Love Angel

Through an odd set of circumstances this morning I was reminded of an event that happened almost four years ago.  I haven't yet posted this story on this blog . . . but I figure what the heck, might as well.  Many have already heard this story, as it was a part of my one-man show, Just Another Gay Mormon, but I think ultimately the message is a good reminder.

Love Angel
a very short relationship

After having a glass of wine with a friend, I entered the strangely foggy Chelsea night to find my way to the A train.  Rain was coming down in the classic New York mist making an umbrella pointless.  At the 14th Street station I went underground and after waiting a few moments stepped onto an uptown A train.  As is my usual way, I scoped out the train for any cute boys who might be heading to my neighborhood.  Finding none, I settled myself in.  With my iPod on full blast -- some cheesy Daniel Bedingfield album -- I leaned against the doors.  At 42nd Street I noticed a striking man enter the train -- just over six feet tall, dark hair, worn black leather jacket, black pants, black boots, dark red shirt and a soul patch.  Upon closer -- but subtle -- examination, I also noticed that every other fingernail on his right hand was painted green, or rather, jade.  The essence of "free spirit."  After taking my brief inventory and determining that a) he was much too attractive to bother with me and b) he was ultimately not my type, I turned my attention back to Mr. Bedingfield. 

A few minutes later (I must have had my eyes closed -- taking in the blatant harmonies and the warm glow from the chardonnay) I sensed someone close.  Opening my eyes I saw him directly in front of me saying something inaudible through the Bedingfield wails.  A bit nervous and freaked out, I took my headphones off to hear him ask, "What's your name?" In that brief moment I realized several things:

1. He was much more attractive up close than far away.
2. We were on the longest stretch of the A, about 8 minutes without a stop.
3. The train car was quite full and we had a large audience.
4. He was obviously intoxicated – or under the influence of some substance.

Something inside of me shifted.  I told him my name.  “What’s yours?” I asked.  He responded (of course, for the life of me I can’t remember what it was – I think I lost it in the heartbeats).  He was staring intently into my eyes.  He reached out his hand to shake mine.  I took his hand.  He had a strong grasp and held onto my hand for several seconds until I finally pulled away. 
“You seem nervous,” he said. 
“I’m not usually approached by strangers,” I replied, “Do you do this often?” 
“No, only when I find a very attractive person,” he said, watching me closely. 
Grasping for anything to stay in the moment and not let him get the upper hand I asked the classic NYC question, “Where you from?”
“New Mexico.  You?
“Utah.”
“Ah, Utah.” Slight grin – staring intently at me – amused.
“What do you do?”  I asked.
“Graphic design.  You?” 
“I’m a drama therapist, I work with the homeless.”
“Wow.  That’s amazing.  You win.”
“I win?”
“Yes.  If I brought two men home to my mother and told her one was a prostitute and the other worked with the homeless – you would win.”
“Yes, I suppose I would.” 
At this point he stopped speaking and just stared at me.  The proximity was almost too much to handle and I took a quick glance around the train.

“Why won’t you look at me?” he asked, lightly touching my arm.
“I’m not used to talking to strangers.  I have a hard time with encounter.”
Again he smiled and invited me to look at him. Mustering up courage I manage to gaze into his powerful, deep brown eyes.

“You have the most incredible blue eyes.”
“I . . . um . . . I don’t know what to say.”
“You seem like a poet.”
“You are very seductive.”

We lingered a bit in the gaze.  I kept drawing myself back into the moment – attempting to hold on – fully aware of the absurdity of it all, but titillated at the same time.  After a lifetime or two he leaned in as if to give me a kiss – I turned my head slightly, not so much denying his kiss as playing hard to get.  But instead of kissing he whispered into my ear, “I’m afraid this is going to be a very short relationship for the two of us.”  Suddenly I realized we were coming close to 125th Street and he must be getting off.  I smiled at him – and strangely I noticed that my eyes were welling up with tears.  He grinned, put his hand on my shoulder and looked deep into my soul, “You will know plenty of love in your life,” he prophesied.  With that, the train pulled into the station.  He took one last look at me, patted me softly on the cheek and left the train.  I watched him as he walked along the platform and went up the stairs, never turning back.   As the car doors closed I glanced around, checking to see if anyone else witnessed my moment – and it seemed, surprisingly, that on that crowded car I was actually alone.  I put the headphones back in my ears and started the Bedingfield song over.  Holding back the tears, I smiled at the distant wall and reminisced about my very short relationship with the beautiful, intoxicated prophet with jade fingernails and deep brown eyes.

