| Monday April 17, 2000 From this morning’s e-mail:
Hey, what's all this Ronnie episode about then? Fantasy, hallucination? It all sounds a
lot too good to be true, especially after the traumatic events of the previous few days.
Nope. No fantasy, no hallucination. And I spent last night with him too. His cousin had
some friends and extended family over for a card game and I hung out getting to know
everyone while Ronnie played a few hands.
Then we ate and excused ourselves upstairs, where we talked and then we slept. No sex. It
was wonderful that we each wanted the simple pleasure of sleeping together without the
distractions of bedroom Olympics. This morning he dropped me off on his way to work.
In any event, the question in this morning’s mail is nicely amplified by some of what
we talked over last night.
I printed last night’s entry and took it with me when Ronnie picked me up. I’d
told him Saturday night that I keep a journal, that I keep it online and if it turned out
that he were to figure prominently in my life, he would also figure prominently in the
journal. So it’s important that he understand the nature of the writing I do, what
his sensitivities are and what my boundaries will be.
I explained that one of the things I do in the journal is tell the story of my life.
It’s important to distinguish the difference between telling a story and providing
documentation. This is not a documentation of my life and events I encounter and
participate in. I’m not giving evidence in a courtroom. It’s an interpretation.
The difference is much the same as the difference between a photograph and impressionist
painting. While both are true representations of the subject, the first is documentation,
the second is interpretation.
There are several reasons for this. Documentation is boring to write and to read. If this
journal read like an investigator’s surveillance notes I wouldn’t find it nearly
so interesting, and doubt you would either.
Second, by its nature, documentation should be free of emotion and opinion. I am nothing
if not emotional and opinionated.
Thirdly, I write from memory and my memory isn’t always as reliable as, say, a
videotape. I remember people and events as impressions, and so recounting things becomes
an interpretation of those impressions.
He read as I explained all that and he asked questions as he went along. I clarified as
best I could. What were his reactions? First, he said he was flattered because no one had
ever written about him before and it confirmed some of my feelings for him.
Next, he was not so much hurt or disappointed that I thought there may the chance
he’s a crackhead, but rather he felt sad. I explained that I’ve never been a
good judge of character and particularly during the past year it seems everyone I run into
is smoking the stuff. So I have to be careful because of me.
He still wasn’t very comfortable. Although he hadn’t said it, I’m sure the
thought I had been stereotyping him based on age or race. So I continued, “Okay, take
a look at me. Now when we met in the bar did you think I might be a druggie?”
“No. You don’t look like one.”
“Right. But I am a recovering crackhead nonetheless. And although I didn’t think
you looked like one, I couldn’t take it at face value. I had to be certain you
weren’t in order to preserve my own safety.”
“You see,” I continued, “I’ve smoked with people’s parents,
grandparents and children. I’ve smoked with people most would consider lowlifes and
I’ve smoked with the upper crust. I can’t tell you how many middle-aged white
guys just like me who I’ve smoked with. The stuff is just so pervasive in our society
that I have to put a lot more effort into finding out who doesn’t than I ever had to
put forth in finding those who do.”
“It’s not a statement about you,” I concluded. “It’s a statement
about me.”
He seemed satisfied with that, but he’s not going to let me forget the watch thing.
So my biggest skeleton is out of the closet and he still accepts me. And he was amazed to
learn that his nice apartment was in a neighborhood filled with crackhouses. It’s
something he’s going to think about when he moves in September.
Wednesday April 19, 2000
I am so unused to getting up at 6:00AM. I stayed over at Ronnie’s
again last night and he has to get up for work, lucky guy. Anyway, I dragged my tail for a
while this morning before surrendering to a nap. I’m going to try to get my schedule
more in sync with his because it was near disaster for me sleeping last night.
I was still well rested when we hit the hay and I have trouble getting to sleep anyway. He
seems to be able to nod off pretty quickly (lucky guy) and spent a couple of hours trying
to get to sleep without disturbing him. It helped after the radio turned off. I need quiet
to get to sleep and even though the radio was tuned to the local classical station, I
found it distracting.
It’s one of the many little things that need to be worked out at the beginning of any
relationship. And neither of us knows yet if things will get to the relationship stage.
Still, we’re each putting a lot of effort into communication just in case things pan
out.
On that subject, thanks to the several readers who have send their best wishes along. But
it’s far too early to tell if there are wedding bells in the future. Should that
happen, you’ll be the first to know. And in the tradition of crazed brides-to-be
everywhere, I’ll be sure to select truly hideous and overpriced bridesmaid’s
gowns. So be careful what you ask for…
A few months back I
discovered The Road Trip, Michael’s journal.
Naturally I was drawn in by the theme which is similar to mine, although he has better
graphics. A trip through his archives will reveal a history similar in some ways to mine,
but he’s much, much further along than I am. I draw quite a bit of strength and
inspiration from his story. He’s been through quite a rough patch lately and I’m
glad he can put that behind him as well.
Anyway, he and his lover Ned are on the road travelling from their home in San Diego to
the Millennium March in DC on April 30th. They’re taking their time and
travelling in style in an enormous RV roughly the size of my apartment. (See the pic in
his April 6th entry.) In addition to the Winnebago’s accoutrements,
Michael’s packing a brand new PowerBook with a cellular modem so he can update from
on the road.
