“Hello? It’s Craig here,” my phone enunciated in my ear.
“Hello Craig” I replied encouragingly.
“From… Body by Craig”, it added, somewhat apologetically.
Thus was my introduction to Craig, my personal trainer.
Yes, that’s right: I have a personal trainer now. I’ve been to the gym a few times in the past but I haven’t been particularly good at it. Since I have the money for it, I thought it would be best to give it a properly good go for 6 months at least.
I drove Russell home and pulled up into his driveway. “I’ve been thinking….” oh dear, this can’t be good news. I put my foot on the brake. “I feel like there’s been a bit of tension between us lately…” he continued.
That’s how it started, in the next 30 minutes Russell broke up with me there in my car.
You’d think I’d be pretty used to it by now. Maybe it’s just my imagination, but it seems like people always break up with me within a month of my birthday.
I cried.
The groomsmaids filed in to the tune of “teenage dream”, their dresses flowing magnificently down the stairs, their respective escorts dangled off their arms like so much blue, black and white jewelery. I smiled just a little as I noticed the lesbian couple: that girl pulls off the suit and tie look better than some men I know.
This didn’t seem like an ordinary wedding, and yet (happily) it was. As Katy Perry reached her chorus the two grooms, supported by their respective mothers, followed their groomsmaids in. It suddenly struck me as a strangely apt thing to do.
Music stopped, glances were shared and the ceremony began. As they shared their vows, I looked over at Russell beside me. His eyes welled with tears: a look of pride, joy, and something else. I rested my hand on his knee and he took it immediately, giving it a little squeeze.
Russell, like just about every other good thing that’s ever happened to me, happened entirely independently of my own doing. This is both the joy and the confusion of the situation for me: I don’t know why it is he suddenly entered my life, and I don’t know why he might leave it just as suddenly.
We first met in mid February this year. At first I thought it was something of a joke. I mean, a geeky (attractive) Christian gay guy who not only found me interesting, but wanted to date as well? Not even in my most secret and fervent prayers had I hoped there would be so accurate a match for me. It seemed to me as though someone had dreamed up the perfect guy as a form of torment. The first date proved him far from a joke: more real than I had imagined.
Six months on and things are still far from certain. We both have our doubts, but to be honest this is the most real relationship I have ever participated in. I find it hard to explain what I mean by “real”. I guess it’s on the completely other end of “fantasy”: not without its complications, surely, but firmly rooted in a reality that makes me optimistic about the future. I even used the dreaded “L” word. Something I’ve never done before without prompting.
We danced that night at the reception, trying awkwardly to figure out how two men do the two-step. I feel so humbled to have been invited to attend such an intimate occasion with Russell’s friends. As the day progressed, I reasoned that Russell and I must be the only other gay male couple at the wedding. It kind of made sense in a strange way. Marriage is still not a particularly gay thing, some gay pundits going so far as to decry it “heteronormative” and “sell out”. They say we should define whatever relationships suit us.
I don’t really care much about what they say.
I mean, admittedly, as a teenager I never saw marriage as high on my priority list. Then again, I never saw relationships as particularly important either. I’ve always believed in existentialism: life is about experiencing things. Being single is like that moment when you’re experiencing that life and something so surprising happens you turn to the person next to you and exclaim “wow! did you see that?”… only to find there is no one there.
Dodging the smokers to stand with Russell on the balcony of the hotel room, looking out at the serene beauty of lake Wakatipu, it’s easy to understand why relationships are important for so many people, and have become so important to me too.
I was scheduled to travel back to South Africa: my country of birth. A place I hadn’t been to since I was 18 years old, about 13 years ago.
Everything was planned (in as much as I ever plan anything) down very finely. I arrived in Auckland from Brisbane at 7pm on Sunday, did a bunch of church finances, got the information to the auditor the next morning, handed over a bunch of work and prepared for the day-long meeting at work on Tuesday. The day-long meeting itself lasted from 9am to 2pm, thereafter I quickly whipped up the minutes, sent my final emails to those who needed input from me and raced to the university to give a guest lecture from 5pm to 7pm. Dinner and a shower later and I was off visiting a special someone up on the North Shore before the great trek.
As you can imagine it was a situation of mild panic packing my bags once I got home at around midnight. All I needed to do was get to the bus stop by 3am and I’d make my 6:15am flight in plenty of time. As I packed my toiletries I noticed I was out of razor blades. Hmm, I should buy more of those, I’ll just pop out to the store.