Things That Matter

The recent publicity around LGBT bullying and suicides has caused me to reflect on my own history.  I don’t often think about my dark days as a gay youth.  Unlike the recent stories in the media, I did not experience much bullying.  Occasionally someone would make a veiled comment about me being in drama -- sometimes I would be asked if I made out with the other guys in the shows or if I had a boyfriend.  But, to my recollection, I was never called the “f” word or gay – the teasing was a bit more subtle.  It would have been much different had I been out.  In my story, I suppose I was my own worst bully.  I didn’t really need an external force telling me I was bad and worthless, I did a very good job of berating myself.  Sure, those inner impulses had to come from somewhere, but I think it was more a broad cultural/religious influence than a specific individual one. 

No matter the situation, the fact that an LGBT youth is four times more likely to commit suicide than other youth is a sobering statistic.  Like many, I had my own flirtation with the idea of suicide.  In high school it was usually just an abstract feeling of wanting to drive my car into walls or off cliffs.  I would pour my soul into dark poetry.  As I was thinking this weekend, I uncovered two very short poems that I wrote around that period of time.  I had not re-read them in a while.  In looking at them now, I am a bit surprised at how ultimately revealing they are.  Each one, a cry for help, I suppose.  Here they are, from the perspective of a young, gay, confused, closeted, Mormon boy:

77

Loneliness grabs with
Urchin arms,
Lunging after love,
Lingering after loss,
Leaving after life.

The Ladder

In the hollow of a lifetime
A soloist raises its voice
Bellowing out the song of sorrow-
The ballad of beauty,
Wells of learning
Sandwiched between the solemn dreams of a fighter.
The wall is high, but the ladder higher
“Fight for Truth!” is the wail of the crowd.
“Fight for Soul!” cries the aching heart . . .
As a tear sears white lines down
The cheek of time,
Another rung is overcome.

A bit tragic and relatively depressing knowing the context, eh?

Along with the rest of the world, as I ponder and think about what can be done to help kids like me, the answer is not unlike the answers of many:  Gay men and women in our society need to live out and proud.  We need to let these kids know that there are options, that gay people are not just the caricatures that they see in movies, TV, etc.  But rather, their next door neighbors.  Our society is definitely making a move in the right direction, but we can and must be better.  (See amazing initiatives such as  The Trevor Project , It Gets Better, and my friend Don’s project, MorMenLikeMe, where you might find my gay Mormon story . . . )

The unique predicament of a gay youth is that they grow up in a vacuum – disconnected from others like themselves.  Unlike most other minorities, a gay kid is usually raised in a home of difference, where they are the outsider.  Traditionally, black children are born to black families, Jewish children are born to Jewish families, Asian children are born to Asian families, so while they may be a minority - different, “other” - they grow up within that otherness, with parents and role models ahead of them in the same boat.  A black child does not have to discover his blackness – a Jewish child does not have to discover his Jewishness – granted, there are exceptions, but usually, this is the case.  A gay child however, has to grow up in the lonely position of discovering and claiming his difference.  Eventually he/she has to come to the realization that “I am not like the rest of you.”  And when these kids are born to families that hold conservative beliefs, beliefs that paint homosexuality as bad, evil, corrupt and perverse, it is even more complicated.  In fact, it’s a wonder any of us survive.  I often think how my life would have been different had I gay role models or people close to me who were out and proud. 

Yes, things have changed; the world is a much different place than it was 20 years ago when I was in the throes of depression.  There is a much greater sense of acceptance in society – but we must not rest.  There are forces that are pushing hard, forces that fuel the bullying and discrimination, forces that give words to the speakers of hate and intolerance.  There are groups striving to “protect traditional marriage” who are instead, sowing more seeds of hate and intolerance.  We can’t allow ourselves to sit idly by and watch.  And as a gay community, in particular, it is our duty to pave the way, to model and to share our stories.  As these recent tragedies have reminded us – it’s a matter of life and death. 

