|Sunday, December 1st, 2002|
1:15a - Update
Keep in mind that as I write this, I'm drunker than I've ever been before, so be patient.
I got, after spending time chatting on AIM, to The Wave (UPEI's campus bar) at 9:20 pm. I was alone for the first quarter-hour, but then I saw John (Maria McQuaid's boyfriend) from British History 261. He invited me over, alongside Kim and Kirsten (two cute girls), and then I stayed with them for the next hour-and-a-half drinking with them.
Got free beer tickets, which was good. Didn't know Keith's was a Labatt beer, which is nice. God, I'm drunk--two Keith's, a white wine, a Bacardie Silver, and something else.
There are times when I think I was wrong to identify myself as bi, and that, in fact, I'm gay. Fortunately I'm disproven whenever I see really hot girls in the bar, especially barmaids. Ah, lovely people they, with tight-fitting uniforms that tend to reveal their ample cleavage on exceptionally fit bodies.
A suggestion: The stimulation of sexual desire depends highly on the relationship between that which is revealed (an ample cleavage, a fit abdominal area) and that which is not (the details of both). Thoughts?
Afterwards, I linked up with Andrew and Adam, getting progressively drunken as we waited for Negative J's angst-ridden industrial metal to end and for Port-whaever to begin playing. That was fun--getting drunk with people who are, at the very least, good acquaintances (keep in mind that I don't know how to use the word friend, since I can't think of any pre-July in-person experiences of friendship) is definitely fun. Ah--I wonder if I'll have a hangover. I met Miles, who wore a Dead Kennedys sweatshirt, and Andrew's brother Robbie, who beat me arm-wrestling.
(I think I'm becoming envious of people who've had any kind of dating experience whatsoever. I want to get laid, get a relationship, do something, anything but be this existentially alone. I appreciate that I have to discover life by myself, but I'd like someone close to me (physically and emotionally) to do it with.)
The band was quite good. A very nice post-reggae/funk group. Tamara was hot. She did, in American literature in the interwar period, a very good presentation on Louis Armstrong--quoted from Yetvushenko and everything.
I left at 1:10. And I've been typing on LJ since then.
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2:32a - Talks
You know, it really is true that you talk more frankly when you're drunk. I did that at the Wave, talking about girls with Andrew, and I did that with Dad.
To be quite clear: I love Dad. Much to my surprise, Dad post-coming out has been a hell of a lot better than Mom. Apparently it's supposed to be the other way around (Dad feels like he's failed to be virile enough to produce a heterosexual son, Mom feels sympathetic towards her dear close child), but whatever. Maybe my Mom's afraid that she'd not going to have grandkids from me; but then, there's my sister, who's straight, and, well, not nearly as family-minded as me shall we say.
Irregardless, he volunteered to pick me up whenever I decided to leave the Wave, and as it happened it was at 1:30. Actually, I only got to the car at 1:45--I was responding to LJs, including my own. He seemed concerned by the amount fo booze I'd drunk, which was fair enough, but after he began asking me what I drank Id ecided to be completely honest with him. About everything.
(I'm trying to type as much as I said to Dad in here, I want to preserve this for posterity. Bear with me if I fail.)
I told Dad that I resented how he and Mom, but particualrly Mom, tried to regulate everything I did, assume that I was incapable of managing anything by myself, or that I couldn't survive mistakes. I didn't tell them about the, shall we say, events surrounding my final arrival in Richmond from Washington D.C. (which, incidentally, Tom, I'm now coming to remember with tolerant appreciation), but I did tell Dad that I managed to jet around the continent on my own coin and my myself without anything happening.
(I mean, people, my parents saw nothing wrong with sending my sister to western Europe with a grown woman who thought that one shortcut to take from one point on a completely straight street (Barcelona's Las Ramblas) to another point on the same street was to go down a narrow dark ally, so why should they think that I'm going to get robbed, raped, and murdered (with the murderers probably coming home to finish off the McDonald household) in the middle of North America. So why should they think that I'm going to die abroad?)
Dad tried to talk, but I kept on talking. I told him that I loved him, and that I loved Mom, but that it was incredibly difficult for me to want to spend time with either of them (especially Mom) because they seemed to suspect my terminal incapacity to cope by myself. I pointed out that (insofar as I can tell, from my peers and my teachers and my coworkers and others who know me) I'm actually quite a competent person. So why, then, would I want to spend time with people who thought me incapable? I particularly pointed out Mom, who not only pointed out my supposed moral incapacity to be autonomous when she said (on the eve of that September GLBT dance) that she felt like her life was over, but that I wasn't mentally competent since my anti-depressants supposedly weren't working (quite silly, since it's only because of them I've been able to assert myself).
I think I got through to Dad. I told him, on two separate occasions, that thought I might be drunk I was definitely being honest with him. When we arrived, he wanted to talk more to me, but I left directly to the bathroom to get undressed and wash myself down for bed.
I hope this represents a breakthrough of sorts. Maybe I should have this talk with Mom.
current mood: drunk but honest
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2:33a - Question/Addendum
I promise that this will be my last LJ post of the night.
It seems, from my observations at the Wave, that a kind of subtle aggressiveness works best for dating, of friendliness that holds the latent potential for more.
Am I correct?
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2:36a - I lied
It strikes me, as I'm listening to Prince's music and letting KaZaA download his music videos, that he's one erotic-inspiring MF with immense (if lately squandered) talent who should be thanked for making popular music a hell of a lot more exciting than it otherwise would have been in the 1980's.
current mood: drunk and not caring
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Quite frankly, I needed to come out. Even if I was actually straight (hmm, there's an interesting personal alternate history), I needed some realization of myself that would jolt me from my comfortable personal isolationism, some realization of a profound fact of myself that would make me change, force me into the society of men (used in the generic sense of "all people").