I ran up the stairs unlocked the door and stepped out. In one fluid unthinking movement, I locked and closed the door behind me.
Oh… bugger.
I had been in two minds about going to Vinegar Hill for a few weeks. Vinegar Hill, for the uninitiated, is a great big gay camping event that’s held here in New Zealand every year and every year I seem to be able to come up with an excuse: too far away, too busy, don’t have a tent. It was still 50/50 when I popped into the car in Hamilton to begin the journey down, but just like all journeys, once you get started it’s hard to stop.
“Do what makes you happy, Stephen, but don’t do those…. one night stand things… that just makes me frightened” My grandmother’s sound advice. Now, though I have been figuring out how relationships work for quite some time, and though I often go to gay bars. I have never, ever, ever “met” anyone at a bar, let alone experienced that all-to-common “one night stand” phenomenon. That is, until last Thursday. Please don’t read the rest if you don’t want to!
Those of you who know me rather well will know that this last month or so has been tough for me emotionally. As is often the case, it involves a guy: a marvellous guy. We’ve been friends for a few years and by happy circumstance recently found ourselves in each other’s arms. At the time I told him I was only in it for the physical, but I was wrong. Deep down, I guess I always knew I was wrong.
I was complaining to a friend of mine the other day about all the things that I had to do: a deluge of responsibilities at work, a torrent of administrative stuff for church. I’m inundated by events I’m supposed to organise, events I’m supposed to turn up to important family commitments. You know, sometimes life gets that way: where you feel as though you’re so busy doing the things you have to do that there’s simply no time left to do the things you really want to do.
My friend then said the strangest thing: “oh, well, at least it’s all good stuff”.
Good stuff?
“Steve, you’ve had really bad luck with that Prius” my friend Sam mused as we returned home after a journey out to West Auckland to see if we could find the guy who broke into my car.
Yes, that’s right, yet again, between 7:09am and 7:14am on Tuesday 7th September, my car was broken into, for a third time. This time, however, it was in my very own apartment building, in my very own carpark!
Here’s a video of the whole event: Video of guy breaking into my car.
I recently had the pleasure of watching a NZ Film Festival Film called “There once was an island”. The film deals with an island in Papua New Guinea that is apparently in the process of sinking. Now, many people will see this film as dealing with climate change, or addressing the problem of losing one’s cultural identity in the face of the inexorable march of industrialisation. I got a slightly more personal message from the film.
I popped the box next to my car with a poorly stifled grunt and opened the door. Hmm, lots of my own junk was still here on the back seat.
There were 4 carefully dated bags of money strewn on the floor, I grabbed them and stuffed them under the front seat.
I stood up with a stretch and a groan. Tired.
My managing director, Thomas, made the mistake of asking me that phatic question as I was flitting around the office on Friday morning last month. At the best of times, I’m the sort of person who will answer that common question painfully truthfully. As it was, I had far too much information to impart on anyone daring to ask such a question.
“Well, Thomas, I’m in tip top condition!” I replied gleefully, hoping I’d get the chance to elaborate on the precise metrics by which I was “fine”.
Those of you who know me will know I’m a big fan of Billy Joel. So much so, that when I was given the opportunity to choose a song to practise for voice training, I picked one of the best I could think of: “Just the way you are“.
It’s a nice sentiment: don’t go changing, you’re not too familiar, I won’t leave you, I love you just the way you are. Great words to hear from a lover or a friend. Those who aren’t Billy Joel crazy will probably be surprised to hear that it’s actually one of his least favourite songs. He wrote it for his soon-to-be ex wife after all. I remember watching an interview with the piano man where he said he now addresses the song more to himself than to anyone else.
I was extremely grumpy this last Good Friday. I was so sorry for myself, in fact, that I spent most of the day sulking in bed. There could be a number of reasons for this, particularly since I was stuck in Auckland while everything was closed down for the weekend, but I think it probably had a lot to do with what happened the night before. For one thing, on Thursday I asked a guy out. His eventual reply was a gentle, polite yet quite definite “no”. Now, I’ve been rejected many, many times before but somehow this affected me more than usual. It may have to do with the movie I was watching at the time.
