“What a week in Spain can do…”

“What a week in Spain can do…”

It was supposed to be a system reboot, a push of the reset button. However, I think my trip to Spain last month may have left me even more unsettled now that I am back home in Los Angeles. It is scary how quickly I fell back into what’s been ailing me this last year and a half. The jet lag may be gone, but that sluggish feeling persists. Don’t EVEN get me started on the election bullshit. I will probably bite your head off. Best to focus on why the journey back to my LA life that is renewing this spiritual “agita.”

I haven’t said much about the Brit (name withheld out of respect), but he’s someone that’s been the most welcome surprise of this challenging year. Our chance online meeting in August flowered into a real friendship, which is why I’ve been purposefully vague about him given the context of how we started out. I might reveal this some day, but not now. It isn’t shame that precludes me, rather, having to explain it to folks who aren’t savvy as to the Gay Way of Meeting and Greeting in 2016. Rest assured, it isn’t some Dateline episode waiting to happen. It’s legit and that’s all that matters.

The Brit is London-based and we’ve spent months doing the whole digital pen pal thing. In some ways, it felt like the plot to “The Shop Around the Corner.” We hadn’t met, but we shared a real kinship with each text that zapped across the globe. Scratch that, it felt like a real life version of “Gavin & Stacey.” (I am sure his eyes would roll with balletic precision over THAT one.)

When we hatched the plan of heading to Spain together, he had just experienced someone breaking his heart in Oslo. It was around the same time I was planning to hit Spain that summer. I surprised even myself when I said, “Join me! Forget about that fool and let’s just have some fun, tapas and whatever else tickles our fancy!” Well, Spain had other plans, interrupting my impending estancia with a rule of having at least 90 validity to my passport. I wasn’t able to board that night and I found myself on the Lyft back to my parents’ house to retrieve my trusty Element and then home with a scowl on my face.

The Brit and I kept talking and we looked for new dates for our Spanish affair, which would now happen in mid-October. As we counted down the days, it was hard not to build any expectations. At least for me. It was such a welcome relief, corresponding with someone who actually COULD communicate with color and guts. What a concept! When the fated day finally did arrive, I wasn’t in the least disappointed.

Having the Brit with me for those nine days in Valencia, Salamanca and Madrid was like a downpour of what I miss about being part of a couple. That constant attention. The great rapport. The banter. The laughter. The warmth that emanates from people who actually care about each other. The looks that say, “I see you, man.” I wasn’t lonely and all that’s troubled me for so many months was falling off in the background. It’s how we compose shots for the interviews I conduct on camera. The subject is sharp and clear while the background is a bit hazy and blurry. All that matters is what is in focus. And focus existed in Spain. Make that focus and inspiration. So, why do I feel so fucking lousy?

Mind you, the Brit and I started this entire venture with a much different agenda in August. When he admitted that he’d started casually dating someone in early October, the trip’s dynamic shifted without warning into the dreaded Friend Zone. He tried to give me an out, saying he’d understand if that changed things for me given the spicier early stages of our interactions. His very British self wasn’t going to allow for any extracurricular activities, even though he’d only been dating said bloke a few weeks. But, as I would discover, the Brit was an “All In” sort of gent. Meaning, his focus and heart were set. I said, “So what? We’ll manage!” I firmly believed the point of the trip was to get away from what ails us. Nothing more.

In a lot of ways, that was indeed the case. But, it was tough to reconcile a clear trajectory of intent. As much as I tried to keep certain feelings at bay, which was quite an effort, imagine my consternation in having the Brit join me in a round of “Why Can’t We Find Someone Who Will Love Us for Us” during one heart to heart we had one late night. That’s why by the end of that week together, I felt nothing but confusion. It stepped up when, by the end of the week, he was texting his new paramour with a fervor that made me feel like an intruder. And when you have had such a stellar time venturing throughout a foreign country without a single fight, imagine how that can complicate more than just your brain.

