Why do words fail me....

     I find myself in an odd circumstance today, I am as a writer at a loss of words to begin to describe to you my readers and followers (if I have any left after months of no posting) what I'm really feeling today. If you have followed this blog any length of time you all know by now how hard of a time I have with the month of December since the death of my partner Ron Rooy in 2002. This year marks ten years that he has been gone and today marks the the day of the anniversary we entered hospice care.

     From the time we entered hospice care until he died was only ten days.  The days ending December 21, 2002 and forever altering who I am at my core.  First let me say I would have never have been able to keep him at home, and let him die at home without help.  First his daughter Christina who was there for part of it, despite having very small children at the time, Frank D'Angelo, Ken Walrath, Annette Tabar, my mother, Brian Fabo and of course the nurses and staff of Western Reserve Hospice.  It is amazing you never forget the small details.

     They say that with time, that the wounds of death become less, well that my friends is a HUGE lie!  It does not become less it becomes different and in some ways, and especially for me it is becoming more painful as the years pass.

      This year marks ten years since Ron died and, we were together four months short of ten years---so in reality he has been dead as long as we were together.  How do I sit here at my laptop and begin to describe to you what that feels like.

     I am forgetting what he smelled like when he first got of the shower as he stood at the bathroom mirror naked and shaving.  I am forgetting the feel of his hand in mine, the touch of and feel of him in bed next to me as we slept.  I am forgetting the taste of his lips on mine in the morning when we first woke.  I am forgetting what his voice sounded like when he told me he loved me.  The pain of this happening in in a word--- brutal!

     But in all honesty I can not ever forget how I felt when I was with him.  I can not forget how easy he was to talk to, to spend time with or how easily he could make me laugh.  The feel of his hands on me when he made love to me--- those sweet, tender passionate moments sitting in bed on Sunday mornings with the paper and breakfast in bed as we just shared our lives, our hopes, our dreams, our secrets.  I can not forget that he more than anyone made me value the life I have.

     To lose someone like that, not just a lover, or a husband but also your best friend does something to you, it dramatically changes you forever and realizing that this last February we would had been together twenty years was very painful.  I sit here this morning in tears knowing I would still be with him today if I just had the chance.  That even today, ten years later I love him more than ever and I always will. 

     But he only lives in memory.  Am I as the widower the only one who feels the way I do?  Am I the only one who feels that part of my very being is buried with him?  I think a lot about him and what he would have to say about my life and what it is today.  Would he be proud of me?  What advice would he give me?

     I have to admit that I pray to him all the time, my own patron saint--- my own connection to the divine--- I just wish as he said "You will feel me when the wind blows against the back of your neck"---  I need the wind to blow to guide me, lead me and direct my feet to the path I should take.  I need to know that he is proud of what I am becoming, and of what I want to do.

     It sad in so many ways that in many regards I have distanced myself from the life I had, and it has been a huge mistake.... but maybe life does go on, we change, we grow, we adapt and I am not longer the thirty-six year-old man whose partner had died.  I am now his widower, the keeper of his life, his legacy and I am so very very grateful that i have been blessed with that enormous responsibility.

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"Theater Is For Sissies"--- Self written Poetry

This was for a Stage Play Class I am taking.  We were asked a series of question about the theater  and then asked to write something form those questions we were asked---Hope you enjoy it



"Theater Is For Sissies"

Flawless November nights, the city of Chicago
Embraces lovingly our lead Anderson Cooper
Solid,hard...oak floors his Louboutin's  shall tread
Lavender and oatmeal with raisins wafting
Welcome his fearlessness, him scented with Chanel Number Five
As Eva Peron; forget ole what's her name
Patti Lapone isn't anyone
Thongs of adoring fans clamor to hear our boy
Sing "Don't Cry For Me Argentina"
As they sip cappuccino in red velvet seats
The Queen, no not Anderson; but Elizabeth
Has her box seat at our Royal Albert Hall
Anderson's BMW maybe jealous of her Rolls Royce
But he has his darling Coco, an Ivory Shi Tzu
Oscar Wilde would be besides "herself"
As love has dared to speak its name
Boystown sellouts; standing ovations roar
Hoping Anderson will play
Ms. Gypsy Rose Lee next
Because my dear it takes a sissy
To really conquer the Theater

In Cold Blood: Truman Capote Tribute

I could talk about one of my idols Truman Capote for days, and maybe at a later time I will talk more about his life here in the blog but for now let's talk about "In Cold Blood" which I recently read.  I read it in a day as I could NOT put it down.  So if your looking for an incredible book this is it.  If you want an incredible gay author, Truman is your fellow.

In Cold Blood

The "new book," In Cold Blood: A True Account of a Multiple Murder and Its Consequences (1966),
was inspired by a 300-word article that ran on page 39 of The New York Times on November 16, 1959 (reproduced below). The story described the unexplained murder of the Clutter family in rural Holcomb, Kansas.