“Goodbye Granny” I said as I got up to leave. “I’m sure I’ll see you again” I lied bravely “I’ll come visit South Africa or something”.
“Hope I’m alive when you do” she voiced my unspoken fear.
My grandmother leaves New Zealand tomorrow morning, after spending some precious months here visiting my father in Wellington. She and I spent a magical week together touring the Marlborough: the top of the South Island. We spent so many hours together in the car that we got to know each other very well. I think I learnt more about her in that week than I have in my entire life. She’s a wonderful person.
“I wish I was a man, and younger” granny confessed one sunny afternoon as I drove us swiftly between nowhere and Blenheim “because then I’d date you”. It’s a strange disclosure that speaks of a yearning for companionship that spans generations and gender. She was very remorseful that she had to delay coming up to Auckland, meaning we wouldn’t have as much time to chat as we had before.
Before I went to my cousins’ place to say goodbye one last time, I filled a memory card with a bunch of photos of our trip and the family. I inserted it into the picture frame I bought her and gave it to her with strict instructions to get people to load more pictures onto it for her.
I didn’t tell her that the memory card came from my camera, rendering it useless. Until I get a new card, my camera won’t take any more pictures. It’s kind of appropriate really, because it reflects how I feel: a part of me is leaving and I don’t think I can take any pictures at the moment either.
I was cleaning out my drawers, going through clothes I need to get rid of, when I came across a little bit of my own personal history: my Deo Fretus t-shirt. Now, Deo Fretus (in God we trust) was the motto of my high school and also the name of the quintet I was a member of for two glorious years. It’s hard to describe the profound sense of nostalgia I felt as I tenderly pulled the tatty t-shirt out of the drawer and regarded its moth-eaten holes.
At 2:44am on the 17th December, Caleb James Simpkin, my first nephew was born to my sieter Susan and her husband David. It’s a strange yet familiar sensation. My parents both had younger kids and so I am quite used to babies. At the same time, this is a whole new generation I’m holding in my arms, it’s kind of special.
I’ve reset my life counter on the left hand side of the blog to reflect the birth =D
One day before my 30th birthday my granny Cynthia recently turned 84. The last 4 years of her life have been spent looking after her dying husband, so now that he’s passed away, she’s at a little bit of a loss. Life’s been hard these past few years and it’s been a bit of a struggle for her and her family. She travelled here to New Zealand for Christmas, to spend time with the family and, deep down, most of us are thinking this is probably the last time she’ll get the chance.
I walked up the driveway, arms laden with presents. My father, his family and my grandmother were all staying with a friend of his in Hamilton. I entered the lounge. Granny was in the kitchen, of course. I snuck on in and presented myself to her.
“Who’s that? … Stephen!”
Those of you who have followed my blog for some years now will remember that I had a run in with an interesting guy while I was in Texas. Stephen (confusingly sharing my name) was my second boyfriend and the first guy that I guess you could say I had anything approaching a relationship with. It all ended rather badly due to a combination of mental illness, pills and a failed healthcare system.
When I last saw Stephen, I’d left him with his new boyfriend and a tenuous but workable support structure. It all fell apart rapidly when I left and Stephen ended up having another crisis which culminated in him living with his birth father, arguably a good thing for him.
He kept up correspondence with me. Through a haze of dissociative identity there emerged this new person, a far more complete and whole person. Still Stephen, but sadly with a little added toughness. I see Stephen as equal parts creative/sensitive, angry/violent and cool/calculating. These three characters vie for supremacy in his psyche. At the moment, the cool character is prominent.
Anyway, you’re not reading this for the pop psychology lesson, you’re reading this because you want to know why the boy in that hole appears to be dressed in army fatigues and why I have a picture of a boy in a hole on my website.
I hit the bed with a muted thud. It had been a long day and an even longer night. My parents were up from Hamilton and, along with other family and friends, we’d celebrated being together with food, drink and Singstar.
I rolled over and checked my phone. It was about 3:30am, we’d just seen the extended family to their car after a prolonged karaoke-off between myself and my cousin Jenny. Arth had passed out on the sofa/bed, beer in his hand, and mom was on the balcony having a cigarette. I turned over again, closed my eyes and sighed.
Mom was on the balcony having a cigarette.
I tossed again. Mom and I don’t often get a chance to talk.
(c) 2006, Stephen Witherden Powered by WordPress