December 2008 Archives

I really do like this time of year.

Actually, from October through January, it is a fun time to be alive. Halloween offers pumpkins, the coolness of the spooky, and the first taste of cold weather. Thanksgiving offers food, friendship, the family we choose. And Christmas/Solstice is, for me, an excuse to bake and share the stuff I make. And to examine my life, figure out what is working, what is not. And make changes accordingly

A terrific lady from the ferret shelter just left my place with her arms loaded with cheerios bars (three kinds) and about 36 cupcakes. She is having some sort of gathering with the kids she teaches Sunday School to (lesbian Episcopalian, which is cool) and I offered to supply.

Unable to stop, I just took a pan of banana nut muffins from the oven, and put in a pan of brownie bites. My neighbors love me, and my friends all put on weight this time of year.

It's odd, because I really do not have all that big of a sweet tooth. I just like the way the palce smells when muffins are baking, or cookies are baking. And it sounds corny, but I get a kick out of doing stuff for people around me, when I can. And now, with new energy, there are new opportunities. Plus, my cabinets have been full of flour and sugar and cocoa and stuff for ages. Just waiting for me to get better, to get back to the business of liviing.

Though I have had this longing lately to meet new people, bring new friends into my life, I have been very cautious about who I am choosing to let in. I have been out of the world for a long time, and I distrust my ability to handle crazy with grace and style. And one thing I have noticed, there is never, ever a shortage of crazy in this world.

I have been lucky, being a member of the ferret shelter, to meet some people who are crazy in a nice and loveable way. Luckier still to have kept my friends in LA with whom I play online D&D. Grateful for a terrific relationship with my Mom. And having Adam and Richard in my life is some sort of magnificent honor. Such great people, such good people.

And I have a goal for next year... and to be fair, for the years to follow, if possible. To keep the great people I love in my life, and add more great people when possible. Also, to re-evaluate the relationships that don't seem to be working out.

I am going home for the holidays, with Richard. Adam is going to look after the ferrets (and to be fair, spend an awful lot of time at my place, web surfing and eating the stuff in my refrigerator). The three of us are going to redefine the holiday, after a disasterous attempt last year to make an old fashioned Christmas with my estranged brother and his family.

This year, no such outreach will be made. No drunk arguments, no wasted food, no crying when people do not show up. This year, we will make thai food, italian food, anything but traditional fare.

Because this year, it is important for us to be the family we choose to be, and not the one we feel obligated to endure.

We will likely go see a movie or two, play cards at night, go wandering the mall, take walks in the unbelievably lush backyard where I grew up, and bask in each other's friendship and love. That's the plan, anyway. Especially the basking.

And when I come back, I will begin the task of doing what I have put off for so many year, arranging my thoughts and essays and stuff into a workable book. I think it's possible. And probably long overdue.

And I will be blogging from time to time, most likely. I opened an account at http://jkinatl2.livejournal.com - and that's where I think I will be spending my words, with the occasional reflection on my myspace page. Oh, and give me a week or three to start blogging again. I have hundreds of photos left to digitize for Mom's gift, and cookies and pies and muffins to bake before the holidays. Miles to go before I type.

You ever notice that, when someone stops regularly blogging here, they slowly (or rapidly) drift to the bottom of the pile? I sort of like that idea. I was taking out the trash tonight, and stepping through the soggy leaves on the sidewalk. It had been raining. While I walked back from my errand, I felt a gust of wind, saw the trees shiver, and watched as a few leaves slowly drifted down from the branches. Dignified, gentle, almost grateful that their work sustaining the tree was done.

I feel the same way. It's sad, and scary to say goodbye to a tree which has nourished me for so long. But sometimes, it's just time.

So I will gently drift, buffered by the wind, until I reach the bottom, the earth. There is something noble about that, something pacific. The leaves that fall are not, after all, finished with their duty to the tree. They decay, and nourish the earth.

I hope that, in a small way, my words here have been of some use, and will continue to be of some nourishment so long as they remain here on this site.

