Sometimes things happen fast.

A lot has happened to me this last year. I had a nervous breakdown, quit my job, lost my 8 year relationship and the place I had lived for 6 years. All of this is my own fault. My life, my rules… this is what I get. I am one of the lucky ones. Ten months with no job. Honestly, I kind of like that. If I could support myself through painting, and garden all the time, I would be in heaven. Why can’t it be that simple?

It is. And.. I am in love. Can a two people fall in love at first meeting? At first kiss? After spending 5 hours doing nothing but kissing? Wow, I have met someone who is everything I want, and he likes everything about me! Seriously, everything! I am AMAZED!! It makes me feel like I am 16 again. That everything is new, and fresh and wonderful and I really really connect with this guy.

Both of his parents are from Jamaica. He is built like a WWF wrestler and has skin like… heck, I am at a loss for words… what IS this soft? He is 46 and 3 inches taller than me. He can pick me up like a sack of potatoes. Seriously!

We met last weekend, I went up to Mt. Olive NJ to consult over his wreck of a garden. The place has initial landscaping, but the deer have ruined most of it, and caused some interesting shapes to bushes and trees. Originally things were badly placed, and there are trees in front of windows, or three trees in a row, or bushes that are too big or too small for their location. I am looking forward to this project. It is going to be very interesting.


I wish I had a vagina

Apparently, it is okay when you have a vagina to not pay rent, and even suggest that someone throw their jobless brother out on the street, so the vagina could move into his bedroom and live there for free.

If I had a vagina, no how stupid I was, I could talk and talk and talk, and guys would listen to me. Especially the one guy I am cheating on.

It’s okay when you have a vagina to smoke other people’s pot, and even smoke in front of someone who is detoxing from it, while claiming that you are keeping them from doing it.

I wish I had a vagina, because no matter how bad I am in school, I know there will always be a place for me to live when I go on and on about the state of the world we live in, while sounding as smart as a rolling rock.


Taking Responsibility

It is my fault. All of it. Really, I am not taking one for the team. Everything is my fault.

Everything that is “wrong” in my life, I have caused. My relationships go wrong because I am a bad communicator, my jobs go bad because I am head strong and decisive, my friendships go bad because I am inattentive. Same with my car, I just don’t care enough to put the effort in it to keep it going at all times. No preventative maintenance. Just like my relationships, just like my jobs.

Sure, I am super, but good looks and a winning smile only gets you so far. Where is my substance? It isn’t there when it should count. I have been bad, uncaring. I have caused accidents, deaths, horrible horrible things have happened because of me. I take responsibility for it all.

Sometimes I feel like Aeon Flux, I kill people without even realizing that I am doing it. Once, was carrying a tray of food out to the dining room at Shoneys, and spilled just the tiniest bit of water. Instead of stopping to clean it up, the next person behind me broke their leg. She was a friend of mine, and I confessed on the spot. She never spoke to me again, you know why? I didn’t even go to the hospital to visit her. You know why? I was 18 and didn’t drive yet. I always have these good excuses.

Once, I braked too hard because I wasn’t paying attention, and the car behind me was hit by another car.

Once, I was helping my grandmother organize what she was going to give to who in the family, and she tripped over one of the boxes, and got a blood clot, and died.

My best friend, died of brain cancer. Because I didn’t tell him how much I cared about him as a person, and beg him not to use drugs, to have safe sex even though he was HIV Positive. Sure, I could have used my influence for good, but I don’t know how to beg, or cry, or show emotion for someone I actually care about. Sure, I was his only friend there when he died, supporting his mother, but I could not go to his funeral. It was too “public”. It tore at my heart, but I just could not throw myself into a whirlwind of public insanity that would have been his funeral.

I have had more friends die, than I remember names of. They would slip away quietly, and disappear, and die. No one knew where they went. It was the 90’s and AIDS was taking people left and right. In the South, my friends didn’t want anyone to know. They went  back “home” and died. No friends, no community, no fundraisers or showy pagents. They just slipped quietly away.

So many people vanished in such a short period of time. Could I have done anything about it? I had safe sex. I was insistent of condom use all the time, so hopefully other people also became insistent, but who knows, I probably just bored them into complacency.

