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Name: Hyde
Location: New York, NY

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"Be certain in the religion of Love. There are no believers or unbelievers. Love embraces all." -Rumi

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Ghosts of Hyde

An archive of my journals from the past 15 years. (A Work in Progress)

Wednesday, November 17, 1999

ChoirMan's Car

I am in ChoirMan's car waiting for him to come out of the liquor store so that I can go up and see B. But I am still feeling a strangeness... my two worlds... and such rosy excitement that came with the fearlessness...

That is what I miss most-- fearlessness...

He's back.

Tuesday, November 16, 1999

Angels

And at last I am!

I am not writing now out of will, but rather out of obligation and a need to clear the air. In a taxi on my way to Dr. G...

Sunday cleared up when the tears finally spilled and he assured me, promised me that as much as he loves me, he won't ever leave me. He said he is lucky and proud and I am so confused, but happier that I've ever been before...

And although I am exhausted, I have all the energy in the world. He is like an angel to me.

Anyway, it's a little too bumpy to write.

Sunday, November 14, 1999

Imperfections

Happy, Happy Birthday to my B!

All of that from yesterday seems to have resolved, but old words still linger... And I don't want to feel it, but I do... so ugly. But I must try to smile and not ruin his day and to shift this melancholy to another moment.

I must smile for him and wish... Wish to be more perfect.

Saturday, November 13, 1999

Mystic

And today was almost so perfect. And my dreams swelled into great glass bubbles... Shimmering snow-globes of sugar and gold. Rosy cheeked babies and water black as ink and gently creaking wooden docks, the air full of the smell of coal... And what beauty filled my imagination! And he said we'd never afford a home on the water or the boat which rocks my sadness to sleep, or the fringed lamps or silk upholstered chairs with antique angels smiling from shelves above. Looking down with gleaming amethyst eyes...

And it's not that I care about money, or about any of it as much as I love him... It's just that i care about hope. And why must I say that Ill give up all of my dreams? Of course, I would, will... I most likely will... But why doesn't he want to give up his hope for mine?

If the water makes my eyes sparkle, why isn't it worth it to him to try? Why must I never live my poetry for which my heart aches with all its being? I know that the only way to have my dreams is to earn them myself...

I see an unbridgeable gulf between us. And when tears rose, he spat in annoyance.

I must be strong...

Dream alone.
Stand alone.
Achieve alone.

Remain alone.

Friday, November 12, 1999

The Tranquility of Mauve

On the Orient Point Ferry, swept by the blue, blue, blue and the quiet of my heart and my B. The wind cleansing with the sweetest scalding pain until my hands can't stand it and beg for mercy. While my eyes (and heart) beg to stay out just a little longer. But when the flush of excitement in my cheeks and chin grow numb, I give in.

And so now, I sit inside... my B's head resting peacefully on my shoulder.

(One thought!)

****************************************

Later, and settled in at the Queen Anne Inn. It's a beautiful B&B in New London-- a Queen Anne style house restored to it's 1903 condition. B and I are in "the Rose Room." It is absolutely beautiful-- ruddy wooden doors, a hardwood floor, and the soft glow of shaded Victorian lamps dancing off the ornamental arms of the brass bed. The room is filled with aged and dusty pinks... miniature green vines and soft cotton lace in golden white.

I imagine Alexandra's boudoir and realize the tranquility of mauve.

The house, itself, is full of hidden cupboards and creaking floorboards. The hallway is a winding carpet of moss green and the whole house seems to warm one from the inside.

Anyway, perhaps more on the house later...

We went for dinner at a family-style place. There just isn't anyplace like that in NY. IT was a huge restaurant with tacky tablecloths, great food and friendly service. We ate until we were stuffed and the only cloud was bulging over my belt. (It's making me feel like shit lately, by the way... I feel so self-disgusted and self-loathing and at the same time, so out of control... Anyway, I don't' want to write about that now because I really don't want to depress myself).

So, now we're back home... Warm and together in the Rose Room at 10:15 PM! We are both exhausted. He is reading the paper and I am writing here with no TV, stereo, traffic sounds, car radio or any other such distraction in sight. It's just us... And I feel like Annie's parents in "Maybe."

All I know is that I love him with everything that I have and that the whole world is reborn!

Monday, November 8, 1999

Beauty

Spotted in gold and reddened blue
Your lips, my love, with lies prepared
And colored cries, half tones confused,
Silence the soaring and muffle despair

All rests, my love, as I know that it should
Lashes brushing white cheeks,
Salty pinks swallowed heart
Kneeling now, my love, they burn, grow good
Licking wicks of truth shape the hues of this part--

Molded into silence...
my love...
into Silence.

Thursday, November 4, 1999

Requiem Auditions

Dodge. And Requiem solo auditions for yet another year... Thursday though. And against the white-bared coldness, the suspended yellow and green wafers dot the sky, trembling on the branches below.

B is at Butler... (and those asshole kids in the elevator!)

The beauty of this moment is that I'm coming back to myself in a new way. I can write and I can feel and I can feel safe and warm and love. And nothing here scares me, and even the others, buried in the blackness of their own lonely lives seem like strangers.

There is not much to write right now, except for the novelty of this new pen...

(And here's another new pen! This one's not disposable, and much easier to write with...)

"History is a nightmare from which we have not awakened."
-Joyce

"History would be a wonderful thing, if only it were true."
-Tolstoy

Dinner with Mittens

The wool is braided thickly
In bands across the coldness of flesh
But still...
The veil around the black
And soulless spark of your eyes
Turns my ears pink nails blue flesh white
Unbinds the braids
Discards the Wool...

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