When I think of these kids, I think of their last lonely, desperate moments and it breaks my heart.  If only they knew.  If only they had a concept of the bigger world outside of their limited and tortured experience.  I picture their last moments, as the walls fell in until they couldn’t find room to breathe and the only way out was to pull the escape hatch.  How I wish I could hold them, cry with them, wipe their tears and show them the beautiful reality that was hidden from them.  None of us are blameless, many contribute to the environment of hate that breeds the bullies and self-loathing, others sit idly by, watching the painful drama unfold and others of us have forgotten our struggles, have failed to reach out and light the way for those behind us.

These kids cannot have died in vain.  Please join me.  You can start by educating yourself here . 

Our lives begin to end the day we become silent about things that matter.

  Martin Luther King, Jr.

Autumn

The past few weeks here in Montreal there has been a noticeable shift in the weather with the ripples of distant hurricanes, the change of leaves and the sun’s slow slide southward, Autumn has firmly stepped its foot in the door.  As I watch the changes, I find myself having brief moments of panic at the exit of summer –and brief moments of delight at the prospects of fall.  Sadly, I realize that my summer of academic laziness has passed and the shifting winds and colored leaves herald a new era.  Change.

Personally, like most, I’m no stranger to change.  I find myself begging for it most of the time, and yet, resisting it full-force when it actually shows up.  Unlike the change of seasons – which comes whether we want it to or not – life changes often require more effort.  In the world, fall will always follow summer and winter will always follow fall.  But in our lives, we can prevent the leaves from changing for years in the autumn of our indecision – forcing them to hang onto the limbs of trees, ripe with the desire and potential of change but left in stasis; we will them to stay on those branches, no matter the cost. 

As a therapist and educator, I find that I am in the business of change – or at least the business of proposing change.  Guiding clients toward new perspectives – leading students toward new ways of viewing the world and those they encounter.  I observe its many faces.  I see the mythical allure of change as well as its harsh reality.  I witness the loss and mourning that comes in its wake – and the excitement and revelry that can also be its fruit.

There is a familiar point in therapy with a client where after weeks of complaining about a life situation – after months of painting the bleak and overwhelming picture of their life struggle – a solution presents itself, revealed through the therapeutic process.  A magical, blessed moment, one would think.  And yet, more times than not, that moment is met not with joy, relief and excitement, but rather a barrage of reasons why that solution couldn’t possibly work – why now is not the time – why we should keep searching for something else, another answer to the problem.  And so the leaves stay on the trees, full of potential energy – but trapped in the status quo.  It is our nature to resist and resist and resist.  Even if that change could bring us an unfathomable amount of joy and happiness, we fight it with the determination of Jacob wrestling his angel. . . Or maybe that’s just me. 

I recently went to a high-priced psychic (don’t judge me . . . perhaps I’ll post more about that experience later).  One thing she said to me, after extolling my potential, was, “My one doubt is whether or not this man is really interested in becoming who he is.”  It came as a shot to the gut.  In the moment I was a bit incredulous – OF COURSE I’m ready, of course I’m interested.  But, as I’ve thought about it, I realize I’m not so sure.  Perhaps I like my leaves hanging on the branches, just the way they are . . .

But, as the seasons once again change, as I watch the leaves outside my window blaze in their orange, yellow and red – daring for a short period of time to be free and let their authentic colors show before swan diving to earth -- I commit to leaving my door open a crack.  Surely there are ways to allow change in – ways to allow my own authentic colors to burn more brightly.  I suppose it just takes some courage.

And there we are . . . or rather, there I am.

Too cheesy? (asks the lactard)  Perhaps.

In any case, here’s to walking through crunching piles of leaves, to occasionally stooping to pick up a perfect specimen, and to that beautiful, terrifying, liminal space between summer and winter. 

Broken Hearted

This post is being composed while sitting in the park with the intent to process my brand new broken heart.  In a rush of emotions – the cycling wheel of loss – trying to find a way to capture and control the uncontrollable.  I make no guarantees about its coherence. 

