Category: Uncategorized

The Writer

He sat at the small table, laptop in front of him, pack of Camel Blues to his right, focused intently on the screen of the small Thinkpad. Ryan Adams played softly in the background as his fingers stroked the keypad. He leaned forward as if to see the type better. His black hair hung over his brow as it furrowed. His right hand went to the top of the keyboard, his index finger stretched out as if pointing to some casualty by the roadside. It landed firmly and squarely on the Delete key. He pressed it, keeping his finger poised on the key. The cursor moved backwards across the screen, first a few letters, then a word, then more words, backing through his thoughts, his emotions until the entire paragraph was gone.

“hrmmph.” The only sound he made. He looked up from the keyboard at the screen, then his gaze extended beyond the screen, focusing somewhere between his mind and the eternal sky. He sat like this for a while. His brow raising occasionally, deep in his world, immersed in the lives and goings on of the characters on the page, as if he was watching them in front of him, just beyond his reach. He watched. Waiting for what was to happen next. He laughed to himself as if he just played witness to a good joke. He woke from his trance, fingers poised on the keys, he types, slowly at first, picking up speed as the story he just witnessed races through his mind. His fingers trying to catch it before it disappears again. He leans into the laptop as his fingers now hit their stride. First a few letters, then a word, then more words, then a paragraph. Then another.

His gaze is at the screen but not reading the words that are appearing on the white background, his mind is still in the land when he witnessed the story unfold. Soon his fingers slow, he stares at the screen, his right hand reaching for the pack of Camels, like a scene rehearsed a thousand times before, he pulls out one. His hands so familiar with this routine that he doesn’t take his eyes from the screen. He places the cigarette between his lips, then reaches for the lighter, automatically lighting it as it approaches the tip of the small white cylinder held tightly between his lips. His hands stops at the appropriate distance, he breathes in the flame through the tobacco, inhaling the first wisps of smoke. His hand places the lighter back next to the pack of Camels on the table. His eyes never leave the screen.

He leans back in his chair, keeping his gaze focused on the words before him, leaning back in the chair, he pulls the cigarette from his mouth. As he does his lips close except for at the sides of his mouth, he breathes in through the small openings in his lips. A small sound of rushing air emanates, like a gentle whisper to a friend. His hand finds the ashtray, he taps the ash from the burning cigarette.

gay American

I am gay. I am an American.  I contributed to President Obama’s campaign, I get emails from him everyday, telling me what he is doing, how he is changing the world. How much better things are going to be for us all.  But he never mentions me, or the millions like me.

I read in the morning paper that a man’s property taxes went up from $1700 per year to over $10,000 a year.  Just because his partner of 37 years passed away.  Because they did not share the same rights that straight people enjoy.  He is something less than an American.  He is a gay American.  Not even capitalized.  Something to be loathed, laughed at, put down, beat up, picked on, killed.  Something to be ignored.   I read where a young boy committed suicide because his faith told him he was wicked.  I read how another young man was beaten to death because he was different.

I have news for you, I send your kids to school, I pay for the roadways you drive on, the bus you sit in, the welfare you collect, the salary you get, the fire and police protection you deserve.  I write your story, I act it out, I create the clothes you wear, I teach your kids, I take care of you when you get sick.   I drive you to the store, I operate the crane that builds your towns, the highways you drive.  I feed you when you are hungry, let you rest when you are weary, caress you when you are lonely, support you when you can’t make it alone.  I am your friend, your neighbor, your son, your daughter, mother and father.  I am you.  But I am less because you don’t acknowledge me.  I am more than you think, more than you want, more than you know.  I am you.  Acknowledge me.  I do exist. I am.

I feel pain, I bleed, I get envious, jealous, mad and happy.  I am confident, secure, pensive, weak, strong and sweet.  I am blonde, brunette, red haired, blue eyed, green eyed and sometimes red eyed.  I have dogs, cats, fish, snakes, spider and no pets.  I drive a Honda, Chevy, Toyota, Jeep, Mercedes, Rolls.  I live in Malibu, Watts, Topeka, St. Louis, Louisville, Grand Rapids and everywhere in between, above, below and next to.  I am successful, down and out, average, middle class and broke.  I am army, navy, air force and marines, and I am civilian.  I am a scientist, a doctor, a file clerk, a musician, and actor.  I am a car salesman, and an IRS agent.  I can work for you, take care of you, feed you, be your boss, be your congressman, judge, jury and executioner.  I am in every corner of your life, every nook and cranny, every day in day out connection.  I walk with you, talk with you, consul you, advise you, laugh with you, cry with you, die with you.   I am Catholic, Mormon, Jewish, Muslim, Agnostic, and Buddhist.  I am you.  Acknowledge me. I do exist.  I am.

I don’t want more, I don’t want less.  I don’t want special treatment.  I don’t want to be revered or feared.  I don’t want you to exalt me or to shame me.  I don’t want you beat me or kill me.  I don’t want to rape you or molest you.  I don’t want to be afraid to walk down a street or to be called names.  I don’t want to make you gay or straight, or to turn your kids gay.  I don’t want you to hate me because I am gay, I don’t want you to love me because I am gay.  I don’t want you to fear me because I am gay.  I want you to acknowledge me.  I do exist.  I am.

© 8/01/2009