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FearHopeLoveJoyAche Kate's wandering around the office singing, and I think people are starting to notice that I rarely do anything that so much as resembles work around here. As she walked past me reading someone else's Diaryland page, she said, "WHAT are you reading?!" I always have interesting and colourful things on my screen. My very desktop has been customised this week with a photograph of some tiled mirrored surface outdoors taken by my stepfather who, while a little bit fundamentalist Southern Baptist for my taste, is not only a very talented photographer, but also a wonderful man. (I rotated the photo 90 degrees to the right from the way it was meant to be viewed, I believe, but it wasn't one of his favourites, so he didn't put it into an album, so I thiefed (pronounced "teefd") it while I was home for Christmas, as I thought it was super-cool. I'd post it on here, but I still can't get my membership to upgrade to Gold Status, because the incompetent fuckheads at PayPal still haven't figured out or fixed what's wrong with my account.) At any rate, though, I do plenty of stuff that's quiet and low-maintenance and keeps the office running (relatively) smoothly, and they seem to appreciate me, so everybody's happy. Speaking of appreciation, some other Connectifolk have started reading me, or at least leaving notes for me (Maybe they think I have Something To Say? Sound and fury, signifying nothing; what it utters is its only stock and store.); ironically, they're about ten years younger than I am (well, maybe not quite), but I've found interesting what they've had to say up to this point. They seem to be from Willimantic, or that area. I was surprised to read a series of pieces in a CT newspaper on the heroin subculture in that area; I know an engineer of some sort whose office is out that way -- friend of my parents...he and his wife are wonderful people -- and I thought it was all bucolic serenity. Guess I was wrong, but then, I've only been out there once, I think. Justin e-mailed a few days ago to express his surprise at the changes and updates to my diary. I wrote back; though I should've written more, but I was at work, so I kept it short. The shock came this morning, when I checked my e-mail and had two messages from my Dad. I opened and read the first one, then hit the "Delete" button, which opened, rather than the second message from Dad, the message from Justin, which began with the declaration that he'd checked my Diaryland page. As I believed this to be the second message from my father (This was pre-coffee, mind you.), I had an immediate and wildly unpleasant adrenaline rush, very much like the last car accident I had. Let's just say I hope my father never has any occasion to stumble upon these pages, as there's plenty here that he doesn't know, that he doesn't need to know, that I don't want him to know, and that he doesn't want to know. I was greatly relieved when I realised hotmail was just working in the opposite direction. For the last few days (today excepted, as I instead just took phone calls and had lunch with Susan, whom I'm pretty sure I've discussed here before), work has been interrupted by apartment-searching. My lease ends at the end of February, and I want to move somewhere more downtown so I won't have to develop RoadRage (tm) during the 3-mile yet 15-to-30-minute drive into the office in the morning. I'd rather just walk to work. I'd also like a place with a fitness centre, better laundry facilities, heat control, air-conditioning, and sound attenuation between units. I hear my neighbours all too well, and I figure that means they can hear me, too. As much as I find it amusing that the kid who kept me awake by screaming late at night (until she and her screaming mother moved out about a month ago) could hear me having loud and rough sex in the next room, it was almost certainly not appropriate, and since the new neighbours seem to be much quieter, more responsible folk, I'd rather not inflict the sounds of my sex life (which I have no intentions of curtailing) upon them. So I'm moving out, either at the end of February or the end of March, and I guess I'll put off the move to Manhattan yet again, as I certainly do not have my proverbial shit together enough to seriously contemplate such a move at this time, and I don't think the job market will be that much better by the beginning of the summer, when I was planning to do it, anyway. I have a good idea of where I'd like to end up as a result of this search process, either back in my old building in Ninth Square, or in one of the apartments in the newly-renovated Strouse-Adler building, but I'm not particularly thrilled about what that convenience and sportiness is going to cost me. The starting price for a two-bedroom in the former complex is $1,200 per month; I could have a one-bedroom (which would probably not be large enough) for $934. I have no clue what the places in Strouse-Adler are going to go for (I've been informed today that a unit will be opening up in two weeks), but I figure somewhere around $1,000 a month, and while technically, I can afford it, I think it's awfully expensive for this town, and I'd have to watch my spending habits to live that way. Tomorrow, I