The rational me knows that my creating anything but a friendship with the Brit would be difficult since he’s in England and I’m in southern California. The whole “Amor de Lejos, Amor de Pendejos” truth of our situation has never been far away from the fantasy of it all. But fuck me. We sparked. At times, it felt so real, this connection. At one point in Valencia, he even said he needed to put blinders on. Why couldn’t this be something more than just two friends having a good time in Spain? I have not wanted to be close to someone like this is such a long time! Six years after I selfishly kicked my bespectacled Ex to the curb, it’s been a mixed bag of really poor choices, cheap sex and a lot of wondering when in the hell the universe is going to take some pity on me! Being with the Brit was so bloody effortless. Was I just being clueless or just deluding myself because of an ideal that has yet to be acheived?

Trust me. I’ve done some work in processing all of this. It was big relief knowing I can be myself with the right sort of gent. He’s a fantastic person with whom to spar, a real intellectual with that classic British wit. Dry as a sherry, but fierce as Thatcher at her peak. More, I felt this incredible calm around him. It remains the one thing I will cherish most about my life with my Ex and it’s the one thing that’s been missing ever since.

As we got closer to the end of the trip, I felt unsteady and possessed by a grim outlook. He’d go home to someone who’d hold him tight. I’d go home to face a new round of the Dating Game. And that just pissed me off. I’d like to squeeze out as much of the Brit’s sincere and warm sentiment into a place that can validate why I am certain I wasn’t misreading the cues. The cold light of a warm LA day suggests otherwise. He was being kind and he needed something different from me. The Brit had been searching for a real friend, someone that understands him and doesn’t possess an ulterior motive that involved hurting him, his one biggest fear. Wouldn’t you know, it’s also a fear that share that with him, among other things.

Ironically, in the weeks since our return, the Brit has reached out in moments of real emotional turmoil as the paramour seems to be on a different page. I understand that very much, the overanalyzing of situations that are never as bad as you think. But it happens and I offer my own support while keeping my true feelings at bay.

I am aware that I keep setting myself up for this these types of situations, though. Prior to the trip, an endless drought of solitude had left me wondering whether I have much to offer anyone anymore. A week in Spain was living proof I did. I wish it was more of a consolation, knowing that I’m not entirely without the means of being with someone on “that” level. Perhaps it was just a practice run? Was it a reminder of what I’ve gained in terms of being an adult when it comes to establishing a healthy relationship? Maybe. But, caught between the lines of lucidity and maturity are slivers of jagged insecurity. I feel the presence of my old nemesis, the one that loves to reiterate: “You lack the total package for him, that’s why it didn’t catch fire.”

Bitch.

I should be content with being the friend, but when that single look caught my eye during our second night in Valencia, I couldn’t help but feel all buzzy inside. A dear friend even noticed it on that following rainy Saturday in Madrid. Her first words were, “How light you look! So handsome! And the beard!” She witnessed the version of me that I’d kept under wraps for the better part of a year. I did feel good as the rain fell over the Plaza del Callao. I felt better than good. I felt not sad.

My powers of imagination are truly reckless at times. In my mind, his time is going to be spent building up a life around his new job and new boundaries with his beau. I’ll be that crazy American who will help lighten the day when things get challenging, like all good friends do. But we’ll always have Spain, and possibly, a chance to storm another group of cities, too.

This is probably a good moment to insert a chorus of: “He lives in another country, dude! What the hell did you expect? Are you loco, ese? He ain’t into you because you live in ANOTHER country and doesn’t want to run the risk of being hurt or worse. It’s easier and safer to stay local for him. Wake the fuck up! Chingao, already.

I know!  I know! It isn’t going to do me any good to act like a Charlie Puth song. My reserve of “Better Luck Next Time” is just a wee bit low right now. Trust me, I am focusing on: “Does this mean that someone remains behind Door No. 1504?” It is saner to keep an open mind. But hells bells, I don’t relish the task of having to meet new gents and going through this process. Again. Me da hueva, caray! 

I do know that my friendship with the Brit is one I intend to nurture for as long as we both want to share in its possibilities. Truth be told, people like him are rare to find in a world determined to keep us everybody apart from each other. These feelings will abate with time. Of course, this makes it all so damn annoying!  To be so close to the prize. Yeah, I feel like I’m about to hold a torch again. At least I can see the upside to that, too. After six years, it is a relief to know that I can finally shift it to the other arm.

