It’s hard to be sad or lonesome with this little one around.

Ever Virgin.

Before I begin to talk about this weekend’s parade, I must offer my humble readers two bits of important back story.

a) The governors daughter, Katherine, just recently came out publicly as a lesbian.  You can read all about that here.  On the advent of this auspicious occasion, the governor decided to march in this year’s parade with daughter and family.  I think it’s wonderful that he decided to support her so publicly considering how many politicians weigh every move in the eyes of their campaigns rather than their families.

b) There is a homeless man whose designated begging area is on and around the state house.  He is well known among the Boston community for his completely bizarre, almost mechanical-sounding voice. The rumors say they he was once a professor at Boston University, but was fired and went a little off the deep end.

Okay, allow me to continue….

I had the pleasure of attending Boston’s Pride parade this past Saturday. A large group of happy people coming together to celebrate a common idea is often a good time- and this festival was no disappointment. I met Kyle, Neil, and Smart David for brunch at Kinsale prior to the parade and we chatted and watched the colorful display of t-shirts before heading up to our desired location by the State House to watch the actual parade.  Jacob was walking with Lavan so I was excited to get to see them all cute and pride-y.  There was a plethora of excited and exciting groups marching and we did our best to woop and hollar at the right times, grateful there was no oppressive heat.  The homeless man that I described before, and who I will call Joe for the rest of this tale, made several passes among the crowd, asking for change in his usual abrasive tone- he was, unexpectedly, cleanly-shaven and had a haircut.  He was overall ignored by both parade-goer and parade police.  He decided to make another pass through the crowd just as Gov. Patrick and his family were passing by us at the State House.  Joe walked right up to the governor, right past the crowd and the security, and put his arm around him.  He walked with him a few feet before he was gently and discretely shuffled back into the crowd.  I was dumbstruck.  I couldn’t believe how easily he had just walked right up to him and touched him.  If Joe was a dangerous man, or if he was nefariously tasked, he could have easily killed the governor.  It really made me feel uneasy.

Here is a photo of them that Neil snapped, Joe is wearing the yellow polo:

What scares me the most is that we have to go through a lot of security precautions in our daily lives.  Lots of time and money have been spent attempting to keep us safe, but we never are.  At any moment, you can be attacked just walking down the street.  Thank goodness nothing truly scary happened at the parade- it sure made my stomach jump though!

Ever Virgin.

There are some things that you never think will happen to you.  They are so far out of the realm of possibility that you don’t even have the inclination to imagine them.  They are so abstract that you can literally pull them out of thin air like a round robin make-believe story and you still couldn’t get as strange or outlandish as the actual reality. I sit here, lower lumbar supported by the cross-bar of my broken bed (injured by the stair-fall, in this episode), and I surround myself by ambient noise all around, the whirring of the fans somehow helping to recycle my brainwaves and keep the thoughts flowing from hysterically painful to hysterically ironic but never staying on any one given thought for long enough to make impact.  And I am thoughtful, quiet here, thinking about the ways we touch and the ways we are touched- thinking about the things we say to people and the words we omit to spare their feelings or our own.  I’m always thinking about them- the words, the motions, the actions and the reactions- what I fail to convey, how little of an impact I make for change in my heart, no matter how well intentioned.

It doesn’t feel right.  That I should know the curve your elbow makes when it hits your upper arm.  That I can trace behind my eyes the pattern your chest hair makes across your pectorals.  That I could paint the outline of your foot from my memory getting every detail as if I had traced it.  That I know which of your eyelashes cross over one another when you cry.  That I can count your breaths on the rise and fall of one freckle on your collar bone.  That I’ve covered your skin with my hands and with my eyes until you’ve been so fully absorbed into me that I feel like I could recreate you out of the matter that I imagine.  But to what end?  I am tired of feeling like I have the secret formula that will always know what color shirt you’re going to wear or what you’re going to order for breakfast.  I am scared that I could make your bed and know which pillows you prefer to have on top and which corner of the comforter to pull down.  I am frustrated that I would like to fold your laundry and match your socks and rub lotion into your shoulder blade in an intuitive, silent, no-need-for-thank-you sort of way.  I sit up in bed, awake, into the early hours of the morning, thinking about the smallest parts of you that charm me.  I want to finger paint you.  I want to cover you in orange blossoms and garlands of gardenia.  I want to push you into the ocean and run away and trip in the sand.  I want to clean up the crumpled paper, the dasani bottles, the condom wrappers and the sweaty t-shirts that you leave around my bedroom.  I want to outrun you.  I want to feel what it’s like to know you.  I want to feel like you know which direction the curls swirl around the frame of my face.  I want you to already know which crayon you would use to color in my eyes.  I want so much more than any one person could ever give me, and yet so little that it’s barely worth recognition.  I want to know someone sees me and that staying up all night, counting and recounting the span my two fingers can measure between your hip bone and waist is worth it.

For once, I want to outlandish reality to be so much more mundane than anything I could ever imagine.  Where are you?

Ever Virgin.

