I came across this attempt at writing my life story. I must have started this about 5 years ago. I never seemed to finish it. If I remember correctly it was somehow too heavy, even for me. So I dropped it. Every word of it is true and since all relationships are a process of revelation, perhaps like pealing off the layers of an onion, I wanted to share this with you all. After all, you, my readers and I have a relationship of sorts. Consider this entry as one big layer. Please forgive any grammar errors you may come across. I am sharing this to you just as I have found it:
How does one discern if they have had a remarkable life or a mediocre one? I look back on all of it and am completely not sure. I have been a man who has bucked the status quo and in spite of my republican upbringing created a liberal free thinking world for myself. I have taken many chances out of fear more than a sense of adventure. Staying anywhere and remaining the same would be like death to me so I broke free. I can see that my life has been big but remarkable who knows. As for mediocrity how is it possible not to be in that insipid state when the 21st century mind demands it. The internet that connects the world is the purest form of slavery. We are all like automated humans, unreal and are all the same. I have perhaps been more mediocre than I wanted to be.
A letter to Erik:
You watched me walk out the door without a word. All
I heard was the door shut then locking. You let me walk
out on the street without a thought and then you let
me sit in my car and still not a word. I had given
you everything I had to give and you reluctantly gave
me as little as possible. You said I was the kind of
Man that you had been waiting for but you just couldn’t
Handle it. It was all too much for you. A man who
Cannot receive love. I had treated you better than
anyone has treated you in years and you let me leave
without a word. You talked about your pain in
relationships wanting and needing more. I gave you
what you wanted and needed and all I got from you was
¨د am not sure about you¨¨ You let me return home sad
and confused. We could have had something amazing. I
would have done anything for you but that was
something you were not used to so you let me walk out
the door without a word. Without strength and courage
your life will always be as you see it now. You had
no courage today and found no real value in me so you
let me leave your life without a fucking word….Sydney
What sucks about my life is that I never seemed to ever get what I wanted. I met Erik 3 weeks ago on Gaydar and when we met it was like magic. That kind of rare magic that two people create completely by accident because the energy worked and it worked well. I fell hard for this boy and my letter to him marked the end of it. After all the hell in his life, years of abuse from men, finally met a man that was sexy and extremely kind to him. I gave him many nice things, many compliments, my touch and my heart. The emotional damage he sustained during the years before me had finally rendered him in capable of expressing and giving love. He did love me I could see it in his eyes and felt it in his nervous touch. I wanted him to be sure he wanted to continue with me and when I asked he just didn’t know. My own fear of rejection was great enough that I needed to test him by leaving. Would he stop me would he phone? If he did then I would have stayed, committed and loyal forever. He did nothing but I know that he was giving me all he had. So we had another thing in common. His best and my best were simply not good enough to create anything, anything at all. It was simply a waste of time. I had arrived so completely that to suddenly not to be at that destination left me bewildered and out of focus. To find my balance again would take some time and I miss him, miss him like crazy. As a friend of mine said about this situation “what did you expect, when you go out with a fag it only lasts a couple of dates anyway”. I never saw Erik as a fag only as a sweet strong young man who liked guys like me, so he said. The only guarantee in this short stay is that life will promise only to take you to the future and that is all.
The future can be without promise or hope but at times can bring such miracles that it is hard to handle. I have been a miracle and have had many miracles. I have been a miracle to those that have loved me and I have been like an angle to those I have loved. In my selfish way I have been able to contribute something of some significance. Not as effectively as I would have liked but I did the best I could. As my friend Regina told me once “it is all about you and if you don’t think so then think again” she meant that in a broad sense, meaning that to not put yourself first is folly because the world and the people in it put themselves at the center of the universe always. I have been generous and have regretted it because my expectations were not met. Now I will only buy dinner if I get laid first. Yes she was right, it is all about me. For my friends it is another matter. I can give there freely without expectations because I have already received what I have needed in those relationships. With Erik it was about me for sure but very much about him to. I was the miracle he had been waiting for but as it turned out, to hard to handle. In love I forget that I should come first and often put myself last. Low self esteem I guess. With Erik he was given dinner first then I was laid. He was the exception.
Life for me has always been about relationships. When you give it some thought that is really what life is all about anyway. It is the relationships we have with each other, to objects and finally to ourselves. People always want to go somewhere else but the problem is they take themselves along. Hard to make a good change when you have a bad recipe. The ingredients are all there its putting them together is the ultimate challenge. One of the ingredients, as my father once said is “showing up”. He said that 90% of success was just showing up. The other 10% would always take care of itself. He was right only to the point that the showing up only gets the ball rolling. It will give you the interview but not necessarily the job. Relationships have been a job in itself and half the time I didn’t want the job or was just simply fired after acquiring the position. I wish my dad were alive today because I need him to explain more about that 10% he talked about.