You can blame AIDS on me too. I didn’t march, I didn’t fund raise, I didn’t want to talk about it or do anything about it. I didn’t want it to exist. Imagining that every fund raiser out there is just a bunch of rich creeps taking money from caring people and spending it for their own greed (this was actually proven true), I didn’t want to be included in the drama, the emotions, they insanity of it all.

So I lived my quiet little life. Killing people left and right, maiming the general populace for no reason. I am sure, if I actually sat down and thought about it all, I probably caused a few suicides, drug overdoses, random shootings, and all sorts of other mayhem.

Just blame it all on me. I take responsibility. I am a bad bad person. So, anything I can do to make it better at this point?

If I had a good editor, my life would make an interesting story. There is danger, excitement, death, murder, drugs, sex, puppets. All the things the general public want to read about.

Growing up Poor

I grew up on welfare. I dropped out of High School. I have lived in a 500 square foot house with five people inside. That is 100 square feet for each person. A little larger than a prison cell for each person.

Food Stamps – are how we bought food. Most of my clothes were second hand at “vintage” stores. And when they were new – they came from JCPennys in the sale section.

Fashion is not something I grew up with. My shoes were Converse (they used to be bargain basement), my pants were corduroy and my my shirts were plaid polyester with pearlescent snaps. In the early 80’s, this was not fashionable. Now, it’s the trend.

In middle school, most of my friends were diverse. I ate at the “black table” for lunch, because I was an outcast, and I could tell by the quiet of that table, that they felt like I did, on the inside. This is where the fat girls, the ugly kids, the poor kids, kids with glasses and the disadvantaged all sat for lunch.

When I moved to Utah, the Spanish and Native Indian community took me in. My friends have always been diverse. I am attracted to people of character more than anything. Color doesn’t really mean anything to me. It is attitude. There are a lot of people on this planet I will never be friends with because their attitude and mine will never gel. That’s okay.

Because of my mixed background, people always guess what I am. I am a person, and I imagine it is this way for most people. We have grown up in our skin, we are familiar with it, we can’t change it, and are okay with it.

I find it funny, when people guess I am “mixed race” which means part black, in “code”. But that is from both sides. I’m okay with my black friends because some think I look mixed. I am okay with my white friends because I look white (to them). Spanish people think I am too, Arabs, Israeli, Romanians – everyone wants to claim me for my own.

Nobody really cares WHAT I am, they only care what I look like. They do not care what is inside my heart, they only care about their perception of my potential.

All races have their economic zones – some very wealthy, some not so much. There are stupid people related to all of us. It’s funny though, when I see a redneck doing something dumb, I never think it reflects on me. So why do most of us that with everyone else?

People are just that, people. Learning to open up and talk and share with all sorts of diversity breaks down walls. It breaks down words. Words do not have power over us. It is what we choose to do with them, that does.

It is easier to be mean than it is to be nice. But being nice, only takes a second, and a simple smile stuck on your face, can change EVERYTHING.

With all this unseasonably warm weather, I have been very excited like most people. Getting the garden ready early. My raised beds were tilled two months ago, and my English Peas are already up 2″, ready to run up the hand made trellis.

The Preen has been put down to keep the weed seeds from emerging in the ornamental beds. Systemic sprinkles around the boxwoods to eliminate the horrid Leaf Miner that runs rampant. Just pruned the boxwoods too, they were already putting on new growth and in bloom. Gave them a nice rounding off to promote even growth, they look GREAT!

Several clematis vines are already reaching up six inches or more, ready to grasp the natural fiber runners leading them to the downspouts, where they will lend a very informal look, and soften the hard edges of the garage.

About to go out and check to see if the Bleeding Hearts made it through the hard freeze last night. While changing some beds this past fall, I ran into some unrecognizable roots – all chopped up while moving things around, they went into one hole and popped up already as 20 different blooming heads – all bleeding hearts. Now, distributed throughout two different beds, they will really fill in over the next year.