Wealthy Farmer, 3 of Family Slain

A wealthy wheat farmer, his wife, and their two young children were found shot to death today in their home. They had been killed by shotgun blasts at close range after being bound and gagged. The father, 48-year-old Herbert W. Clutter, was found in the basement with his son, Kenyon, 15. His wife Bonnie, 45, and a daughter, Nancy, 16, were in their beds. There were no signs of a struggle and nothing had been stolen. The telephone lines had been cut. "This is apparently the case of a psychopathic killer," Sheriff Earl Robinson said. Mr. Clutter was founder of The Kansas Wheat Growers Association. In 1954, President Eisenhower appointed him to the Farm Credit Administration, but he never lived in Washington. 

 

 The board represents the twelve farm credit districts in the country. Mr. Clutter served from December, 1953 until April, 1957. He declined a reappointment. He was also a local member of the Agriculture Department's Price Stabilization Board and was active with the Great Plains Wheat Growers Association. The Clutter farm and ranch cover almost 1,000 acres in one of the richest wheat areas. Mr. Clutter, his wife and daughter were clad in pajamas. The boy was wearing blue jeans and a T-shirt. The bodies were discovered by two of Nancy's classmates, Susan Kidwell and Nancy Ewalt. Sheriff Robinson said the last reported communication with Mr. Clutter took place last night about 9:30 PM, when the victim called Gerald Van Vleet, his business partner, who lives near by. Mr. Van Vleet said the conversation had concerned the farm and ranch. Two daughters were away. They are Beverly, a student at the University of Kansas, and Mrs. Donald G. Jarchow of Mount Carroll, Illinois.

Fascinated by this brief news item, Capote traveled with Harper Lee to Holcomb and visited the scene of the massacre. Over the course of the next few years, he became acquainted with everyone involved in the investigation and most of the residents of the small town. Rather than taking notes during interviews, Capote committed conversations to memory and immediately wrote quotes as soon as an interview ended. He claimed his memory retention for verbatim conversations had been tested at "over 90%".

Lee lent Capote considerable assistance during his research for In Cold Blood. During the first few months of his investigation, she was able to make inroads into the community by befriending the wives of those Capote wanted to interview. Capote recalled his years in Kansas when he spoke at the 1974 San Francisco International Film Festival:

I spent four years on and off in that part of Western Kansas there during the research for that book and then the film. What was it like? It was very lonely. And difficult. Although I made a lot of friends there. I had to, otherwise I never could have researched the book properly. The reason was I wanted to make an experiment in journalistic writing, and I was looking for a subject that would have sufficient proportions. I’d already done a great deal of narrative journalistic writing in this experimental vein in the 1950s for The New Yorker... But I was looking for something very special that would give me a lot of scope. 

 

I had come up with two or three different subjects and each of them for whatever reasons was a dry run after I’d done a lot of work on them. And one day I was gleaning The New York Times, and way on the back page I saw this very small item. And it just said, "Kansas Farmer Slain. Family of Four Is Slain in Kansas." A little item just about like that. And the community was completely nonplussed, and it was this total mystery of how it could have been, and what happened.

 

 And I don't know what it was. I think it was that I knew nothing about Kansas or that part of the country or anything. And I thought, "Well, that will be a fresh perspective for me"... And I said, "Well, I’m just going to go out there and just look around and see what this is." And so maybe this is the subject I’ve been looking for. Maybe a crime of this kind is... in a small town. It has no publicity around it and yet had some strange ordinariness about it. So I went out there, and I arrived just two days after the Clutters’ funeral. The whole thing was a complete mystery and was for two and a half months. Nothing happened. I stayed there and kept researching it and researching it and got very friendly with the various authorities and the detectives on the case. But I never knew whether it was going to be interesting or not. 

 

You know, I mean anything could have happened. They could have never caught the killers. Or if they had caught the killers... it may have turned out to be something completely uninteresting to me. Or maybe they would never have spoken to me or wanted to cooperate with me. But as it so happened, they did catch them. In January, the case was solved, and then I made very close contact with these two boys and saw them very often over the next four years until they were executed. But I never knew... when I was even halfway through the book, when I had been working on it for a year and a half, I didn't honestly know whether I would go on with it or not, whether it would finally evolve itself into something that would be worth all that effort. Because it was a tremendous effort.

In Cold Blood was published in 1966 by Random House after having been serialized in The New Yorker. The "nonfiction novel," as Capote labeled it, brought him literary acclaim and became an international bestseller.
A feud between Capote and British arts critic Kenneth Tynan erupted in the pages of The Observer after Tynan's review of In Cold Blood implied that Capote wanted an execution so the book would have an effective ending. Tynan wrote:

We are talking, in the long run, about responsibility; the debt that a writer arguably owes to those who provide him—down to the last autobiographical parentheses—with his subject matter and his livelihood... For the first time an influential writer of the front rank has been placed in a position of privileged intimacy with criminals about to die, and—in my view—done less than he might have to save them. The focus narrows sharply down on priorities: does the work come first, or does life? An attempt to help (by supplying new psychiatric testimony) might easily have failed: what one misses is any sign that it was ever contemplated.

33 Ways to Stay Creative

"King of Angels: A Novel Abut the Genesis of Identity and Belief"

  
Since I have been on a big gay author reading kick here lately and building the "gay authors section of me ever building personal library I thought I would share this news.....Perry Brass has written a brand new book (his sixteenth,) King of Angels, and it is a BIG winner. 

Literally. The book has won a 2012 IPPY (Independent Publisher Book Award)


Looks like it is going to be an incredible read, here's hoping I find it.