When I was a young boy I remember the miserable days of living with my mother and her abusive husband. She and my father had divorced years before and was now not happily married to a man who was the center of his universe and expected to be the center of everyone else’s. He was envious of my father. Hated him for his position in life, his power and his good looks. He mostly hated him because he was the father of a stubborn defiant boy who even at an early age would not take shit from anyone. My mother’s husband took great joy in punishing me in all kinds of ways. Like all the men in my mother’s life and in mine, my step father drank too much. He acted out his frustrations on me with frequent beatings and constant threats. My Mother turned a blind eye. She needed men with money in her life because without them she felt she was nothing, so the abuse continued. At one bleak point I hid in one of the upstairs bathroom of my mother’s house, needing to be alone, just to tired to fight anymore. I wanted somehow to let the world know how angry and afraid I was. I needed to express this in a way that would not bring down anymore of my step father’s wrath. I noticed that one of the bathroom mirrors was loose. It was held up by brackets and with a little bit of coaxing would slide out. This I did. There where the mirror had covered the wall was a perfect white surface hidden from the world and my step father. With one of my mother’s makeup pencils I recorded my name the date and the exact time. I was there and there for all time would be a record of that moment. I was eight years old. I put the mirror back as it was. With the knowledge of what I had just done. I felt safe. My life my feelings were now part of recorded history to be discovered like a time capsule or an ancient archeological sight. There it was for all time.
Years later after my step father died my mother sold the house. It was torn down by the new owners. I heard about it and all I thought was did anyone ever discover what was behind that mirror. Did some curious stranger look at this printing with concern and ask himself, who was this boy, where is he now, did he survive. Was my pain discovered? Probably not or if so it was viewed by a construction worker too occupied with the demolition preparations to even stop to give it a moments thought. My yell for help was lost like a flash light beam a child aims at the stars thinking that it will eventually reach some alien race who will ponder its source. Like the note in the bottle that is lost a sea and never ever reaches shore.
A fucked up dream world is where I have lived most of my life. I suppose I got there because the harsh realm of my so called real world was just too disappointing. I think of one of the definitions of insanity. Being the same over and over again but expecting different results. Like drinking bleach and needing it to be an orange juice. What was I supposed to do? I lived in my parent’s world under their control but never their supervision. They were to busy to supervise. That’s what the hired help was for. My parents existed in a sparkling social world where they would dazzle and delight one another and others in their class. Children were the bi product of unions without soul. The natural outcome of sex without contraceptives. I, like my siblings were processions who were to be extensions of our fathers’ ego and the mother’s need to provide the king with offspring. My father was married three times. I was the offspring of his first marriage. My sister Kimberly was the product of the second and my sister Jennifer and brother Glenn were from his third and last. My father was a man who loved women and women loved him. He needed and had many at all times. That is what finally lead to his death. He was executed by his third wife, Joan. A beautiful blond who just couldn’t take my fathers lies anymore. She shot him threw the heart with an 1885 Colt rifle from my dad’s collection. It happened in our home in Austin Texas. I was in Canada with my mother. My sister Kim was with her mother on their ranch in Manitoba. Jennifer and Glenn were asleep upstairs seconds away from the blast that changed our lives forever. I always existed here and there and nowhere all at the same time. The shot was fired and I heard and felt nothing.
Father’s wives was petite, beautiful and Canadian. Joan was blond had an impeccable figure and piecing green eyes. Eyes are the windows of the soul which lead a path to the depth of an individual’s spirit. Joan had spirit, too much spirit. She was ambitious and like many beautiful women of her generation used her charm and looks to capture the attention of any man of her choice. Her choice was my father who happened to be the wealthiest and most desirable man she had ever met. 100% American grade A beef. She was a young woman from a small Canadian town. Her mating options were limited at best. She needed my father to escape the mediocrity of her small Canadian life. She had to succeed at all cost if she were to establish a life style that seemed only accessible to movie stars and the super rich. My Dad was her ticket out and she knew it. The fact that my father was recently married to another Canadian beauty named Joyce was a thorn in her side but nothing more than that. Like any thorn could be removed with one fast action if the grip was tight and the movement swift.