For anyone who has read my blog, I am grateful. For those who gave me this platform, I am even more so. You guys have provided me a voice and a lifeline when I have needed it the most. Now, with these new drugs, this new energy, this new direction, this new incentive, I am off to an undiscovered country. I am not sure when or if I will return to this place.

Mainly because where I am going is completely off the map. Scary stuff, that, what with all the "here there be dragons" stuff and all. But mostly exhilarating, with just enough sadness to compel me to go full throttle.

Each and every one of you who have HIV, or love someone with HIV, or care about this pandemic, rock. Even those of you who honestly hate me with a passion. because passion is energy. And energy is fuel.

Second star to the right, then straight on till morning!

Fondly

Jonathan
http://jkinatl2.livejournal.com

Better

For decades, the best part of having a Dad who was a member (and often President) of the local Civitan's Club in North Carolina was the Brunswick stew. The group, mainly consisting of older guys, made themselves useful by performing acts of civic awareness. They built ramps for the wheelchair-bound in the community, they delivered food to homeless shelters, and did all sorts of cool things for people with developmental disabilities. And they raised money two ways; a hot dog stand at the city's 4th of July street fair, and an annual Brunswick Stew sale.

This was some heady stuff, this stew. Prepared in huge cauldrons, stirred for hours and hours and hours until the meat was a mass of stringy protein goodness, punctuated by the occasional corn kernel, tomato chunk, or lima bean. It was savory and sweet, and the best stuff ever. The Civitan's brunswick stew was, in my estimation, the food of... and for.... the Gods.

Whenever I returned for the holidays, Dad would make sure I had a quart or two in my name reserved and in the freezer. Sometimes I would take it back to Atlanta with me. Often, I would heat it up and eat it while at home. It was so amazingly good.

When Dad died, the supply of stew dwindled. As the wife of a beloved Civitan member, Mom was still invited to the functions. She rarely attended, because they made her sad. But each year, they gave her three quarts of stew. This year was no exception, and since I drove to see her this Thanksgiving, rather than fly, I took two quarts home with me. Well, technically, my friend Richard drove, and I kept him awake by constant yammering.

For years, I had touted this stew, this mythical meaty bowl of hard work and fatherly love. And on many occasions, I had tried to duplicate the recipe from memory. Using rotisserie chicken, lima beans (which I normally hate), corn and diced tomatoes, I would cook huge stew pots of the stuff all day, adding spices in moderation, and even a little sugar. The result was, in my estimation, awfully close. But I longed for the real thing, and for the first time in years, I was going to not only have the stuff, but be able to share it.

So Richard and I drove back from Thanksgiving, with two quarts of this stuff frozen in a cooler packed with bags of that artificial ice stuff. It was leftover from when I used to get IV drugs delivered to me that nasty month of the brain infection. Once again, Medicare came to my rescue by helping me transport these fragile, frozen canisters of childhood memories.

Took it home, and the next weekend, unfroze and reheated it. Richard and I sat down on the futon, with our rented movie all set to go. Not playing, though. I wanted to see his reaction to this stuff, talk about it, initiate someone else into the glory of this brunswick stew.

We ate.

He thought. And looked at me. Smiled a little, and said, “It's really really good. But you know something, Jonathan? I think I like yours better.”

I was floored. And I also agreed with him. This was really good stuff, don't get me wrong. But a little watery, where it should have been thick. And not so many vegetables, and just a little shy on the tomato. It just seemed.... I dunno.... faded.

Not entirely convinced, I fed it to my other friend Adam the next night. And he made essentially the same comment. Pretty good, but mine was better.

It was a weird moment for me. I had managed not only to recreate this dish form my childhood, but I had surpassed the original. Mine really was better. Was this an insult to the past? Was this somehow a slight to my dad, and the other sweet old men who, every year, slaved over this concoction? I felt guilty, at the same time I felt proud.

Maybe everyone has this moment, this adult rite of passage. Where something, be it a recipe, a skill or craft, something they take from their idyllic past, and improve on it. And suddenly the notion of things lost, things perfect in a perfect past, is no longer true. Suddenly we are struck with the idea that perfection, along with being impossible, is also subjective. A child's memory is not the same as an adult's reality. It was a funny moment for me.