So, want to know what a week in Spain can do for anyone? I’ll tell you. It will make you feel so much alive and very much a part the world. Now, the task remains the same as it was during that summer in 2014 when I took that first huge step toward defining my true self in Salamanca. I still have to learn to make Spain happen wherever I go, especially at home. As for the rest? Universe, don’t let me down…but can he wear glasses and make me laugh while watching YouTube clips all night long?

 

 

 

 

“I Want to Break Free” (or “The Tyranny of Fear”)

“I Want to Break Free” (or “The Tyranny of Fear”)

“I want to break free
I want to break free
I want to break free from your lies
You’re so self satisfied I don’t need you
I’ve got to break free
God knows, God knows I want to break free…”

If my long-held fears were corporeal, I’d sing Queen’s “I Want to Break Free” to them at the top of my lungs. It is what you say to a lover who has kept you down for too long. The one who keeps you at arm’s length, the one who keeps you begging for a love that is on their terms and so not worth it.

The same applies when you’re locked in the grip of abject fear. Rejection. Failure. Unfriended. Unliked. Unbelievable.

For me, it is my connection to fear that has been my longest running romance. Time is slowing down in some ways and the quiet I’ve been experiencing  of late is granting an audience to my inner thoughts with unsettling frequency.

I go to therapy twice a month, but it is more a stop gap measure than a real solution. Do I see the enormity of fear? Yes, its features have taken their full form now. It is me as a kid, seeking attention from those who did little to try to understand me. I find that my most painful struggle is that of finding a partner in this life that understands me. My inability to do so is starting to anchor me deeper into this toxic morass of depression.

Why isn’t it enough to trust myself again? Why is it so important to see myself in the eyes of someone else and not provide myself with the strength to pull myself out of this bog? Part of me wants to see fear take on depression in an epic battle royale, but that’s assuming I can be a bystander. They are both a huge part of who I am as a person. If anything, I’ve allowed them both to use ME as their boxing ring.

Since coming home from Spain, a palpable sense of loneliness as returned and creeped into my mind again. That vacation was supposed to wash away all that was troubling me. Instead, it only drudged up more of what ails me.  I can’t allow myself to be washed away with it. As much as I love the ease and promise of stillness from slipping away unnoticed, the collateral damage would be too great. Running away from my personal ground zero is not the answer. But these six years of romantic drought and depression are starting to take their toll and the struggle to find some sort of peace is becoming a insurmountable.

Chaos. Uncertainty. Anger. Screaming. Rage. Optimism seems incapable to puncture through this era of disconnection and dischord. Writing the pain away helps. As to what I’m going to express next, I don’t know. But for the moment, I am going to keep shining a light on fear until I am able to run right into it and tackle it for good. I just need one good play, dammit. And break free…

 

 

“Hay que ser un cabrón de la vida con buenos sentimientos..”

“Hay que ser un cabrón de la vida con buenos sentimientos..”

Quite simply, Spain has claimed me again.

After nearly a year of stewing in my own emotional juices, all lacking flavor or color, I plotted a course back to the place that helped me flourish with a steady rain of words, images and clarity. Of course, that sense of nervous expectation whch has been my lifelong travel companion also made a point to book passage along with me. Yes, I am fretting about a lot of things on this trip. In fact, the most liberating moment of this vacation was the first 24 hours, when I had no real way of communicating on a phone. For that first travel day, I had zero compulsion to reach out and touch anyone. I uploaded one photo onto Instagram to show people that I cleared the first hurdle by getting to the American Airlines gate at the Tom Bradley International Terminal and that was it. I haven’t had much inspiration to write since arriving in my glorious Spain. But that changed when I finally arrived in Salamanca. It was here where I found a narrative point, a glimmer of an idea, something that I was hoping would happen.

Primer misterio: Making a beeline to the Plaza Mayor, it was hard not to hold my breath. We’re told we can’t always go back to the sites where we experience profundity and change. The first thing I noticed was how easy it was to fall into step with the city again. It was the hour prior to “La Cena.” Siesta was over and that familiar symphony of families, friends, students and other branches of humanity reverberated off the cobblestone streets. And then I saw it. La Plaza Mayor. While it wasn’t a clear path anymore, even the construction of a stage in the middle of this perfect storm of Spaniards and everyone else could not prevent the flow of tears I let loose.