Some have asked why my father only married Canadian women. As far as I have been able to determine this was born from the same mentality that a tourist wears when visiting a foreign destination. Upon arrival all tourist must go shopping. A ritual common to all cultures. The traveler needs to connect with their immediate surrounding. Adopting their best out of town personality and with a traveler’s enthusiasm acquire the most beautiful objects they can at the most reasonable price. Away from home tourist become more of what they are once free of the chains of their everyday life “back there” wherever there happens to be. My father was no different. He was stationed in a U.S. Air force base outside of Winnipeg and once he ventured out and away from his life of duty to his county and our ever present family heritage, he went shopping. He shopped for his favorite thing, beautiful women. In those days it was customary to marry. Shacking up was not done. Women would only give themselves up to a man full of promise and fidelity. The women in his life believed what he told them and they were his for as long as he wanted them. Joan knew better. She didn’t care she wanted him and what he represented. Her desire for stature and position was a power greater than herself and it took her like a wind takes a butterfly. She moved with ease, riding the current but always maintaining her balance. My mother Jean was the first of his three wives. Joyce was the second and Joan the 3rd. All three lived in Winnipeg. Jean, my mother was the most practical. Very mature for her age and slightly older than my dad. She once said that she couldn’t handle his childlike behavior. She remembered that he would get so excited about the potential of having fun that he would express this by jumping up and down on the bed. My mother married well when she married my father. She was born in a tiny village in Saskatchewan and lived on a farm without running water or electricity. She lived there with her ten brothers and sisters and a mother who never learned to speak English. My mother was from good Ukrainian stock. She was strong grounded and above average looks. She left for the city when she was 16. Worked in Winnipeg and later met my father. When I was born she hired a lawyer and never saw my father again. Weeks after the divorce my father married Joyce. Joyce was the most glamorous. She was well educated and worked as an office manager for a clothing manufacturer. She learned how to walk talk and present herself in the most perfect way. She was impressive and was noticed where ever she went. After one failed marriage my grandparents insisted that they have the final word on any future marriage my father would undertake. My grandparents where the products of one of America’s first families. A fixture in the society of America’s wealthy and powerful. Dad was obligated to at least try to fit in. Grandmother liked Joyce but would have rather he chose from his own class. Father was considered a maverick who was not easily controlled. For my Grandparents it was a compromise but Joyce showed well and for that they were relieved. Joyce married for love as did my mother. Both were determined to marry well and with their looks they knew they could. Like Joan they knew that meeting a man like my dad was one chance in a life time. When they were proposed to all barriers were removed. My father got what he wanted and so did they.
Joyce once commented that she had never met a man like my father and realized only much later that she was in fact too naïve to really understand the full implications of marrying into a family of that magnitude. She had only seen men like him in the movies. She recalled how he would fill what ever room he entered. Both men and women were taken by him. He was always the center of attention. He was admired and desired by both. He was swarthy sexy and larger than life. Joyce remained married to him for several years. She trusted him blindly and all the while he engaged in numerous encounters. Never able to restrain himself from going after anyone that caught his eye. Joan was someone that caught his eye. She gave herself up to him one night after my father had many drinks. She planted the seeds of doubt in his mind regarding Joyce at that time. Never being content to remain a casual encounter, she devoted herself to the tender care of the seeds she had sown. This garden would be the perfect __expression of her desires. It was watered regularly.
Joyce had everything she could ever want except a child. Joyce was unable to conceive. My father was many things, a young man who could not avoid having a good time, a capable air force officer and a good enough husband. Joyce wanted a child of her own. It was what women wanted without question in those days. I was born several years earlier and was being raised in Canada by my mother and her new husband. Still too young to travel I could not fill my dad’s house with the sounds of a family which is what Joyce needed. Her disappointment and resulting depression was more than my father could bear. He was used to a capable and vivacious woman who augmented him and his life style. The situation needed to change for his sake more than hers. Doctors could not help so my father with all the ease that a man of his stature maintained simply and very quickly resolved the issue once and for all. One afternoon he arrived home with a baby. A teary eyed Joyce without questions accepted her gift. At that moment my sister Kimberly was conceived, carried and born. This child was hers. My father never mentioned where the child came from but did explain that it was adopted. An arranged adoption through family channels. It was only years later during an afternoon of looking at family photos my sister Kim and I had a revelation of the highest order. When compared to pictures of grandparents’ aunts and uncles we knew that because of the unique family resemblance that she was indeed my father’s offspring. It was undeniable. Who the mother was could never be answered. My father was dead by then and so the mystery remained unsolvable. She had always felt apart because of her supposed adoption. All I heard her say in response was “those lies, all those damn lies”. When Joyce was told all she could do was shake her head in severe silence. Funny how the questioning mind is dulled in the face of dreams coming true and the ongoing promise of a fulfilled life. Joyce could never look beyond what she had been given for to do so would open a door which may never be shut. She could never risk the possibility of losing the one thing that gave her life meaning, her daughter Kimberley. My father’s actions were now out in the open. The only thing to do was nothing, nothing at all. He was dead and the facts of that event died with him. I remember that Joyce and Kim went shopping that afternoon and bought a fabulous outfit or two. The adoption was never mentioned again.
Sometimes you don’t need to be pretty to be beautiful. Ron Forster of Toronto is indeed beautiful, but he sure ain’t pretty. Well, at least in the eyes of some of those citizens of Gaydom who perceive themselves as top of the heap, new generation queers.
For the first time in Toronto’s history gays were taken seriously and on June 28th of the same year Lesbian & Gay Pride Day was legally incorporated, but the fight was not over yet. Back in those days civic leaders such as Mayor Eggelton refused to recognize Gay Pride. A public parade was banned. Of course this did not stop the leaders of the gay community from organizing Gay Pride day at Cawthra Park, where 10,000 gays attended.
Boys if you are looking for love get a dog.![4551315_310215[1]](http://data6.blog.de/media/876/4646876_92bab8f46a_s.jpeg)
The very day I raised my head to God and thanked him for bringing such joy and love to my life, it ended. Yes the fucker ended it. Without notice without warning.
