Deep thought...

Or constipation?

As Fantasies Clash With Reality

I think when something you moderately enjoy becomes a requirement, it sort of loses its initial flare. Sure the concerts were fun to go to. I felt like I was experiencing something worth while. But now that I have to sign in and complete a packet of concert reviews for a grade makes it seem a bit too stifling. I don’t know maybe I’m just lazy.

Anyway, so when I was there, I sat at the first seat I came across despite the room being almost empty. As it slowly filled up with people, I looked up from my book and noticed a guy who sat in front of me. He wore a fitted white shirt with blue trim around the collar and sleeves, wrinkles everywhere as if it had been compressed for days. As the show continued, I found myself more captivated by him rather than the music. Or should I say, the music added a forlorn quality to the situation that was probably atypical of its intentions.

I loved the shape his hair made. The shaggy imperfection that made it interesting to look at, the impression of moisture as if it had just recently been cut. Above his left ear were a few strands of hair that were longer than the rest that maybe slipped by unnoticed told of a length once traveled. As he sat there, I noticed his wrists where fairly thin compared to the hand that kept his head afloat. I traced his arm back to his back and took notice of the hint of hair that coated his pale skin. It was equally thin yet his body seemed pretty substantial. Skinny without being third-world. Definitely enough to fit a medium sized shirt.

Gradually he would slouch, then prostrated himself back up by placing both hands on either side and correcting his posture, only to hunch over so that his hand could rest on his chin. With his left hand he would trace his brow, then move over to his mouth before finding a place on his cheek. He repeated this in various orders as his right hand propped it up or clutched his side between his chest and his arm. Almost instantaneously I could feel myself sliding my hands across his arms. I wondered what his hands would feel like cupping my face. I could feel his stubble against my lips. His arms around my body. Us lying together, lost in a sea of blankets.

I tried to include my appearance into the thought and suddenly it dissolved. Somehow the thought of me with anyone seemed out of place. Like I didn’t possess some kind of inherent quality that people have to be apart of something. You can tell when there’s a connection between two people. I just couldn’t fathom one of those people being me.

Photo Books and Disconnections

So it’s been 3 days since I’ve last heard from Melancholy. I must say that it has taken me very little time to get over that whole episode. Of course there are a few moments when I feel like I want to cry but something is holding me back. I just wonder how it’s going to be with the next guy, if there is another guy at all. This just makes me more aware of all my insecurities and the ineptitude of maintaining a relationship that I don’t know how to overcome.

I was sitting in my room for awhile prolonging going out to shoot photos. When I got ready I stood in the living room for a bit and started to get anxious. I was afraid that someone would see me shooting and react in some kind of negative way like I’d either have to fight for my life or they would criticize me. I suddenly felt a strong urge to simply become invisible. That I would be much more comfortable if I could do what I wanted to do without the fear of getting caught or criticized. It’s just this internalized fear that I’m going to get in trouble that has me immobilized, and all I wanted to do was shoot dry grass.

I was flipping through a photo book I bought this morning. It’s called Texas Twins by Howard Roffman. His photography strikes me as very typical gay photography. It takes quite a bit to spark my interest in terms of photos but it was mainly the subject matter that drew me into this book. The brothers Morgan and Nash are identical but according to the description, their personalities are anything but. And surprisingly enough, one is gay and the other is straight. When I bought the book, in the gay capital of the city no less, the cashier guy (a portly man with glasses and a red button down) quickly glanced at the cover and remarked, “Now that’s just disgusting.” I was initially surprised. It struck me as odd that he would say something like that about an item that a customer was buying, especially considering the neighborhood. “I’m just very interested in the fact that one is gay and one is straight.” I simply replied. “Oh. I didn’t know that.” He said with a hint of remorse.

It didn’t really bother me to think that by my buying something he perceived as “disgusting” would make me disgusting as well. It actually increased my pride in a way to think that I had the ability to appreciate something that he had absolutely no idea about. Something he quickly labeled at face value and made a definitive judgment before I informed him that no, they don’t do anything sexual to each other. I mean honestly, how old are you? It definitely angered my friend who was with me, but I couldn’t care less.

As I was flipping through the pages, I was listening to Balmorhea’s Baleen Morning. Part of the charm about this book is trying to decipher who was who. Nash is straight, Morgan is gay. Nash is the impetuous rebel and Morgan is grounded and eager to please. You almost feel as if you get to know these two guys personally with each page. About halfway through I felt a wave of sorrow come over me. I don’t know if it was the music, or if it was the image of the two brothers together but I suddenly wanted to cry. The strength of their relationship had just occurred to me and the thought that they would always have each other even if their entire world fell apart was gut wrenching. The fact that one brother knew the other was gay and was fine with it was incredible. And somehow, the thought of me sitting alone locked in my room out of fear that someone would by chance walk in and catch me looking at a suggestive [male] photo book seemed utterly depressing to me.