I’m following the story with interest not simply because I like Michael, but because
I want to take The Scenic Route on the road when my finances are rebuilt. I’ve
already priced magnetic signs with the site logo, BTW. In any event, I’m hoping
Michael and Ned get the opportunity to swing by the North Coast for a visit on their
return trip.
In other news, I was excited
by an ad Sunday for a web developer with experience with MS Access and FrontPage. I have
plenty of experience in each so I jumped right on the phone Monday. The ad was a mistake.
They may have an opening in the future, but not right now. So this week’s hopes are
pinned on 2nd and 3rd shift help desk positions for $8/hr at a local
ISP.
At least I won’t have to wear a paper hat.
Easter Sunday, April 23,
2000
If you sent me mail between 2:00 and 9:30 Eastern Time on Friday
April 21, please re-send it. The mail server went down just as I was accessing my
mailbox shortly after five. Somehow that got it all screwed up and at 9:30 we had to dump
24K of mail to fix it. This affected only my mailbox,
and did not affect any other mailboxes here at brucew.com.
April is living up to its reputation. It’s been cold, damp and dreary all week. Although the forecast calls for
the warmth and sun to return starting tomorrow, that’s exactly what the forecast has
been since last weekend. Sunshine returning tomorrow. They just leave the forecast the
same and change the days under the little pictures. Mañana.
It wouldn’t be all that bad if it actually rained. A week of slate gray clouds, thick
and impenetrable as gym mats, has managed to produce only drizzle. Except for Thursday
night. It really rained for a while. Hard. With great, big, gallon-sized drops. It sounded
like truckloads of walnuts were being poured on the skylight. Occasionally the wind would
shift and the rain would pound against the bedroom window as well.
It reminded me of the rainstorms we get at the cabin in Ontario. I’ve never seen it
rain hard as I have during August at the lake. There would be so much water in the air you
could hardly breathe. Fish could swim to the treetops. Okay, that’s pushing it a bit,
but, if you could see through the rain to the waterline, you could watch the lake level
rise. I remember many a morning when we’d have to raise the dock after a rain.
Years ago the cabin had a tin roof and boy, was it loud during a rain. At the kitchen
table we had to shout to one another in order to be heard over the din. It would always
knock me right out. I never sleep quite as well as when it’s storming outside. And
the harder it’s storming the better I sleep. It think it comes from the cozy feelings
of safety and security from being all protected, warm and dry tucked in under the covers
while the storm rages on outside.
In any event, the heavy rain worked its magic Thursday night. I dropped right off, propped
up in bed with the lights on and my book still in my lap. Dreaming, no doubt, of an army
of angry squirrels smashing walnuts against the skylight in retaliation for having been
evicted from the attic.
I’ve been working on the site for the past few days. As I’ve been threatening for nearly a month,
I’ve added some new pages linked from the Journal page. Welcome and Plot Summary
are geared towards new readers who would like a bit of background but aren’t
necessarily interested in plodding through 20 megabytes of archives.
As I was wading through the archives working on Plot Summary (which is still a work in
progress BTW) I kept coming across individual entries that I particularly liked. I decided
to make a new page, Favorite Entries, listing
them. I’ll be adding to the list as I slog through the archives. Tonight I started
wondering which entries readers would pick as favorites, so I’m asking.
Which entries have you liked the most? and I’ll add them to the list. If you know the date of the entry, super!
But if all you remember is the topic, tell me that and I’ll eventually find it as I
read through the archives.
Derrell and I went to the reservation (Tonawanda Band of Seneca Indians of New York) yesterday for cigarettes.
They’re tax-free there and New York has the highest tobacco taxes in the nation. A
carton of Marlboros is only $23.95 there compared with over $40 plus 8% sales tax here in
town. If you’re not particular about your lung disease, off-brands can be had for
less than $10 per carton.
It’s not a long drive, just less than an hour each way, but Derrell enjoys the
company so I ride along when he wants to go. I pay the tolls on the Thruway (75¢ each
way) and chip in a couple of bucks for gas. Recently he discovered that I’m legal to
drive but I don’t because simply because I don’t have a car. So now I drive and
he rides.
It’s really strange for me to be on the “wrong” side of the car after so
much time. Taking the wheel isn’t’ so bad, although it took me while get used to
taking the responsibility. But after having the room to walk around and stretch out in a
20-ton bus for so long, I feel confined and vulnerable in a car, especially in a
sub-compact.
Anyway, gas is also much cheaper at the reservation as it too is free of state fuel and
sales taxes. As we left the city we put a couple of bucks in the tank just to be sure we
had enough to get there. Regular unleaded was $1.559. At the places heading in to the
reservation, it was $1.229. A nice savings, but typical of the price difference. Further
on, we were surprised to find there were lines at TP Deli & Fuel all the way out to
the street on both sides of the corner.
I joked to Derrell, “What are they doing? Giving it away?”
Close enough. Both TP and the Arrowhawk Gas Mart across the street were having a price
war. Both were selling regular unleaded for $0.999 and it’s full-serve! After getting
our smokes, we joined the line. There were four lines to eight pumps (with eight twinkies
manning the pumps) and we waited in line for less than ten minutes enjoying the view.
Derrell laughed at my suggestion that we drain some gas out of the tank so we could fit
more in it and thereby save more money. What? It doesn't work like that? It took $11 to
fill the tank of his Cavalier saving $6.16. |