One of my favorite plants is the peony. My grandparents grew them in the veggie garden, they are believed to keep away pests. So far, they seem deer resistant as well. I hope this trend continues, as a golden herbaceous peony has entered the mix. It cost a small limb, but hopefully will totally be worth it. A hybrid between the herbaceous and the tree peony –

If you want to see some of the most amazing Peony, check out this site:

The De-Masculinization of the Gay Man

Gay men are portrayed as being effiminate, fond of pink, talking in a high lady-like voice.

I remember reading a pamphlet that had a list of rules of how to tell if a man is gay. It included “the inability to whistle”. Yeah, I didn’t learn how to whistle until I was 11, that was considered LATE in my family. I had already been judged. There was a lot of pressure put on me to whistle by my grandfather. I am sure there he was privy to the rule book of gay and didn’t want me to fall into those patterns.

It is a shame really. Yes, I am gay and I whistle more than anyone you know.

I work on my own car, could care less if my nails are filthy. I wear miss-matched clothes (when not going out for a nice dinner), and don’t listen to show tunes. Yes, most of the women who meet me are disappointed I am not straight, and some would never guess I was gay.

Most people who meet me change their minds of their idea on what gay is. Because Gay, doesn’t have to be one thing. It is as varied as… straight people.

A long time ago, Black People danced and sang, and smiled a lot for the camera. They always acted happy on film and were portrayed a certain way. They knew what they had to do to get along. Today, so many gay men do this same thing. They say “mary” or some such, lisp on demand, and talk about decorating at the drop of a hat – they do this because they might as well? Or because they think that is what they are suppose to do?

It took a long time to find out who I am. Underneath what everyone expects me to be, who I am. There are many layers to travel. Finding the “truth” means finding out what really makes me tick.

Where did all those masculine 70’s men go? They are still out there. There are 1,000 different shades of gay. I find it frustrating though, when gay men use their “gayness” as a shield to protect themselves. It pushes people away. It is inclusive and exclusive behavior.

When I first considered moving to Atlanta, I ran into two cousins in Macon, and they talked gay like no one I had ever heard. When I moved to Atlanta, it was like a dialect specific to a region, but it wasn’t – it was a whole culture. And it perpetuates. It’s almost hard to stop once you start. It’s addictive. It’s also not for me.

I know who I am. People say I don’t have a Southern accent, that I speak well. Maybe too well? I was taught how to speak mostly through the very attentive television. Newscasters with their deep thoughtful voices, that is what I wanted to sound like.

In truth, I hate the way I sound on film or just my voice. Other people seem to love it. What you won’t get from me is three snaps or a Designing Women quote – to emphasize a point. Maybe I say “love” too much. It is a shame we live in a world where anyone would say, “I say love too much”.

Most of my friends are straight. It wasn’t always that way. When 22 I had six female impersonator roommates – all at the same time. They acted the same in dresses and make up, as they did out of them – like boys trying to act like girls.

Being gay is not about trying to be girl-like. Yet, so many people think that is what they are suppose to be, the opposite of what someone has tried to make them. Someone judged them at an early age, and told them they were not who or what they were suppose to be. So they tried to change into that very thing, they tried to become the very thing their parents were afraid of, because it gives a certain power. If people are afraid of a certain behavior, it’s a safety net.

What they don’t realize more than anything, is that everyone is more afraid of “normal”. Self perpetuating steryotypes are easy to spot. It’s the quite ones who blend in, the “sleepers”, you really have to worry about.

Skrillex won a Grammy

Everyone is freaking out. I’ve always been a fan of Dubstep and Drum and Bass. Yeah, it’s a been a bit heavy in use this year, but I still like it.

You may not be aware of my Native American background. That my great great grandmother was a full blood Muscogee Indian. (Everyone in the south says this, but in our case it is true). She unfortunately lost her mother in a fire and was adopted by neighbors. People always wonder where I get my full lips and high cheek bones, and my olive skin.

What’s going on.

My life is pretty boring, and yet.. it is not.

Yesterday I was a bit exhausted, and stayed close to bed. It was a LONG weekend. Went up to Mt. Olive to help V. out with some plant projects. Mostly everything looks really good, with some plant loses, but we will see when spring hits. We visited a really excellent antique store, and several plant nurseries. That’s always fun. We also ate lots of good food!

Today so far includes breakfast with Kyle and Mae, and then an inventory of need, and a tri