STATE OF MIND

I’m a huge Sara Bareilles fan. One of my favorite songs is “Manhattan” which has the singer relinquishing the New York hub to an ex.

You can have Manhattan,

I know it's what you want.

The bustle and the buildings,

The weather in the fall.

And I'll bow out of place

To save you some space

For somebody new.

You can have Manhattan

'Cause I can't have you.

It’s a beautiful, melancholy song. A place with millions of people just isn’t big enough for the both of them.

For me, I’ve flirted with giving up an entire state. Oregon. After two and a half years of online contact and dating, my relationship with a Portland guy ended seven months ago. No more quick weekend flights. No more meeting halfway in Seattle. Just no more.

It doesn’t matter that I’m the one who ended things. The sting of failure still lingers. I suppose there’s a good chance that will last until a new relationship comes along to offer renewed hope and to show that maybe I am capable of negotiating through the good and the bad.

Why couldn’t it have been another state? I’m sure I could live the rest of my life with no effort at all in avoiding Boise or, god forbid, a smaller outpost. Yeah, you can have Idaho.

The thing is, I really like Oregon. I’ve been going to Portland and the Oregon Coast for years. I’ve gone to the Shakespeare Festival in Ashland a number of times. I’ve long felt that the state is a gem overshadowed by its neighbor to the south. I have no intention of surrendering the state to an ex.

But what I think doesn’t always jive with what I feel. This past weekend, I booked an impromptu trip to Newport on the Coast. I emailed my ex to say I’d be swinging through Portland, offering a chance to grab a meal or ice cream. I figured it would be a nice way to reconnect as friends—or something—, a way to move past failure. I like keeping people I’ve valued in my life.

He never responded.

It doesn’t come as a complete surprise, but it’s disappointing. In hindsight, it would have been better not to reach out at all. The silence did not surprise me, but still it came as a jolt and stuck with me during the entire trip. Suddenly Portland felt more like his town. When I went to my favorite spots—places I went to with him but had discovered before him—I struggled in my mind to take them back as my spots. Same with the hotel I stayed at in Newport. It’s my favorite spot. Yes, we stayed there together once, but I’ve been there many times. The visit was tainted. It wasn’t a full-on grieving; it just felt uncomfortable.

I don’t want to avoid Oregon. I don’t want to avoid the places I like. If we can’t meet to redefine our connection, then I am left to redefine my relationship with these places. I need to take them back. I need to create new memories. To be sure, I made progress. My time of the Coast was highlighted by a bike ride that allowed me to get better glimpses of the views. I kept stopping to take in the gorgeous shoreline and to stare out at the endless Pacific. Remarkably, I spotted whales at each and every stop. Absolutely glorious! I felt utter serenity. For three hours, it was just the sea and me.

I’m headed back in a month, visiting Portland for five days with a friend. He’s got a conference so I’ll have plenty of time to revisit my favorite jogging routes, to get lost at Powell’s Books, to overindulge at Blue Star Donuts and to find new cafés for writing. I’ll also have the opportunity to find a balance between memories of us and memories of my own.

As much as I love Sara Bareilles, I have no intention of surrendering a place to an ex. 

WHAT'S IN A NAME?

Marvin.

Parents don't do that to their kids anymore.

It’s not in the Top 100 list of boys’ names; probably wouldn’t make the Top 1000.* It’s on the verge of extinction along with Thaddeus, Engelbert and Floyd. If you’re named any of these, take comfort in having a moniker that’s now “unique” in a world of Bens and Liams.

I had a coffee date with a Marvin last week. And that created a hurdle from the outset. You see, my longest relationship was with a guy named Marvin. It started off blissful, but after nine months, it became abusive…and I stuck with it—and the abuse—for another seven years. So Marvin is a name that gets my back up.

Poor Marvin II. I really wanted to wipe the slate clean and give him a chance. But two days before our coffee, I had a nightmare about Marvin I. Extremely disturbing. And it’s too much of a coincidence that it should occur so close to our meeting. I’m super skilled at repressing so Marvin I hadn’t popped up in years, not even in therapy.

I suppose I could have asked Marvin II his middle name. Or said, “How do you feel about ‘Howard’? It really suits you.” But that would require a whole lot more explanation than a normal, well-adjusted person shares over an introductory coffee.