What is it about heartbreak?  That pit – that heavy weight in the chest – the labored breathing – the brink of tears.  On the verge of losing it – of saying, "fuck the world" – "fuck sanity."  A wound from the unrelenting double-edged sword of risk – commitment – love.  This time I am finding it interesting to experience it on a smaller scale – still painful but perhaps more manageable.  We had only been dating for a little over a month.  A blink.  No time at all, really – unless, of course, one were to place it in the context of my life.  He was only my second longer-than-one-date relationship.  We hadn't labeled it, we hadn't said any of the big scary words like "boyfriend" or "I love you" – we had played it safe.  In all honesty we were in ambiguous territory.  In fact, I always felt that I would be the one calling it off – I wasn't sure about him or my feelings for him.  But then, a line was crossed.  Friday night he meets my friends for the first time – he charms them – he charms me.  They adore him – he seems to adore me.  I see him in a new light and I fall a little bit deeper. 

And then – with her characteristic indifferent bluntness – Life takes it from me. 

"I can't see myself falling in love with you." 

Said into the darkness as he lies beside me.  Clouds of confusion, dread and inevitability descend.  A vision flashes.  I see where this is going.  But how did it get here?  Just moments ago I was kissing him – minutes ago we were sitting on the couch, cuddling, watching a bad movie.  And now – here we are.

What did he say?

Funny how with my very limited experience, this place feels so familiar.  The ground giving way – the free fall – or rather, the sense of being shoved further and further down – a strong hand on my chest, pushing me deeper and deeper into the murky, black, suffocating waters.  I struggle for something to say, but my mind is too caught up in the descent.  The confusion.  The panic.  The only phrase that comes to mind, "Don't leave me!!" seems almost comical and hardly appropriate.

Big pauses – vapid attempts at communication – mostly landing flaccid on the side of the bed.  What is happening?  How . . . ?

Finally he rips off the band aid.  Speaks the words – . . . and it's over.  His choice is made and the choice is Not Me.  Stunned.  Blur.  Fumbling in the increasing haze I walk him to the door.  How did we get here?  The final moments.  The panic rises – I'm going to vomit – I want to vomit.  Such an onslaught of impulses.  Grab.  Hit.  Kiss.  Pin.  Fight.  Fuck.  Melt.  I manage to squeeze out, "Thanks for your honesty."  The tears come.  We hug.  I sob.  I tell him that I think he's a good man and I am sad to see him go.  The truth – but perhaps mingled with the desire to woo him back.  He asks if that's a sarcastic display of my passive aggression – I assure him it is not.  We hug.  He offers to stay a while longer -- asking me what I want – what I need.  I tell him I want to hold him for a very long time, but realize my intention would be to never let go.  He understands and after a few more moments makes his way out the door.  One last touch of his arm.  One last look in his eyes.  I watch as he descends the stairs – a familiar sight – for the last time. 

Once he's out of site, trying to hold it together, feeling the pending explosion could be earth-shattering,  I hold the walls – propping myself up – Samson without his hair making one last heroic gesture before the world crumbles.  I look for an action, a ritual, something I can do to mark the moment and bind my building anxiety.  Nothing comes to mind.  I look around the room and see him everywhere.  Smell him everywhere.  Feel him everywhere. 

How is it possible that such a short partnership could have sprouted such deep roots?  How did I allow this to happen?  I feel the fool – the broken fool. 

I attempt to contact friends, but it is midnight – no one is available.  Finally I get in touch with my brother who beautifully manages to strike the right balance between empathy, rage and practicality.  He gently talks me down.  Lifts me up.  Brings perspective.  While talking to him I take three Benadryl and Nyquil for good measure – hoping to assist myself in sleeping, knowing it won't be easy. 

Worn out, I thank my brother and tell him that I love him.  I hang up, brush the taste of him out of my mouth and get into bed – the still-fresh scene of the crime.  Trying to get comfortable I roll over onto Loneliness, ram my knee into Despair's back, accidently run my hands down the side of Panic.  To fall asleep, I mentally surround myself with cotton balls.  If I start thinking of him, I fill a large box with cotton balls and push them down, packing them in.  Soft, calm, benign cotton balls.  If I smell him on the pillow I fill a kiddie pool with cotton balls, walking on them, barefoot – crushing them like grapes.  And If I feel him – the phantom hand on my chest or leg, his breath on my neck – I fill an entire room with cotton balls and I walk into it – force myself into it – slamming the door behind me.  Surrounded.  Eventually I sleep, standing in a roomful of cotton balls. 

More tears come with the sunrise.  The anger will follow soon after and eventually – hopefully before too long – I will find my heart ready to let someone – a new someone – in.  My fear is that it won't heal, but my mind knows better.