No cliches about “being home again” need apply. It was a wave of relief and realization. My slow emotional suicide of depression, poor health and familial woe had not cocooned me entirely after all. I will admit that I had some misguided notion that what I was really trying to accomplish was a remix on the “Shirley Valentine” tip. That was painfully obvious in the first days, when my awkward attempts were greeted with a tender pat on the arm, as if saying, “Oh,  you’re sweet” in that manner we reserve for a pet. It is Wednesday now. Raining. Early morning. And I think I am starting to piece together what the true meaning of this trip is meant to be. I’m older than Shirley now. She was in her early 40s. I’m staring at 50 from the other side. No, I am not traveling alone this time. Yet, I find that his “jolly holiday” is still a journey towards self-discovery. I am leaving a few things out for now as this entire chapter is really just a prologue, you see.

Spain, rather Salamanca, was a generous well of inspiration for me in 2014. I don’t know why I keep reaching for my damn phone, constantly scouring Facebook and Instagram, trolling for likes and comments because my ego is a bit compromised at the moment. Staring up at the ceiling in the dark, it just happened. “I am in fucking Spain! Joder, tío!” So, here I am, dipping my toe into these waters rather gingerly as I am not sure what makes sense to fit into this space right now. All I know is that I am compelled to start composing a few sentences because I felt the need to say something already.

Segundo misterio: I’ve been walking with purpose again. I feel purpose again. More, I am finding the joy in smiling in between the pockets of “OMFG, what am I doing here?” Maybe it was the agua de Valencia that made me drunk on a moonlit beach? Maybe it’s the jet laggy effects of all the planes, trains and automobiles it took to get me here?

Tercer misterio: The first image I took upon arriving in Salamanca was of a door, the entrance to the house of la señora Manoli, whose home was ground zero for the many epiphanies I composed for this diary. A lot of emotion detonated in that apartment during that summer of 2014. While I write today with this longing for a single kiss, I think about a quote I tripped across while idly perusing the internet on yesterday’s long train ride from Valencia to Salamanca: “Hay que ser un cabrón con buenos sentimientos.” Or “You need to be a bad ass motherfucker with good intentions or feelings.”

Yes, Spain has claimed me again, in all its brusque wonder. Could this introspection have happened anywhere else? Perhaps? But, where I’ve been standing of late, being that bad ass m’f’er with good feelings has been a Herculean task. I know I was that before. Somewhere along the way, like so many of us, I became afraid of that strong sense of focus. I confused it with being reckless. I made myself blind because I didn’t like what I was seeing on the daily. I can’t do that anymore. I can’t expect to have so many second chances anymore. As of this moment, I have loosened to tap to let “los buenos sentimientos” flow again. The pipe works are a little rusty, of course. Now, let’s see if I can throw the tarp off that old “cabrón” again and see what happens when I let him roam free for a spell.

Written and uploaded from Salamanca, Spain. Wednesday, October 19.

From the MediaJor Vault: Javier Bardem

From the MediaJor Vault: Javier Bardem

If Fridays are for flashbacks, why not open up the extensive MediaJor interview vault for a new “Confessions” feature? First out: Oscar winner Javier Bardem.

No Bond film is ever complete without a villain — and there has never been a villain like Javier Bardem’s Silva in SKYFALL. As this most venerable film franchise hits a creative peak in its 50th year, actor Daniel Craig (who solidified his position as the new Bond benchmark) was only one reason why audiences have turned SKYFALL into such a success. It was also Bardem’s wicked cool that generated an equal amount of heat with fans. And he may just become the first Bond film actor to ever be nominated for an Academy Award, too. (Well, that didn’t happen. But the film did win an Oscar for its Adele-powered theme song.)

Bardem was most recently seen in Sean Penn’s “The Last Face” and will next be seen in Darren Aronofsky’s untitled film, co-starring  Jennifer Lawrence. He’s also starring in “Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Men Tell No Tales,” which sets sail in 2017. And word is Bardem may be starring in a remake of “Frankenstein.”

In the meantime, watch me get shaken and stirred with Bardem as we “bond-ed” in this interview from 2012, which originally appeared on The MediaJor Channel.