I’d like to think I could have eventually gotten past the whole thing, dropped the “II” from my mind and accepted The New Improved, Entirely Different Marvin. That would make me evolved. That would have me laugh it off as friends and family (who don’t know about the past abuse) say, “Gosh, you’ve really got a thing for Marvins.”

Perhaps fortunately, Marvin II and I didn’t click. Perhaps I’d subconsciously held back. But then he texted me the next day with a string of compliments. (Did he really think we clicked?!)

Alas, I had to let the text exchange die. If I’m not supposed to dismiss someone because of a name, I’m also not supposed to drag something out because that same name, with some sort of guilt and determination trying to fix what can’t be fixed.

So it’s back to checking for (no) messages on online dating sites and hoping a Ben or a Liam or even a Thaddeus—all safe names—to express an interest. Anyone really. Except maybe Marvin III.

---

     *Okay, I did find Marvin, ranked a lofty #559 on this Top 1000 list, but still… 
       (And, sorry, Thaddeus, Engelbert and Floyd, you didn't make the cut.)

GAY MATH

Everybody does it.

That’s what people say when they have their first beer at 15 or 16. (Or 12?!) They say it when they scratch up someone’s fender, backing out of a parking space, not leaving a note. They say it when they go ten miles per hour above the speed limit. (Okay, fifteen.) They say it when they fudge their taxes.

It’s always seemed like faulty rationalizing rather than any expression of logic. Admittedly, I’ve relied on it to justify my heavy foot on the gas pedal. I’m getting better, but that may be part of getting older.

Ah, getting older. Happens to everyone. Except online. Can’t tell you how many 55-year-old bodies I’ve seen on “41-year-olds” and how many “53-year-olds” look 68. It’s gay math. Certain, ahem, numbers get inflated. Others get significantly reduced.

I feel so square. I’m 53. I say I’m 53. I work out hard, I watch what I eat (to extremes). I could easily lie. Say I’m 47, 48, maybe go even a little lower. Everyone does it, right?

Pass.

It’s a turnoff to me. It’s a trust issue. If the first thing you say about yourself is untrue—something so basic—how am I supposed to believe other things? Yep, I shut down over first coffee whenever a guy readjusts his age. If age is just a number, why not be real? I’ve been dismissed because of that real number. I know that. But that’s the other guy’s issue not mine. I can keep my integrity intact.

I’ll close out this post with a humorous section from John Boyne’s The Heart’s Invisible Furies (Penguin Random House, 2017). (Highly recommended!) This passage is taken from a first date in a pub in Dublin, 1994, back in the days of personal ads instead of online dating/hooking up. Seems “Everyone does it” has quite a history.

                He frowned a little and took a long drink from his beer. “You’re

                in your fifties?” he asked. “I thought you were younger than

                that.”

                I stared at him, wondering whether he was a little hard of

                hearing. “No,” I said. “I’m forty-nine. I just said.”

                “Yes, but you don’t meant that you’re really forty-nine, do you?”

                “What else would I mean?”

                “Jesus, you’ve been off the dating scene quite a while, haven’t

                you? The thing is, most men looking for other men claim to be

                younger than they really are. Especially older men. If you meet

                a man from a personal ad and he says he’s in his late thirties,

                that means he’s pushing fifty and thinks he can get away with

                thirty-nine. Delusional, most of them, but you know. Whatever.

                When you said you’re forty-nine, I assumed that meant you were

                mid to late fifties in real life.”

                … “Do you meet a lot of people from personal ads?” I asked…

                “From time to time,” he said. “I met a lad a couple of weeks ago, he

                said he was nineteen but when he showed up he was almost my own

                age. He was wearing a Blondie T-shirt, for Christ’s sake.”

                “I used to have one of those,” I said. “But why would you want to meet

                someone who you thought was nineteen anyway?”

                “Why wouldn’t I?” he said, laughing. “I’m not too old for a nineteen-

                year-old.”

                “Well, I suppose that’s a matter of opinion. But what would you have in

                common with a boy that age?”

                “We don’t need to have anything in common. It wasn’t his conver-

                 sational skills that I was after.”