Years ago – in another lifetime, another place of darkness – I was visited by a Love Angel on the NYC subway who prophesied, "You will know a lot of love in your life."  I was skeptical at the time, but I had become a believer.  Of course, at this point I would be more than willing to settle for "a lot of love" from and for one consistent person.  But perhaps for now I will take what I can get.

Meh. 

Enough of this wallowing.  I’m too old for this shit.  My heart will heal, my defenses will learn new tricks – my brokenness will remain – and Life will go on.  For ultimately, what would Life be without our doses of pain?  Without our moments of risk and vulnerability, without the actual events of living?

Springtime and Grandma

This is my first springtime experience outside of New York City in many years.  In the city, spring was marked by visits to Ft. Tryon Park, and the Botanical Gardens.  Blossoms were inspected and broad attempts at categorization were made.  Cherry Blossom Festivals and magnolia trees blooming in the middle of Broadway marked its arrival.  It was truly my favorite time of year – minus, of course, the seasonal allergies. 

Spring has been a little more flirtatious in Montreal.  Initially there was some doubt whether or not it would even come – snow and cold dominated the weather reports.  But then, one day, I realized that spring had indeed sprung.  Here, nature is much more common than it was in the concrete jungle.  My street is lined with trees – I pass numerous parks on my way to school– people bicycle to work without the fear of being killed by taxis or limited-edition luxury cars.  Unlike NYC, there is a sense that we live within nature rather than around it.  Nature is not something to visit here.

As I made this realization, I also discovered that there are a plethora of lilac trees here.  Every other building seems to be flanked by an assorted variety of the flower.  Their fragrance is everywhere, wafting in open windows and tapping you on the shoulder while reading in the park.  The smell and the sights transport me to younger, simpler days.  Ever since I was a small child, lilacs have been synonymous with my Grandma Butler.  In her backyard there were several trees that we would play in, hide among, and collect the blossoms from.   We would gather armfuls – disregarding the allergies – and bring them inside.  It was the smell and sight of home, unconditional love, good food and peace. 

I have long referred to my Grandma Butler as my muse.  For the last years of her life, due to ill health, she was confined to lying on the couch.  She would instruct Grandpa to purchase sheet music for various songs and then she would have me play them and sing for her.  Showtunes, church songs and an occasional power ballad made up the majority of the offerings.  This being the late 90's, inevitably Bette Midler's anthem, Wind Beneath My Wings, found its way to Grandma's piano.  Grandma and I both had a penchant for the sappy and so I willingly dove in and mastered the piece.  Grandma's health was failing even more, the cancer was taking its toll, but the song seemed to stop time – at least for that moment.  One day, after a particularly impassioned rendition of the song, Grandma turned to me and said, "Jay-bird, you're going to sing that at my funeral."  My heart sunk, but how could I say no?  "Whatever you wish, Grandma.  Anything for you."  And a few months later, that's just what I did – standing in front of a church full of people, with my brothers and a vase of lilacs, I did Grandma proud. 

Grandma never knew that I was gay – or at least we never talked about it.  At the time, I was barely coming to terms with it myself and I was engaged in the process of trying to change it.  But you know, I think eventually it would not have mattered to her.  She was my biggest fan – having Grandpa wheel her to all of my performances and graduations, wanting to know the details – good and bad – of my life.  Her smile was radiant and her touch was as close to healing as anything I've encountered.  Shortly after her passing, in a moment of personal despair and major depression, I had a vision of my Grandma.  Accompanied by the smell of lilacs, I saw her sitting next to me – looking healthy and vibrant.  She gave me a big smile, patted me on the leg – and then she was gone.  And a muse was born. 

Now, as I make my way through this beautiful city – this city that has come to life after a long winter – I am reminded of her on every corner.  Yes, I still get misty.  But I also am filled with hope and a reminder of who I am and the amazing heritage I have.  In fact, as I'm sitting here typing this, my window is open and following a brief spring shower, I can now smell that familiar scent – fresh and wet and alive.  And, you know what?  Life is good.  I am in the right place. 

Thanks Grandma – I'll go pick a bouquet just for you.