I love to cook, and think I usually do a pretty good job of it. But it never occurred to me that I would be able to take something so treasured and sacred, and improve it. I did that with the brunswick stew.

And maybe with some other things too. The realization that I have real things to contribute, that I can honor my past and move it ahead into my future, is a sobering one. Because with that knowledge comes the duty to do it. My dad was a good man. I can be a good man too. I can take the mantle of family stewmaker and make it my own. And there might even be other things I have to offer, other gifts that, once aknowledged, become my responsibility to see to fruition. Like writing. Like embracing the idea of living, instead of cringing at the notion of dying. Like surpassing the person I was last year, last month, last week even.

Knowing that things are possible is a wonderful thing. It is also scary, because suddenly there are no excuses not to try. With this sudden burst of newfound health, I find myself beginning to think in terms far longer than ever before. And while this brings me joy beyond the telling of it, it is also forcing me to confront old demons, dreams laid aside, and limitations imposed on me by a depleted body. I am forced to re-examine old relationships of all sorts, and decide what, exactly, I expect. What I feel I deserve, and move forward with a bravery I had not felt for years. I am Kirk, staring at the Genesis planet, watching life form all around me, within me. And I feel young.

For the first time in forever, I really feel young.

I am done digitizing for the night.

My gift to Mom, and if they want it, the rest of the family, is the entirety of the family album. Every photo we have taken as a family or individuals, from 1950 to the present, reconstructed, refined, corrected, and placed in an archival album. The upside? All the photos on disk, in DVR format, and also stored in a glossy archival quality album that replaces roughly three feet of photo album space on the families' bookshelf. And mine, of course.

The downside? All the tricks and tweaks I learned as a graphic restorer makes this thing come out to about ten minutes per photo, on average. Some of the older ones (and many of the older color ones, color is the worst) take upwards of an hour or more to tweak and make decent. I decided not to remove all the scratches, unless they appeared on the subjects or were unduly distracting. I am restoring the past to acceptable condition, not trying to make it pristine.

Anyhow, I have put several dozen hours behind me thus far, and have about ten times more to go. And Sunday is the deadline for standard shipping.

For this, I have neglected family and friends, online activities, pets, and dinner. But it is worth it. Every minute. Because I am saving three generations' worth of memories. Stuff that I imagine a lot of people have forgotten. I did something similar for Mom and her own history last year, but I was lucky. Those were all black and white, which is far more forgiving than color. But it is a labor of love, and sadly, with my financial situation, love and the associated labors are all I can feasibly give this year.

But looking back at the past, at the birthday parties and the moments at the beach, I sometimes get overwhelmed by the astonishing past. Not just mine, but everyones. I look at the photo of my family when I was born. My dad was my age. The age I am now. And yet... and yet he looks so old, so grounded, so....Dad-like. Was that the way it was back then? The arrow shirts, the Brylcreem hair, the seriousness? Hard for me to even wrap my head around that.

And Mom, who I adore. I have reconstructed seven or eight high school portraits of her as a teacher. And created a skin tone where there was none, made teeth a shade or three whiter (nicotene!) and brought her lipstick down to a manageable level.

I wonder how many of these alterations I make every day with my own memories. Make my exes seem more poingnant, make me wonder what I was thinking to let someone go, airbrush out the distracting speckles and discolorations which happen with time. Create a pristine version of events, of people. And in our best moments, I am sure they more than loved up to those recreations. White teeth, great hair, no flaws, charismatic personalities. Moments that make any sane person wonder why these people are no longer in my life.

Sometimes I do that. And sometimes I suffer for it, because I do not like to remember the other side, the sad side, the ugly side, the awful stuff that tore us apart.

When recreating photos of my family and friends, I create the best possible version of each person, in each photograph. Which is okay in a photo album. But dangerous, deadly even, when applied to our breathing past.