Produced by Jorge Carreon. Edited by Sara Gordon Hilton.

“I Resolve to…Understand That The World Goes ‘Round” — #theclosingoftheyear

“I Resolve to…Understand That The World Goes ‘Round” — #theclosingoftheyear

God, how long have I been basking in the glow of hyperbole?

It’s like I don’t know any other way to express myself or view the world. Everything to me is:

Big!

Bold!

Must have!

Must see!

Like!

Post!

Followers!

Retweet!

It’s all just a cover-up, really. This endless search of non-information that clutters my brain, distracting me from the narrative that I really want to express, not just to the world, but to myself. If there is anything to offer as a resolution for 2015, it is to abandon the hyperbole and focus on what matters in defined terms. Fuck these endless social media streams, I want truth again.

I haven’t been too eager to promote many entries on this blog of late. It’s been a combination burn book and teen girl journal for weeks. “This family member talked so much shit about my me!” or “Those family members had the nerve to make it all about them!” or “This date was just another Harry Houdini! Now you see him! Now you don’t!” I bet even Taylor Swift would go, “Fuck bitch. Get a new theme!”

What happened to self-reflection and understanding, to humor and positivity?

What happened to the last third of 2014?

Well, a lot.

John Kander and Fred Ebb composed a song for Martin Scorsese’s “New York, New York” called “The World Goes ‘Round.” I’ve had it on a loop these last few weeks. It helped shape what I decided to write today, summing up exactly what sort of year many of us experienced in 2014.

Sometimes you’re happy, sometimes you’re sad
But the world goes ’round…

And sometimes your heart breaks with a deafening sound…
Somebody loses and somebody wins
And one day it’s kicks, then it’s kicks in the shins
But the planet spins,

and the world goes ’round….

I thought a lot about what this closing blog entry of the year should contain. But, as I sit here in my bedroom (More teen girl imagery. That has to go in 2015), I find that I don’t want to replay any of it. I want to focus on the reality that the world will continue to spin — and that hope matters.

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My boss Alan and I got into a rather revealing discussion about hope, an ideal my friend doesn’t seem to think exists.

But I do. I really do.

Hope, like love, has lost its power. It’s a brand. It is a campaign logo.  It has been appropriated by the self-help contingent, those annoying life coaches and magazinespeak spinners. It is that blanket statement too many of us use to cover up our woes, disappointments and our other beautifully weak and frail moments. “Don’t worry. There is always hope.”

Hope, like love and happiness, takes effort. It takes work to NOT let yourself fall prey to the myriad of distractions and stupidities that dominate our daily lives. You can’t use hope blindly. Hope needs to be seen clearly. It isn’t like prayer. “I hope” is not like talking to God. You are talking to yourself. You are being your own source of faith and courage to face the challenges that we face. And the challenges, particularly at this age, will arrive with the efficiency of a high speed train.

Hope, like love, is not for pussies. And hope needs to be taken back from the legion of those wanting to cash in on our gorgeous neuroses for their own gain. Before any of us can begin to understand just how important love is in our lives, we have to reeducate ourselves in the power of hope. Where there is hope, you will find love. You will find them exactly where you left them before you let all the static of modern life cloud your own beliefs and true self.

In a few hours, 2014 will join the album of detritus that is memory. It will be relegated to the tales we tell whenever we reunite. Those who are lost, will be remembered. Those who hurt us will be reviled again, but ultimately forgiven because they just don’t know any better. Those who made us laugh, will make us laugh that much harder. And we will all be glad that we survived to tell the tales again and again.

I also found great comfort in another song, one composed by Hans Zimmer and Trevor Horn for the film “Toys,” performed by Wendy & Lisa and Seal. It features this lyric:

This is a Time to be Together
And the Truth is somewhere here
Within our love of People
At the Closing of the Year.

I spent these last months in a state of free fall. I haven’t hit ground yet, but I see it below. I have not lost sight that it is with my family and my family of friends, new and old, here and abroad, where I did find my truth in 2014.

I can’t wait to find out what I will learn in 2015.

Wednesday, December 31. Written and posted from Wayne Avenue Manor in South Pasadena, CA.