Well, we have two thirds of a season, at any rate. For the 2008-2009 season, the F.U.D.G.E. Theatre Company unofficially announced tonight (to a packed crowd of 7 in Joey’s air conditioned bedroom) that we will be performing one straight play, one musical cabaret, and one full stage musical. The straight play will be, Training Wisteria by BU alum, Molly Smith Metzler. This is a fantastic piece that some of the play selection committee had the pleasure of seeing at the 2003 ACTF. The musical cabaret will be the hip, fresh, contemporary, Edges by jazzy duo, Benji Pasek and Justin Paul. Look forward to some adorable, touching numbers like, “I Hmm you” and “Facebook”. The third production for the season, the summer musical, the companies “piece de resistance” has yet to be determined. While many options have been discussed, From The Who’s Tommy to Little Women, but nothing has yet caught that magic moment where we all look up and smile and say, “YES! ‘Tis it!” We’ve gone back to the drawing board for more research and referal. But, you heard it here first, kids. Look forward to an awesome season to come.

Here is a picture of some wisteria that I absolutely fell in love with when I was in France. It was growing on the gate house of the Chenonceau castle.

and here is a random image I found when I searched for “edges” on google images.

ironically the text behind the leaves there is also French. A coincodence? I wonder.

Perhaps fate is trying to tell us that our 2009 summer musical should be Candide?

tee hee. Other suggestions are welcome! I’ll bring them back to the committee!

Ever Virgin.

I’m furious and filled with anger today. I know that our society places a lot of emphasis on sex, sexual attraction, and sexual attractiveness. It would be a fool’s errand to seek out a place where you could live comfortably without the touch of societal pressure upon you with regard to sex. The having of it, the seeking it out, who is having more and how they are managing to have more. I’ve already come to the conclusion that despite my being a sexual creature, my relationship with physical intimacy is less desperate than most people’s. I don’t need to be gratified physically to feel gratified emotionally and I would rather work on being a good friend to someone or helping someone than go out of my way to locate someone who will have sex with me. I just don’t care. There’s too much else to do. Now, that being said and accepted, what follows is a brief description of what happened to me in only the short time it took me to leave my apartment and reach my office. I imagine that someone who is better looking than me might be used to having more attention on a day to day basis, but I’m not. Today I am very simply dressed in a black sun dress and copper slide-on shoes. Lip gloss, clean hair. No frills, it’s too hot.

So, thinking that because it is particularly hot today, I decided to treat myself to an ice cream cone from the little shop at the Forrest Hills T station. I select vanilla. I proceed down the stairs and enter the train (I chose a car with fabric seats, I find them cozier) and take a seat in an uninhabited section of seat towards the end of the car. A few minutes later, a tall man, dressed in baggy pants, an over sized basketball jersie and a white head scarf takes a seat across from me, directly. I continue to enjoy the ice cream, minding my own business, when I hear him clear his throat in a gesture clearly indicating that he wanted to get my attention- so I look up in his direction, and he flashes an absolutely grimy smile. He says, “I bet that would be even better for you in chocolate, baby”. I looked at him in utter disgust, and got up to move to another section of the train. At this point, I’m annoyed, not flattered, and frustrated that I had to give up my quiet bit of train space for a more crowded section on the other part of the car. As I sit down, two other men get on the train and sit down next to me. They are both in suit-ish attire, and tripped my gaydar pretty quickly. Generally I am more at-ease when I am surrounded by gay men because they either ignore me or want to chat about the bon appetite magazine they are reading. I pull out the novel I’ve been reading “The Woman Warrior” by Maxine Hong Kingston, and start reading- I reach up to fluff my hair which needed to be separated because it was still sort of damp, and I notice them looking at me and chatting and laughing. They were definitely doing the “I’m looking at something past you so it doesn’t look like I am looking at you” thing, while turning back and whispering to one another. I was infuriated. I made direct eye contact with one of them as their eyes “swept passed” me again and I actually SAW him color with embarrassment. I wanted to scream at them. All of them. Every one of the men on the whole train. Who told them they had the right to make people feel bad about themselves? Either of the examples. I mean, who taught that other man that he could say disgusting things to strangers? What made those other men okay with talking about someone right NEXT to them?

I don’t like men. I don’t like the idea that wherever I go, whatever I do, I am on display and they feel justified and entitled to comment either positively or negatively about who I am and what I deserve. No. You don’t. You can and should go to hell. Leave me alone.

Ever Virgin.

My room mate talks to the television when he plays video games. His look of concentration borders on crazed. To be engaged with an expression as intense would be a great accomplishment to any mate. Instead of interacting with him, I take photographs of him in photo booth and transform them into art pieces. I call this one “Room Mate Soup”. (You can see a little thigh in there and a little rim of glasses, if you look hard enough).

I tried to entertain myself reading Craig’s List personals, they made me laugh for a time, until I got to the m4m ones and almost gagged myself at people’s total lack of discretion! I mean, to each their own, but wow, full face and naked body shots for the world to see- perhaps that’s the point (like when people record themselves masturbating, I’d imagine).

Ever Virgin.