I do not like to dwell on slights. I do not like to think about, or even fully remember the bad stuff. But I think it might be important to remember that. Not to allow it to fester. Just to remind myself that my decisions were not totally without merit. I loved my ex enough to consider making him my world. And, of course, I did for a long time. But that did. Funny the time we spend on things, on people, the effort we put in, only to find out it was not only unappreciated, but at the end of the day, it was not even desired. But we often do it anyway, for no other reason except that it does give us pleasure to do good things, to do important things. For their own sake.

Someone should do this. I, therefore, am. Someone should blog about HIV and AIDS from a personal standpoint, instead of simply reviewing political and social issues easily found all over the internet. Someone should care enough to take a piece of their heart, expose it for the world, and take his or her lumps for doing so.

I know my experiences with HIV and AIDS are quickly becoming anachronistic with the new bevvy of treatment options and slow but sure societal acceptance. So I write from that standpoint, if for no other reason, than to digitize the photographs of this time, this person, in this place. People like myself are living longer, hell, living PERIOD thanks to the same breakthroughs that are making us obsolete.

I am archiving photos that might only be of interest to my mom and myself, and perhaps my brother. But that alone is worth the effort. I am archiving my experiences as a person with AIDS even though recently diagnosed persons in the developed world might never share them. And I am becoming okay with that. Because people who lived through the nastiness and horror have an obligation to tell the stories, even to deaf ears.

Even when we become irritants to people whose mission is to gloss over the potential realities of having a chronic, manageable disease. Even when we surpass those we respect and admire as teachers, and become resented and disenfranchised. Even when few people listen, and fewer people relate, and no one seems to care. It's important to tell the stories, to share the experiences, to bring people, for a moment, into a world different from their own.

Thats what these photographs I am scanning do for me. That's what my blogging does for me. I have done a lot here, and learned a lot here. Perhaps all I can. This exile, and the angry messages I received, have given me cause to think. And I have not been idle during that time.

When I finish scanning in these photos of my family, and make them into a book, there may not be another book to follow. We have, as a family, all but stopped taking pictures. And that time, that importance, might be over. And that is okay, sort of. Because things do change. People change. They grow, they die, they evolve and move. Even when they do not wish it to be so.

I notice that in the last few months, I have been blogging a lot about unwanted change, inevitable losses and my frustration with not being able to stop these things from happening. And I can't say with any certainty that I am done with that frustration. But I am slowly learning to roll with it, to a degree. To accept painful truths, and become the person I need to become in order to continue the search for happiness.

In some cases it is necessary to wail, to cry, to gnash teeth, to cry out against injustice and the perversion of things I thought sacrosanct. It is important to cry myself to sleep sometimes when I discover that people I thought liked me, well didn't. And don't. When illusions shatter, they leave shards that pierce the skin, work themselves underneath, and, goddamnit, hurt.

But there comes a time when the crying, and the wailing, and the wringing of hands no longer proves cathartic. Or the cathartic moments pass, and the tears dry, and We, I, realize it is might simply be time to go on, go forward, spend my energies where I am truly and well loved and respected, instead of trying to sell myself to people who simply aren't in the market for what I have to offer.

But its important to remember. To keep the photographs in my head. To be proud, if wistful, about the good that has come. And, someday, to find true perspective that can only be found miles after the fact.

I am not, as I blogged earlier, an arctic explorer lost in the wilderness after all.

I am someone who is free, with all the scary that freedom entails. I just needed that push to realize it.

Out of the nest, into the wind.

Adam is asleep in his chair, which is par for the course on our Sunday night standing date. I just cleaned out the ferret cage, installing the new supercool Superpets bed I won yesterday at the shelter holiday party. Richard won a flea egg comb, which looked enough like a lice nit comb for me to give him hell about it.

He said I could have it, so now I finally have my nephew something for his stocking.

All in all, a good weekend. Had terrific food, watched some cool movies with my two best Atlantans, played about five hours' of DDO with my dear friends from across the country (and around the world) and am just about done with my holiday shopping. Lean though it is, everybody gets something, even if it's just cupcakes and cookies with sprinkles on them.

It is times like this, when I am surrounded by friends and good times, comfortable times, people who really love me and "get" me, that I wonder how silly it is to spend more time than absolutely necessary with anyone who doesn't. I feel as though a whole new possible life has opened up in front of me. And nomatter how long it is, it is still too short to seek out or rent a timeshare in unhappiness.