Stuck

I had been eagerly awaiting the end of the semester which promised to bring with it freedom – time – the ability to focus on the multitude of projects that I have been compiling on my list.  I have articles to write, rooms to paint, books to read, research to conduct, French to study, sights to see and food to cook.  I have been giddy with the anticipation of the new season and the expectation of productivity.  Never before have I had the luxury of time.  However, now that it's here, I find myself decidedly stuck.  I have never been quite this adept at wasting time.  In previous incarnations I have always had structure – a job with set tasks to accomplish a clear and packed schedule.  Now, I am left to my own devices and I am learning I am not a very good self-motivator.  It is truly amazing the amount of time one can spend on the internet.  One news story leads to another which leads to a blog which leads to a curiosity about an obscure topic which leads to a wiki which leads to weather.com which leads to a tour of Facebook . . . completely mind numbing. 

Am I avoiding something?  Is this my resistance or my laziness?  Yesterday, with two hours scheduled to study French I instead found myself napping on the filthy floor of my office with a small stack of books and flashcards for a pillow.  It's not like I'm tired – I am sleeping at least 8 hours a night, more than ever before.  What's the deal?! 

You see, writing on this blog was also one of the things on my list.  Such good intentions, but updating the blog has also fallen the way of my lazy avoidance.  Last night, as I was drifting to sleep and berating myself for my lack of motivation, I decided I would do one thing today:  update my blog.  So, well, this is what you get.  Initially I was feeling the pressure to write about something more profound – my vacation to the forbidden land, my research interests, my fruitless attempts at dating, an episode from my childhood, life in Montreal, culinary adventures, or a brief essay on the joys of teaching.  Instead, you get this.  Lucky you.  For some reason I was able to find the motivation to write about being stuck.  I would like to think that is progress rather than enabling my stuckness.  Time will tell. 

And now, I shall go to my to-do list – cross off "update blog" – and then maybe take a nap . . . 

Mornings as a Closet Case

     I have been accused of being depressing in my blog posts.  For that I apologize -- but I'm afraid I have another post to add to the list of depressing posts.  Sorry.

     I was going through some files and came across this piece of writing I did several years ago -- I think at the time my intention was to write a book.  I was still an active member of the LDS Church.  But I was struggling.  I have been debating whether or not to post the entire thing -- it is a bit graphic in spots.  However, in the interest of full disclosure and painting a true picture of my experience here it is in its entirety -- with the following disclaimer:

*The following contains language and descriptions that might be offensive to some.  It also contains details that might be construed as embarrassing or shameful for the author.  However, it is shared as a true, honest accounting of life in the closet.  You have been warned.*