go to see a large one-bedroom unit on Bishop Street with tall Gail and to examine the model unit at what will be the new Residences on the Green with pretty Ellen (who's got a hell of a grip on her for a girl...I have a feeling she could sell me just about anything). Saturday, I check out the places in Ninth Square, back in Stonehill House again. Cary said he'd call me today or tomorrow about having lunch on Saturday to make a preliminary determination of whether we'd make decent roommates, but I think that's all just a silly fantasy in his head; he probably won't call, and even if he did, I'm not sure a flat-mate is really something I need, as I do not share space well, and I'm not sure I'm prepared to share a space with a gay muscleboy future doctor. If it were Brent, I don't think I'd mind, though I haven't heard from him at all in months, and probably, I'd just end up spending all my time trying to get into bed with him, which would be irresponsible and bad. I think the last time I saw him, we'd had a bit to drink, and I made some crack about wanting him to do me, to which he responded along the lines of, "You never know," but he wouldn't take me home and back the words up with actions, and I don't think I've seen him since. That was early autumn; it's now late January. I hope he's okay. The front pages of both the local Connecticut newspapers we get in this office provided my coffee with a twist this morning, as they carried stories regarding the debate over the legalisation of single-sex marriages and/or civil unions in this state. Despite my own sexual orientation, I used to be opposed to homosexual unions, but at some point over the last few years, my position has changed. If a couple are together for a significant period of time, sharing their lives and their assets, I think the same benefits should be awarded, regardless of the genders involved. ALL families, regardless of their component makeup, should be respected. People who are attempting to block such recognition are living in the past, and their hatred, whatever they may wish to call it, is manifest to anyone with eyes and/or ears. I read a comment from someone to the effect that allowing same-sex unions would lead to things like child molestation and incest. What an absurd notion! These are three issues which have absolutely nothing to do with one another. Anyway, the source of the twist lay in the fact that last night, I went to a little soiree at Christine and Brenda's apartment. Christine's parents are in town for a few days, and they'd cooked all manner of yummy things and invited anthropology grad students and faculty and me for a lovely evening of company. So I spent about three-and-a-half hours stuffing my face with the wonderful things they'd cooked (not to worry, I didn't eat THAT much, I hadn't had lunch, and I didn't cook dinner when I got home) and sipping yummy Shiraz (which is getting to be among my favourite red wines). And then, Christine (we have quite a history) walked me back into her study and gestured at a garment bag hanging in her closet door. Initially, I thought, "Ah, how lovely: dry-cleaning. She will now show me what it is she wants to share with me from her closet." Then, she began unzipping the garment bag. Then, I noticed that embossed on the garment bag (white) in gold letters was something about "bridal". Then, I saw that what she was showing me was a beautiful white bridal gown, and I just about completely lost it. Hell, I'm getting misty just typing this. So 'Stine and Brenda are going to have a commitment ceremony on the 21st of June, and they want me to be there, and I am positively beside myself with happiness for them, because they're two of my favourite people on the planet, and Christine and I will always, ALWAYS have a very deep and meaningful connection, no matter with whom each of us should be partnered. (I could go into endlessly-detailed back-story here to explain our relationship, but that would take days and massive editing to keep it coherent, but suffice it to say she is a beautiful person, and I love her dearly. Anywhere she goes is guaranteed to be a cool place, and anyone she loves is truly a marvel. This also did a lot to explain the dream she related to me, wherein she and Brenda were being married, but Brenda didn't show up, so she asked me to walk down the aisle with her, to which I, of course, agreed, and we walked down the aisle blowing kisses at everyone in attendance. Apparently, it's not the first dream she's had that featured me, but given the nature of our friendship, I find it natural and fitting.) They announced their engagement to everyone a little later in the evening, and I couldn't be happier for two people. I hope I'll have a date to take with me to the ceremony, and I hope we'll both be wearing tuxedos; it's an outdoor thing, so naturally, I have all manner of fairytale visions. Today, I shall close with an extract from a song I heard yesterday while I was listening to the Cowboy Junkies' PALE SUN, CRESCENT MOON. That whole album has always haunted me, and this particular lyric by Michael Timmins has the power to cut my breath and stop me in my tracks whenever I hear it. It seems particularly fitting lately. "Do you remember r
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