Now, I am gonna run. Zachary Taylor-Thomas ferret seems to be barfing.

I know it's rather presumptuous of me to write Part One of a blog, when I haven't even taken time to write both parts yet. But I woke up this morning with two distinct ideas in my head, and would rather split them up than write a schizophrenic blog. Of course, I have certainly done so in the past. Just not on purpose.

Pedestals.

Something a good friend wrote in the "comments" section of an earlier blog forced me to examine a few things, and not exactly without some painful realizations. I suppose any realization that's worth anything is at least a little painful

It was recently brought to my attention that there has been a consensus that I have felt "disdain" for those who moderate this forum for some time now. Which struck me by surprise, because I did not and do not feel that at all. If anything, I have been guilty of a bit of hero worship. Putting people on pedestals, as it were.

Which is its own pathology, I know.

I have recently read the biography of Harvey Milk (and have been basically browbeaten by Richard to go see the movie, even though it lacks my requisite vampires, zombies or space battles). Digging a little, I discovered something that should come as a shock to no one. Milk was flawed. He was often intemperate, yet brilliant. He was often so absolutely certain he was right; he was blind to the strength of those who opposed his causes.

I see a lot of parallels here, with recent events. We assumed that Proposition 8 in California would fail because, riding the heady wave of Obama's charisma, we felt that the world, the entire world, was moving steadily and surely in the direction of progress, of unity, or acceptance that transcended the condescending "tolerance" and actually seemed unstoppable. And sadly, we utterly and thoroughly misjudged the capacity, the strength, of those who would have us blotted from the face of the earth - or at the very least, constrained to a second (or third) tiered position in society. To perpetuate the stereotypes perhaps, because people are comfortable with them.

I don't know all the reasons, and I suspect many of them were far more cynical than ideological. Such is usually the case.

But the thing is, we believed we were right, and that our righteousness would surely triumph on it's own merit. Individually, some people warned against such Quixotic ideations. Almost to a person, they were dismissed as naysayers, buzzkills, and so on.

I confess I too believed the proposition would not, could not succeed. And was dismayed to think that the vote would even be close. Surely it would lose by a landslide, right? Surely the "Bradley/Wilder effect" would not extend to that. People who claimed to love us as friends, siblings, sons and daughters, moms and dads, coworkers, would not, in their secret heart, harbor such fear and resentment. But sadly, when the curtains were drawn on the voting booth, it looks like that was exactly how it went down.

It seems that we held this time, this moment in history, on a pedestal. It was a moment of unprecedented transcendence. We elected a person of color for president! We became wiser in the war on drugs. In some states, we had already sanctioned same sex marriage. But the one basic flaw of a tolerant people is that, too often, we are tolerant of intolerance. And such was the case with the campaign for Proposition 8. We let it happen for a long time, because in our idealistic hearts, we thought it was impossible to succeed, regardless of the slick and savvy ad campaign, of all the money pumped into it by the Mormon Church (and some rather unlikely allies within our own extended community).

And like the warning sirens announcing an approaching tsunami, the news of overwhelming and shockingly unilateral support for Proposition 8 came too little, too late. An effort was mounted, and money poured in, but it was not nearly enough time to strategize a real rebuttal to the lies and propaganda. And more to the point, the gay community was, as others have far more eloquently pointed out, without enough decisive leadership to do what was needed, what was most effective, when it was time to do it.

So we lost. And until the California Supreme Court makes a decision (early March, I hear), those already married are in limbo, and those who had begun to plan nuptials have had to put those plans on hold, perhaps for a long time. We had, as a people, put our compatriots, our fellow citizens, our families and coworkers and friends on a collective pedestal, and thought that, in the end, they would certainly do the right thing, the honest thing, the loving thing.

And we were, are, sorely disappointed. Angry even. And rightfully so.

