The future is just a step away.
In 2008 I experienced a total mental breakdown. It was devastating. It was as if someone tripped on the electrical cord connecting my brain to power and yanked it from the wall. Everything shut down. Unsaved. Blackout. No surge protector.
Long-term memory was lost. Short term memory resembled swiss cheese. My brain was 
littered with divots like a county golf course frequented by 9-iron heavy amateurs. My vocabulary was blurry like a windshield streaked by aging wiper blades. My thoughts scattered like hooligans running from sirens.
My psychiatrist cautioned me: “The more you think, the more frequently you’ll reboot. Your brain is exhausted. It’s spending a great deal of energy defragmenting your life, trying to bring disparate pieces together for cohesion. Let it be. Stop trying so hard. Stop pushing it. You’ve been given a tremendous gift; a do-over; a mulligan.”
This post, Becoming not Became is my title post. A title post has a high degree of significance. It’s that post which marks a clean break from one way of being in life to
another. And today, thanks wholly to close friends and their brutal honesty, I can confidently say that I have stepped into my own future.
My past is in my past. I don’t bring my past with me into my present. I used to, I used to carry the disappointments and frustrations of my “yesterdays” into my “today’s.” Not any longer. Ever since my spiritual transformation, it is virtually impossible for me to even remember yesterday. I don’t remember conversations, or arguments, or bedspeak. I don’t bring forward heartache. And, I suppose, I don’t allow joy or happiness or laughter to tag along either.
Each day that I awaken is a new day, unmoored from the dock of the past. It’s only anger or sadness that burdens me. Their expression is seen by tears. Remember, we only cry for the past, never for the future.
I decided today that I would get my shit together. I would return to Chicago, rent a great apartment, furnish it the way I want, get my knee replaced, get my affairs in order, and then, and only then, maybe I’ll fly to Buenos Aires for the winter (it’s summer then).
I’ve also decided to stop pursuing men in some desperate hope that they fill the void
created when Nick I split up. It’s simply not fair to either of us. My Parisian pointed that out to me today.
So, today is my becoming, not became day.
I can either mourn what I Became or celebrate what I’m Becoming!
Let the party begin!
No, not when you pick them up at the cleaners. But when you pluck them from the closet as you’re running late to a date.
For Carrie, it was literally an altar. For me, it was a five-star hotel in a chic part of Paris.
Luciano, Jean-Baptiste, Jason, Peter, and David on the site. That’s also where I met Artem the first time, and precisely where I met Artem today, the second time.
Or worse, Boomeranged.
airport; that sleepy voice on the other end of the line taking my early call; that eager response to a text; that surprise visit; that one last, long last embrace before I wander through security.
there’s a true destination. I know I’m running from my past, from the unrelenting disappointments and failures, from my crushed relationship with Nick, from my lies and my fantasies, but I’m running into the fog of my unknown future.
I can feel the knobs of his vertebrae; as my hands work their way between his skin and his shirt I feel the slightest rise of muscle from his waist to his shoulders; a long neck supports a bearded face which smiles down at me from above; he is 31 years.
with an incredibly strong spiritual core; powerful thighs which springboard his body from floor to bed to shower to work to a restaurant to bed to sleep. Atop him, I slide my hands under his buttocks, raise his jeaned legs above my waist, and let my hands continue under his back where my hands follow the cool caps of his shoulders to the tiny peaks of his nipples. He kisses me with the passion of the tango; he is 27.
collared shirts that hint at throats and chests; crisp cotton shirts where I can lay my head and bathe in a man’s aroma; worming my hands up a man’s back between their shirt and suit jacket; kissing a man’s throat; teasing a man’s tongue out of the shell of his mouth; gnawing on a man’s shoulder; biting a man’s lower lip gently; bathing with a man; greeting a lover courtside with an embrace, feeling the dampness of his skin and recalling the same dampness after making love; traveling and staying in luxurious accommodations with featherbeds, down comforters, and a dozen pillows; laughter and a great deal of humor; honesty and truthfulness; humility.
HARLAN DIDRICKSON 