                … “So how old are you?” I asked finally.

                “Thirty-four.”

                “So does that mean you’re really thirty-four?”

                “It does. But I’m twenty-eight when I meet people.”

                “You’re meeting me right now.”

                “Yes, but that’s different. You’re older. So I can be my own age.”

                “Right. And have you had many relationships?”

                “Relationships? No,” he said, with a shrug.

Sigh. Thanks, John Boyne, for writing something so relatable. It’s always funnier when it’s fiction!

PETTY THEFT

He stole it literally from under me. Or behind me, I suppose. My backpack. Broad daylight, public café.

I was lucky. For some reason, I’d pretty much emptied everything onto the table before he got it. My glasses and case, my laptop and cord, my phone and cord,…even a notebook with all sorts of notes about my writing projects. Unusual for me to unpack so much. He got away with the backpack itself—an oft-complimented Keith Haring blue and white Herschel—a couple of vegan magazines and some research notes that I have on my laptop as well. Lots of napkins, pens, pencils, a pencil sharpener,…contents he’ll dump in an alley.

Hey, maybe I’ll convert a carnivore. Maybe I’ll create a writer. (Many of my ideas have first been scrawled on napkins.) Or maybe I’ve just reinforced and emboldened a thief’s habits.

Sounds like a fish story, but it’s true. Right out from under him! I swear!

It shows how intense I get when I’m in a writing session, a surprise to even myself. Writing in a café, I look up regularly as patrons come and go. This morning was no exception. I don’t know for certain who stole it, but I think I do. Guy with a crutch. We made eye contact. He wandered behind me as I sat at the end of the café. I don’t think he bought anything. He asked to use the restroom. That’s presumably where he stuffed my empty backpack into his own. Nice! I saw him leave. I could still see him a half block away when I realized by pack was gone.

Maybe I could have chased him down, but what would have been the point? I’d accuse, he’d deny. The evidence was out of view. I couldn’t exactly grab his backpack, unzip it and yank out my own. What if I were wrong? There’d be witnesses, watching me try to take away a backpack from a guy with a crutch.

It’ll go for five or ten bucks on the street. I paid fifty. I can look at it as an excuse to go backpack shopping. A new style! (I’m currently reverting back to a perfectly good Herschel that’s accumulated a few stains along the bottom.) I’ll probably search obsessively and buy a brand new backpack, the same version I had before. I like what I like.

As with anyone, I feel violated. Someone pegged me as a target. He got into my space. He grabbed what was rightfully mine.

It could have been worse. It could have been worse. It could have been worse.

My laptop is my most prized possession, filled with writing. My phone is loaded with photos, contacts and notes. You’re supposed to backup these things, but I’m techno-clueless.

It happened on Hastings Street. It’s that street, a section of it a hub to the most destitute people in Canada. There’s some sort of support services building right across the street. I write in the same café five days a week. I watch the people crowd the building, waiting for it to open at 7:30 each morning. There’s always an urgency of activity over there…the start of “the wrong side of the tracks”. I’m not usually judgy; just openly curious. Today, feeling violated, I’m not my best.

The easy thought is, He needed it more. And maybe something like this was overdue. I’m stingy when someone presenting as homeless asks for change. I overthink things, desperate to find a better solution than people scraping together a handful of quarters. I moved to this area fully aware of the surrounding poverty, along with the prevalence of mental health issues, addiction problems and everything that goes with that. As my head continues to spin uselessly, failing to brainstorm something to create deeper change, the backpack represents an involuntary donation. Maybe the incident will prod me to get more involved and to become more active in my quest to be enlightened.

Three years here. My first theft. Remarkably, my bike remains in my parking stall and my car has yet to be broken into. I’ve experienced worse living in other parts of Vancouver. The backpack, for me, is mere crumbs.

I still feel violated.

It’s easy to overreact. I’ve had sweeping thoughts today. Don’t let people use the restroom if they’re not buying anything. Stop giving them water, free coffee and day-old pastries. But then logic takes over. I’ve seen many down-and-out folks come into the café. I’ve never been stolen from and I’ve never heard another customer yelling, “Stop! Thief!”

Shit happens. I’m physically fine. I still have all my writing…my passion, my hard work. He just has a backpack.