One thing I have learned, though obviously do not implement it as much as I would like, is that intemperance cannot be overcome with more intemperance. For one thing, truly spiteful and angry people will always win the battles. They are, after all, professionals at the sport. Those of us who remain amateurs are outgunned, outshouted, and often scapegoated. Our anger can never reach the seething hatred of those who oppose us, unless we are willing to become vessels of rage ourselves. And when that happens, there is no difference at all between our own selves and those whose ideals we oppose.

Because it’s not really just about marriage. It is about accepting and caring for one another, even when we do not agree. It is about treating others with dignity, even when we are not afforded the same. And yeah, sometimes that’s WAY too tall an order. I myself am guilty of intemperance, especially in support of my friends. Especially when confronted with perplexing hatred and rage. I forget, more often than not, to step back and remember that much of that comes from fear, from insecurity, from ignorance that goes way beyond “not knowing the facts.”

We are called upon to be better people than that. And we should, I think. Be forgiven if and when we do not always succeed. But this relies on someone, somewhere up the food chain, to be better in that moment than perhaps we were. To see our actions not as indicative of a pathology, but a gut reaction to a slight. How many times have we been in traffic, and honked our horns or muttered/screamed/sang obscenities at the driver who impedes us – only to find, when we pass the offender, and glare at them, that they are an elderly woman or crying man, whose own circumstances and situations are far more complex than we gave them credit for being.

And for a moment, most of us feel at least a twinge of guilt. For not taking into consideration the circumstances behind our objectified opponent. Of course, when the same person continues to weave, and endanger others, it really is our responsibility to see them taken off the road, hopefully by a call to the police or other authorities. But in the heat of the moment, many of us don’t think to do that.

And you know? We should be forgiven for it.

Even the nicest of us have moments of anger, of rage. And those who voted against is last November should not be treated poorly. Simply reminded, in as compassionate a way possible, that their actions were wrong, and must be legally and socially overcome.

Collecting a list of enemies is easy. Converting them into friends, though far less rewarding to our primal brains, is much harder.

Back to my own situation for a second, I certainly wish that someone in authority had taken the time to discuss this perceived “disdain” in private. Because there was no disdain. Like I said, if anything, I had placed them on pedestals – and held them perhaps to a higher standard. Frustrated that this standard was not always met, I reacted as though they were Greek Statues, and not living flawed people who grapple their own personal demons of which I am not aware. There is always much more to the story, to any story. And my monkey brain does not always factor this in.

I try though. I try not to honk, nor to curse or objectify. In the car or online. When I succeed, no one knows (which is, I guess, the point). When I fail it looks spectacularly bad, I suppose. I certainly cannot promise an end to intemperate behavior on my part. But I try to take the higher road, and I try to be nice and honest. My hot buttons, deceit and duplicity, are hard to control. But even those, with enough practice, might show improvement.

We will not overturn Proposition 8 with an equal amount of anger or rage, however justified. Like many things, the most effective strategy is likely to be the least gratifying one. Instead of taking the hateful protester’s sign and jabbing them through the eyeball with it, in a George Romero moment of pure visceral gratification, we might be better off, in many circumstances, simply embracing them, or sitting quietly in front of them, and try to wrap our heads around the person who is so damaged that a show of love which does not impact them at all should be so strongly opposed. What happened, and how can we, as a unified community, make it better.

Easier said than done, and we ought to forgive those who, in the heat of the moment, take the Romero route. They are just being human. Pedestals topple, people reveal their own true selves. And the trick is, if we really like them, to do so in full knowledge of the flaws. In a way, people like Harvey Milk were MORE heroic for having flaws, and for succeeding so greatly in the face of them, to do such good whilst grappling his own instincts and demons. Like we all do.

A fever dream, from the arctic explorer, lost in the wilderness, in which he fancies himself on another life, in another time. A freelance writer and recovering actor in the American south. And whilst he enjoys the snark of this particular series, another world, arguably a real one, does creep in from time to time.

It is cold here, but not snowing.

Woke up a few days ago with a montrous crick in my back/neck. Sleeping the last few days seems to be making it worse, but Ibuprofen helps some. I am writing this stooped over, as it seems to the the only comfortable position. Perhaps later, I will try a soak in a hot tub, though everyone swears by icing the area with a bag of frozen peas.

