can and cannot share on these pages. We spent the better part of the day together, (in both meanings of better.) Much of the time, this file was on-screen awaiting my return. And I couldn’t quite get up the nerve to ask the question. And so, I ask it here:

Jim, what are the boundaries of your comfort zone with regard to what I write here? What is okay? What is uncomfortable, but still livable? What is off-limits?

Taking my chainsaw with me, I’m going out on a limb here, (like that’s a real surprise!)

We reached one of the many points in a relationship where you have to decide, "Is this going anywhere? If so, is it where I want to go? And if not, is it worth redirecting, or should we drop it?" We make these decisions all the time, whether it’s who we socialize with at work, or who we want to spend many years with. It’s as natural as breathing.

We were feeling each other out on these things earlier in the week. Then the shit hit the fan with Jeffrey and my attention was diverted to him. Friday morning I was still feeling kinda low. Jim sent me a really nice note at work. The closing two sentences confirmed for me that yes, here is a man I’d like to spend a few years with. I’m not sure yet in what capacity, (that’s coming soon.) So I decided, "Fuck it, let’s go for broke." And I sent back the note below. I’ve edited out a couple of paragraphs because he and I haven’t had that "how much can I write" conversation.

I’ve felt compelled to share this, not for what it reveals about Jim, but for what it reveals about me. He wrote back a wonderful reply Friday night which I hope he’ll let me share here. But it wasn’t until I was re-reading it over and over on Saturday morning that without even being conscious of it, I’d discovered the one overriding emotion that governs all of my interpersonal relationships.

That emotion is fear.