L: 4/28/03

Work Diary, 4/28/03

I woke up this morning wondering just what - if anything - I know about
love. Short of cynically viewing it as a hormonal imbalance, the answer
was like all my answers so early in the morning, when the sun is too
bright and my shoulders are freezing while my feet sweat: You know very
little. Who does? Now drag your sorry carcass out of bed and do
something.

Falling in love with the wrong person is something I do know about.
Such a thing has let the most ridiculous things leak out of my mouth,
not the least of which is "I love you." I'm hoping those days are over
for me, because I have enough needless evidence to shoot the cosmic
soul mate theory right to the ground. "Who's out there for me?" you
want to know? Take your pick.

Last night found me barefoot and running down the sidewalk after a
crazy man pushing a baby stroller. For weeks he's been walking by my
house turning the water on, letting it run all night. My partner was
ahead of me, hot on Crazy Man's trail. People who are not in love don't
tip-toe through the night in search of mad men, recklessly hoping to
defend hearth and home. Instead, people who are not in love sit on the
front stoop, smoking cigarettes and wondering where the antiseptic is
so they can play nurse, begrudgingly, when their roommates return
bloodied and furious. So, no, this isn't about my partner. I joined in
the chase and we returned unharmed but furious nonetheless.

The going joke in the gay world: Like a year in the life of a dog, a
year in a gay relationship is equivalent to seven years in a straight
relationship. There's an alarming bit of truth to this joke, in that it
gives me the distinction of having been with the same person for
ninety-eight years. And, of course, I am not the same person now, at
thirty-four, that I was then, at twenty. It often does feel like a
lifetime.

On a semi-regular basis I am cornered at some party or club and asked
my - our - secret for longevity. To these breathy questions I answer,
"I don't know." If the person is persistent (i.e. fueled by booze), I
say, "Compromise," or some other self-help-book platitude. If I'm
feeling gregarious (i.e. fueled by booze), I might offer: "It's not
always the fantasy you think it is," which usually gets me a sage nod
and the next round gratis.

But typically "I don't know" suffices. The trick is to not appear smug,
to act contrite that you've managed to sustain a relationship for so
long. Otherwise, the nastiness starts, the rumors, the rebuffed passes
at urinals and subsequent whispers. It comes full circle, too, as when
my partner and I have come very close to separating. Suddenly the phone
rings and rings, the sympathetic voices full of premature condolences
while their invisible buzzards circle overhead, ready to pick off both
survivors at their leisure. I am amazed by the tenacity of these
individuals, but more amazed when I find one who is sincere.

Several times I've been asked if I've read such-and-such book, as if I
found the key through the words of a thrice-divorced psychology major
who has finally decided to make a few bucks off his or her experiences.
In my battle to remain un-smug, these questions always bring a smirk to
my face, but I can't help myself. As they say, reading comprehension
ain't what it used to be. Expecting modern men and women to understand
why they are from either Mars or Venus is like expecting your dog to
demand dinner in Swahili. Better to start with a tabula rasa of love
than spend thirty bucks on psychobabble, I think, even if you feel
you've been a blank slate all your life.

One thing I do know about love is that it contradicts my generation's
fascination with self-esteem. Love is as demanding as all those folks
who demand respect for?well, absolutely nothing. Let love and this
pseudo-respect battle it out and I'm afraid love will lie bleeding,
impotent in the face of the Almighty Self.

And that's what I know about love, exactly twelve hours and fourteen
minutes after waking up this morning. Tomorrow I'll open my eyes and,
because it's a workday, I'll wonder about something else, like employee
vacation schedules or that client in Georgia who used his family's
mortuary business to populate a forest with his own - if rather dead -
party friends.

It's all a mystery, isn't it?