Been awfully busy these lst few days, scraping the pennies together and making the most of this dreadful economy to form some sort of meaningful holiday for myself anf the people I love. I'm glad I don't love more people than I do. Would be nearly impossible.

For the last few months I have been stashing a few dollars here and there in an envelope in my sock drawer. To be fair, it was marked “New Orleans trip or car repair.” Since neither of these things came to pass, it rolled over into holiday stuff. Evrybody gets something. Even if it's a small, insignificant something. I am going to try to bake my way further into their hearts, with homemade apple muffins and pumpkin pies. Assuming that, in the next few days, I am able to straighten up and walk around like a person.

I have been amazed, this month, at how thoroughly I have adhered to my medication schedule. No missed doses, only a handful arguably late, and my numbers are showing scary good results. I feel very guilty for those who start antiviral therapy (or restart it) and watch numbers slowly, painfully, over years, inch upwards (or downwards, in the case of viral load). My CD4 cells have leapt to over 200 in less than three months, and my viral load is close to negligible. I am aware that, over time, this wild strain virus might emerge, and start to rise again to dominance, like John Stamos. But that is a bridge I will cross... or burn.... when it comes. Right now I am doing much better, and trying to find a new place for myself in a world I am suddenly (cricks in the back notwithstanding) capable of rejoining.

A friend from far away called me yesterday, and we talked for over three hours. She mentioned that I had been really seriously sick for an awful long time, and that she was thrilled that I was feeling better, fundamentally better, finally. It's funny, because I never considered myself that sick for that long a time. That's the thing about AIDS. Rarely does it stab you in the throat and dangle you off the side of a building. More often, it simply, slowly saps away strength and strength of will. I found my world slowly shrinking, like a puddle of water in the street after a summer shower.

My edges drew in over months, maybe years. And at some point, moving from the bed to the futon seemed to be my life, with occasional trips to the mailbox and reluctant outings to replenish supplies. It's funny how that happens. I have seen it happen to older people, who slowly become isolated, prisoners of their own circumstances. It's not something that happened quickly. And, I am learning, it is not something that is quickly abandoned. With isolation comes fear; of poverty, of strangers, of driving, of an overwhelming and uncertain future outside the door. Breaking through that wall is as hrd, if not harder, than anything a home builder can do with a sledge hammer.

But I seem to have make cracks, which is good. I dragged my friend Richard to Thanksgiving to visit my Mom. I dragged him to a party on Halloween (it was at this huge venue that was having a costume party. It was also the bar's Latin Night. I can almost sing “Monster Mash in Spanish!). I am dragging him to a meetup and holiday get together this afternoon for volunteers and supporters of the local ferret shelter. And later this month, we are going to North Carolina again, to have another holiday with my mom. His own family lives in Kansas, and he cannot afford to go right now. I seem to be doing an awful lot of things with Richard lately, from near nightly phone calls to road trips to, well, going to a pot luck at a place full of weasels and nice ladies. I feel that sometime I ought to figure that all out. I love him a lot, and he seems to like me okay. The upside of being very sick for a long time is that a person does not have the energy to think about stuff like that, what it is, what it means, what it intends. Only now, crick in the back notwithstanding (did I mention it hurts?) I am not so sick today.

With the slow return of health comes a world of complications. The meds give me headaches and nausea, but nothing at all so bad as medicine past. And none of that dreadful, insidious drain of energy and strength like I had with AZT.

A quick piece of advice to other pozzies, especially those starting meds: Research! Find out what, if any classes of drugs to which you are resistant, and demand on the least invasive, least intrusive, least negatively impactful therapy available. Life with lipoatrophy, lipodostrophy, chronic diarrhea, reduced energy and diminished quality of life is not necessary anymore. The meds, even the most benign ones, do have side effects. And everyone is different. But the terror that has for decades been associated with the meds can be mitigated. Just do homework. And the most thorough and in-depth (and current) source for that information is AIDSMEDS/POZ.com. Seriously The best and brightest have built that site from the ground up, relying not on parroted copy/paste jobs lifted from other sources, but from the science itself.