Mornings

by Jason D. Butler

          A soft white light, knocking, flirting with his eyelids.  An ant colony dancing on his arm pinned beneath the new pillow under his head.  A leg ventures out, finding a cool patch of cotton, lingering for a moment and then retreating back to the cocoon.  With a jab from somewhere in his unconscious, he stirs – something's wrong, again.  Momentarily planting his face in the pillow, he tries to suffocate, to drive the awareness and consciousness back to the depths.  Images flash into the absence of breath:  high mountain peaks, bloody palms, a well defined torso, white curtains, shaded eyes, children with flowers and for the briefest moment, an Adonis receiving a blow-job from another Adonis.  Muscles and saliva.  Thrusts and semen.  NO!  Eyes fly open.  Yearning for more sleep – for more Nothing, he tries shutting them again, hoping for control, but the image is too strong, too present.  He can feel it, taste it.  He almost enjoys it.  His dick stirs.  He presses himself into the mattress – NO!  Eyes open, staring into the muted white foreground.  He takes a deep breath – fabric softener, hair gel, feathers, and bleach.  Realizing that like it or not, Life has found him, he tears his face away from the pillow, reluctantly glancing at the alarm clock on the far side of his queen sized bed.
         5:44
         Robbed of 45 minutes.  The alarm is set for 6:30.  It won't go off this morning.  It never does.
         A brief wrestle ensues, to shove the face back into the womb of the pillow, willing sleep to happen, pressing fast forward on Life.  He knows this will not happen.  Familiar sensations – his heartbeat quickens.  Shallow breath.  The air becomes heavy, pressing down on him as he wishes the bed would consume him – erase him.  His skin tingles and his mind races ahead of him – touching on thoughts and feelings before they register.  Bits and pieces.  Being chased.  Being loved.  Being feared.  Fearing.  Inadequacy.  Incompetence.  Sin.  Failure.  A cacophony of voices – too many.
         Abruptly he stretches for the corners of the bed.  A snow angel in a field of white linens.  Each extremity finds an edge and grabbing hold, tries to fold the mattress in on himself.  Tensing every muscle.  Holding it for an eternity.  Praying that the blood pounding in his ears will burst, washing him away.
         Then, with a sob and a grunt stuck just behind his throat moving to his chest as a deep growl he lets go of the bed.  A desire to cry that comes out more like a half-giggle at his ridiculous state – his morning ritual.
         Once again he opens his eyes and turns toward the clock.
         5:47
         Forget it.
         He reaches over – amazed for a moment at the length of his arm and the command he has over his fingers at such a distance.  He shuts off the alrm.  He wonders for a moment what the alarm even sounds like.  Probably a screaming child – his mother singing "Oh What a Beautiful Morning" – a woman climaxing.  All good possibilities.  All disturbing. 
         He rolls over onto his back, taking a pillow with him, hugging it to his chest.  New down pillows.  Heavy.  Solid.  Almost alive.  He breathes deep, feeling the pillow rise and fall with his diaphragm.  He squeezes it tightly, trying to force it into the empty hole in the center of his chest.  Breathing and not breathing.  He lays, aware of his body.  He shifts his leg so that he is laying completely flat.  With one last squeeze, he releases the pillow and lets his arms lay next to his sides.  A moment of quiet, of calm.  An empty stillness.  Nirvana – if he could only maintain it indefinitely.  But knowing it won't last – and not wishing to renew the struggle, he moves the pillow aside and sits up.
         It's time to begin.
         With an empty feeling that something is missing, he slides his legs out of bed until he is kneeling at the side, just like the pictures from church.  Ever the obedient worshiper.  He clasps his hands and starts to pray:
         "My dearest Heavenly Father.  Thank you for all of the many blessings you have given me.  I love you so much.  Please help me to have thy Spirit to be with me . . . "
         What does that mean?  He is overcome with a feeling of incompetence.  He is not praying correctly.  He never has.  It's a wonder God even listens to him – if God does.  Vain repetitions.  Pride.  Where is his sincerity?  How can a person like him possibly pray?  The sheer audacity. 
         Feeling overwhelmed and not wanting yet another struggle, he says a quick, "In the name of Jesus Christ, amen," pushes it out of his mind and jumps to his feet.
         Now is the time for order – control.  He quickly finds the sheets that have been pounded to the bottom of the bed, yanks them to the top in a sloppy pile and then places the duvet over them, smoothing it carefully.  It doesn't matter what is underneath as long as the cover looks good.  Tossing the pillows on top in a pre-determined state of organized chaos he breathes a contained sigh of accomplishment.
         He then opens his garment drawer – overflowing with every style of garment available through the Distribution Center.  If he's confined to one type of underwear, at least he'll have as much variety as possible.  Perhaps there's a sin in that.  What isn't there sin in?  He chooses a comfortable high necked cotton top and loose mesh pair of bottoms – barely acknowledging to himself that this particular pair makes him feel rather sexy – if that's possible.  He likes the way his pants feel closer to his skin, which consequently brings the whole world closer to him – to his crotch.
         With his garments chosen, he takes off the garments he is currently wearing and briefly stands in front of his mirror.  He scopes out the naked man in front of him.  White.  Skinny but with some fat beginning to accumulate around his middle.  Hairy – in some places.  Some on his chest but not all over.  A small penis.  Too small.  He gives it a tug and it becomes a little longer – still not big but almost presentable – not that he has any plans for presenting it.  Looking at porn can give a person a distinctly messed up image of themselves.
         With that decided, he tries to smile at himself, to make out his blue eyes, but it is too early and something feels wrong.  He grabs his garments and a pair of pajama bottoms.  At the French doors into his room, he peeks out the curtained window to see if his roommate is up.  Not seeing any lights he makes a dash for the bathroom.  He could cover up to go to the bathroom – but why use that energy, he thinks.  Plus, admit it or not, he enjoys running around with no clothes on – like a toddler set free with no diaper – the thrill of possibly being caught.
         Finally in the bathroom, he shuts the door, setting his garments on the rug – making sure they don’t touch the bare tiles.  He steps into the shower.