“Christmas wrapping…” — #bahhumbug

“Bah, humbug” no, that’s too strong
‘Cause it is my favorite holiday
But all this year’s been a busy blur
Don’t think I have the energy

To add to my already mad rush
Just ’cause it’s ’tis the season
The perfect gift for me would be
Completions and connections left from

Last year, ski shoppin’
Encounter, most interestingimage
Had his number but never the time
Most of ’81 passed along those lines

So deck those halls, trim those trees
Raise up cup’s of Christmas cheer
I just need to catch my breath
Christmas by myself this year

Calendar picture, frozen landscape
Chilled this room for twenty-four days
Evergreens, sparkling snow
Get this winter over with

Flashback to springtime, saw him again
Would’ve been good to go for lunch
Couldn’t agree when we were both free
We tried, we said we’d keep in touch

Didn’t, of course, ’til summertime
Out to the beach to his boat could I join him?
No, this time it was me
Sunburn in the third degree

Now the calendar’s just one page
And, of course, I am excited
Tonight’s the night, but I’ve set my mind
Not to do too much about it

Merry Christmas, Merry Christmas
But I think, I’ll miss this one this year
Merry Christmas, Merry Christmas
But I think, I’ll miss this one this year

Hardly dashing through the snow
‘Cause I bundled up too tight
Last minute have to do
A few cards a few calls

‘Cause it’s “RSVP”
No thanks, no party lights
It’s Christmas eve, gonna relax
Turned down all of my invites

Last fall I had a night to myself
Same guy called, Halloween party
Waited all night for him to show
This time his car wouldn’t go

Forget it, it’s cold, it’s getting late
Trudge on home to celebrate
In a quiet way, unwind
Doing Christmas right this time.

“A&P” has its provided me
With the world’s smallest turkey
Already in the oven, nice and hot
Oh damn! Guess what I forgot?

So on, with the boots, back out in the snow
To the only all-night grocery
When what to my wondering eyes should appear
In the line is that guy I’ve been chasing all year

“I’m spending this one alone,” he said
“Need a break, this year’s been crazy”
I said, “Me too, but why are you?
You mean you forgot cranberries too?”

Then suddenly we laughed and laughed
Caught on to what was happening
That Christmas magic’s brought this tale
To a very happy ending

Merry Christmas, Merry Christmas
Couldn’t miss this one this year
Merry Christmas, Merry Christmas
Couldn’t miss this one this year

 http://youtu.be/nud2TQNahaU

“When it rains in Los Angeles…” — #eecummings

“When it rains in Los Angeles…” — #eecummings

I love it when it rains in this city of angels.

Sadly, those moments have been far and few for quite some time now. Yet, when it does happen, the effects are inspiring. It is that cleansing of the air, the prospect of making things grow, of giving life a chance to restore itself.

This period of drought is a metaphor for much of what the world feels right now. We are suffocating in this arid landscape, allowing our own frantic lives to take root, but refusing to let positive things bloom. Yet, nature has a way of making its power known in the rain. This liquid state of hope is a sign that what was once desert can be transformed. What was once lost will be found.

Woody Allen featured a stanza of a poem by e.e. cummings in “Hannah and Her Sisters,” which remains one of my favorite films. His script made use of this phrase, “not even the rain, has such small hands.” The yearning of this poem and its use in a voiced over moment punctuating a scene between Michael Caine and Barbara Hershey has stuck with me for years. It is so easy to think you’re closed off in this world, safer, to be frank. Yet the prospect of the new, that downpour of yearning, is a marvel to behold.

Last night’s rain brought cummings back to me, but not to reinforce a romantic ideal. No. That voice of positive I nurtured in Spain renewed itself, if only for a momenet. We do have the power within ourselves to open our own hearts and imaginations to create a better sense of self, to engage in a greater purpose in this world. It really is a miracle when it happens.

Just like the rain in L.A.

“somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond
any experience, your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot tough because they are too near

your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skillfully, mysteriously) her first rose

or if your wish be to close me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully, suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;

nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility: whose texture
compels me with the colour of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens; only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody,not even the rain, has such small hands.” — e.e. cummings

From Woody Allen’s “Hannah and Her Sisters”

Friday, November 21. Written and posted from Wayne Avenue Manor.