It's true that without SHWI, I wouldn't have realized I was bi for longer. Then again, without SHWI I still would have realized. Apparently realizing your sexual orientation when you've repressed things for so long involves some kind of major external stressor, like my Honours English essay. And without SHWI, I wouldn't have know what I could have done, who I could have turned to.
At best, I'd've had a nervous collapse.
At worst (and, if I do say so myself, far more probably), I'd've killed myself after months of agonizing torment not knownig where I could've turned. Hopefully it would have been spectacular, if only to spare other people that torment. Maybe I'd've gotten a scholarship named after me.
That, as of now, there isn't any discussion to establish an R.F. McDonald Memorial Scholarship, accompanied by tearful and perhaps utterly confused wonderings of why I did it, is owing entirely to my friends. I like having friends and acquaintances, especially people I know to be at least the latter if not the former; I like being part of a network of people of increasing density across continents and oceans.
You all know if you are a friend or acquaintance. If you even suspect that you might be, you're certainly right. And I owe you all my life. There's no way I can repay that.
Thank you, from the bottom of my heart.
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3:01a - "Armstrong's Trumpet," by Yevgeny Yevtushenko
Great Satchmo plays all bathed in sweat,
A salty Niagara pours from his brow,
But when the trumpet rises to the clouds,
It growls and roars.
To the whole world he plays the way he loves,
He is stolen from us by the grave,
he was stolen first before his birth
From his sweet Africa.
In hidden reprise for the chains of his fathers
His music enslaves us all like helpless babes.
The whites of his great eyes flicker in sorrow
As he howls and horns about the globe--
This kid from a children's home
In the town of New Orleans.
Great Satchmo plays all bathed in sweat,
His nostrils smoke like two great muzzles.
Thirty-two white projectors in his mouth,
But the sweat is as natural
As a beautiful mighty hippo
Rising snorting from an African river.
Stamping on fan notes with his heel,
And wiping the downpour from his brow,
he throws handkerchief after handkerchief
Into the piano's open womb.
Again back to the microphone
pressing down on the stage till it cracks,
Each wet handkerchief is as heavy
As the crown of art.
And art is very far from pose,
When it labors it's not ashamed of sweat.
It's not the charm of prattlers
But full of movement of heavy things,
The tragic labor of a trumpet player
Whose music is tatters of lung.
Though art is bartered and sold,
That's not what it's all about.
The poet and the great jazzmen equally
Like brothers cut their gifts to others from soul.
Great Satchmo, will you make it to heaven"?
But if it happens--Play!
let the good times roll once more!
Shake up that boring state of little angels.
But so there'll be no remorse in hell,
So death will cheer us sinners up,
Pass your horn to the better player
Translated by Albert C. Todd
First published in The New Laurel Review (Fall 1987), ed. Lee M. Grue
I'll always think of this as Tamara's poem. She recited it so well.
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8:30p - Results of my Spiritual Quiz
Spiritual Quiz results:
You realize spirituality is something you define yourself and you're happy with your definition.
You practice your own methods of meditation or devotion, are in tune with how your body reacts to stress, and feel a real connection with both your inner spirit and a higher force that connects us all. You rely on this sense of peace to keep you grounded through life's ups and downs. People are naturally drawn to you because your presence is a calming, nurturing one.
And what does that say about you? The remainder of this result is only available if you are a member of My Colorgenics! Get your full quiz results, plus access to all of our quizzes when you sign up for My Colorgenics. What else do you get? Read below and find out!"
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8:47p - One Last Insight from Last Night
This comes from the time just before I left--I'm tempted to say 1 o'clock, since I wasn't sure about the time.
I was rather drunk, when I was talking to Lennie and Matt. These two gentlemen, for those of you who are not Charlottetonians (Charlottetowners?), recently co-wrote and starred in a one-act play, the title of which eludes me, but involving a lot of exciting and entertaining philosophical-cum-sexual posturing over poetry. I approached them as soon as I saw them, since I've always wanted to talk to them to see if they had any tips to playwriting, for I too would like to write plays. (Hey, I did decently enough in creative writing seminars, so why not?)
I talked to Matt, first. He was cool, and also drunk, accepting my compliments nicely--"When it rains it fucking pours" is a good line. I asked him for a hint, and he said that for him, writing dialogue was always a major problem, but that he coped by writing the role for himself, drawing from his own personal experience. At this time, Andrew and Adam showed up, as did Lennie, and they decided who was drunk and who wasn't. Me, I was sloshed. (At the time, Andrew and Adam were merely "happy.")
I talked to Lennie next, equally cool and drunk. He suggested that the constraint of time was important, that when he and Matt agreed to put on their play they hadn't written it yet and that the pressure of time helped him actually get down to writing. Which is common in all writing that I know of, actually.
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8:57p - Things I like about my job
- Printing fees are nil.
- I get to see all kinds of people. I've seen Jane Magrath (academic murder mystery novels) and Emilie Adams (literary fiction) among many, many others.
- I get to loot the basement storage and on-line article databases for excellent research material for my papers.
- Excellent CD music collections.
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8:59p - A proposal to Charlottetonians
This coming Friday evening, is anyone interested in a group outing to the movies--perhaps to see Die Another Day, perhaps some other movie--and then releasing a semester's worh of accumulated tension and existential fears in a Bacchanalian outpuring of drink?
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