How long this will last, I don't know. To be honest, I am not particularly thinking about that. Worrying for its own sake is a waste of my time. And suddenly there are things, outside things that are real, and pressing, and sadly neglected for years. Getting out into the world again has been a great, if scary step. But the flipside to that is that the world gets in, now.

A little of my old spunk has returned, which has both gotten me out of the house and into some trouble. Back in the day, when I ran a small but eerily effective HIV outreach and prevention organization, I had a sad tendency to imagine myself as something of a James T. Kirk. I was known for speaking my mind at board meetings of regional organizations, was quick to point out flaws and wastes of money and useless propaganda. I tended to go where angels feared to tread, and often paid the price for my intemperance. The newfound energy I have, it seems, has shown just how little has changed. And perhaps it is time to examine that as well, if I am to do real and lasting good. Good, of course, being subjective.

But I am thrilled to have the energy and the investment in living to get into trouble. And I am happy to have found a voice again, even if I might need to tweak it.

For now though, for today, I have Mango bars and Oatmeal marshmallow treats to arrange on a platter, and a shower to take. In two hours the ferret shelter is having a meeting, and Richard will be here in about an hour. There is a face to be shaved and a ferret or three to cuddle. And maybe I ought to look for that bag of frozen peas.

It is cold, but not snowing.

It has been a stormy day. The winds have taken the stars. Our camp has decided to hoist tents for the duration.

The dogs are restless, perhaps seeing something, someone, that we do not.

I am trying to get drunk from the medical supplies, in a vain attempt to forget the obvious; that my party and myself are scoured from the group. We are in exile. We are forcibly removed because we dared to be smart and strong. Smarter, perhaps, and stronger than we deserved.

We, our group, still had much to contribute to the cause. We value science, to the last of us. We value honesty, to a fault. We want to make places safe, make them adult, make them affordable, emotionally, to those who need them.

But in our zeal, we overstepped. We acted in a public way, when perhaps we should have been circumspect. But acting behind the backs of others has never been my way. Watching the status quo has never been an easy thing for me. For any of us.

Science, hard science, is what the others and I cling to in times of need. It makes me feel as though I am serving the public when I do research and when I help others do the same. I never thought that, in my zeal for facts. I would be punished.

If others wish to publish statements when they are drunk, or otherwise impaired, that is solely at their own discretion. I treat their publications with the same critical eye that I would treat those of the sober, or sane. Because in this venue, all publications are treated with equality. And should be, as to do otherwise would indeed discriminate against the ill by giving them permission to behave badly without recourse.

I should have foreseen this, but I foolishly thought that personal loyalties were of some merit. They are apparently not. I thought that I would be the subject of discussion, perhaps, a warning, maybe. But treating another as an adult is apparently beyond the scope of those who would infantalize others in lieu of holding personal responsibility as a gold standard.

And because of this misstep, I am in the cold, alone, without my guides and my maps.

The wind is blowing harder now. I am most afraid for Wilson. Wilson sees his departed wife in dreams, and I am afraid he will soon forget the waking world for the sleeping one, and follow her ghostly apparition to the cold, white blindness outside. I am keeping an eye on him, but as with the dogs, my ability to impact the world at large seems constrained, as though it were I who was a ghost.

And perhaps I am, in this world of white snow and blind cold.

This is my first day of exile, and already I am feeling the lack of warmth.

It has come to my attention that I have been mean to someone.

Someone who was not at all kind to me, and has not been kind to other forum members for a while now.

Apparently, by calling the person on his behavior, whilst never once mentioning his literacy or his word usage, I am mean.

Apparently, people who are cruel and dismissive of others are allowed to behave badly, whereas those like myself who treat them as adults and hold them to standards of behavior, not literacy, are punished.

This bodes badly for the forums, when voices like my own are silenced, and attacks on me and others are allowed to perpetuate.

I am sorry to say that AIDSMeds has lost my loyalty today. Because as I have said in the past, people who have the most to contribute are the first to be sacrificed.

I only regret that it took so long for the axe to come to me.