Париж (для Артема)

Я зателефонував Артему за три дні, перш ніж я збирався полетіти до Парижа. Я сказав йому, що зустрічусь з ним у готелі Peninsula на Єлисейських полях на сніданок і що він повинен піти напередодні в готель напередодні, провести ніч, і я зустріну його там після того, як я приземлився. Не хвилюйся, я казав йому, як я швидко попхаю в машину в аеропорту DeGoulle і пробираюся через місто з закритими очима, тому я не побачу дюйма красивого міста без нього.

Артем жив у Зальцбурзі, тому це був хмель, стрибок і стрибок для нього, щоб дістатися до Парижа. Я думаю, що ми могли б познайомитися в будь-якій точці Європи, але я думав, якщо я знову збираюся закохатися, я збирався це зробити у самому романтичному місті у світі. Я не був упевнений, що саме Артем точно думав, але за згодою зустрітися зі мною в готелі 3 вересня я думав, що будь-які метелики, які він відчуває, я теж відчував. Врешті-решт, хто дійсно би стрибає на міжнародному польоті або європейському потязі, щоб зустріти іншу людину і ризикувати бути скинутий у Париж, або ще гірше покинутий?

Але це не Артем. Артем відрізняється. Артем – це людина його слова. І хоча він чарівно сором’язливий, він має цей сміливий низький центр емоційної тяжкості. Ви бачите, Артем – чесний, надійний, веселий жокестр; Справжній слухач, чиї міцні плечі завжди були доступні для тих, хто потребує доброго вола; Чарівна людина, чия чарівність проникає через образи, які прикрашають обкладинки деяких глянцевих журналів Європи. Але за вишуканою красою його пронизливих блакитних очей – така глибока співчуття, що ви не можете не допомогти, а стрибати з високих вилиць і вислизати головою в блакитні очі, блищиті сонцем; Ці очі стирали моє вагання, і я зачепив головою дурень Артема, стукаючи в двері до своєї душі; Вставати в дощ, що викликає сумніви, смуток і невпевненість; До живота до шведського столу життя і візьміть, що перший збиток, який знає, як і Єва в саду, спокуса найслабніше, перш ніж прийняти цей перший укус.

Тому я вирішив літати в бізнес-класі у випадку, якщо вся ця експедиція потрапить жахливо не так, і мені довелося швидко звільнити улюбленого і улюбленого Парижа. Пізніше цього тижня Артем запитав мене в своєму делікатному українському лайку: “Чому ти приховуєш свою ставку?”

Я повернувся на обличчя до нього того раннього ранку, в нашому прекрасному ліжку, доторкнувшись до щоки, натягнув кінчики пальців через вії, змусивши його миготіти і хихикати, і сказав: “Я боявся. Біль, що я відчував протягом декількох тижнів, був звивистим. Моє бажання для вас ходить глибоко в моєму серці, як товста жилка міді, і я ніколи не був так загіпнотизований у моєму житті “.

Loving Men-Paris (Artem Stories)

I called Artem three days before I was to fly to Paris. I told him that I would meet him at the Peninsula Hotel on the Champs-Élysées for breakfast and that he should go directly to the hotel the day before, spend the night, and I would meet him there after I landed. No worries, I told him, as I would quickly hop into a car at DeGaulle airport and make my way through the city with eyes closed so I wouldn’t see an inch of the beautiful city without him.

Artem was living in Salzburg so it was a hop, skip, and a jump for him to get to Paris. I suppose we could’ve met anywhere in Europe, but I thought if I was going to fall in love again, I was going to do it in the most romantic city in the world. I wasn’t sure what Artem was thinking exactly, but by his agreement to meet me at the hotel on September 3 I thought that whatever butterflies he was feeling, I was feeling too. After all, who really would jump on an international flight or European train to meet another man and risk being dumped in Paris, or worse abandoned?

But that’s not Artem. Artem is different. Artem is a man of his word. And while he is charmingly shy, he’s got this courageous low center of emotional gravity. You see, Artem is an honest, trustworthy, funny jokester; a genuine listener whose strong shoulders have always been available for anyone needing a good cry; a bewitching man whose charm oozes through images that grace the cover of some of Europe’s glossy magazines. But behind the exquisite beauty of his piercing blue eyes is a compassion so deep that you can’t help but leap off his high cheekbones and plunge headlong into his sun-glistened azure eyes; those eyes erased my hesitation and I burrowed headlong wooing Artem, knocking on the door to his soul; to stand in the pouring rain of doubt and silliness and uncertainty; to belly-up to the buffet of life and take that first nibble knowing, just like Eve in the garden, that temptation is sweetest right before you take that first bite.

So I decided to fly in business class in case this whole expedition would go horribly wrong and I needed to vacate my beloved and beloved Paris in haste. Artem asked me later that week in his delicate Ukranian lilt, “why did you hedge your bet?”

I turned to face him in that early morning, in our lovely bed and touched his cheek, drew my fingertips across his eyelashes making him blink and giggle and said, “I was scared. The ache I’ve felt for weeks has been tortuous. My longing for you runs deep in my heart like a thick vein of copper. And I haven’t been so hypnotized by anyone in my life.”

 

My Moral Corruption

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“How you said what you said was simply enchanting,” were the first words he ever said to me.

“I was awake, I was always awake,” were the last words.

And between these two bookends were almost thirty years of an on-again/off-again relationship which redefined the term love affair, and which did very little to boost my self-confidence.  Instead this. . .entanglement. . .often followed a beachpalsdreadfully antagonistic and well-rehearsed sequence of deplorable behavior: Vanish, spot, affirm, invite, tempt, yield, pity, agony, masquerade, endure, discredit, and pluck.   And each incarnation ripped yet another piece of moral character from me until sometime in the early nineties I concluded that we were no more to each other than a dealer and an addict, and he was always, always willing to deal, not out of compassion for me, but to satisfy some dark hunger, a craving, maybe a need.

Like anonymous chunks of an ice shelf, we broke apart and drifted away from each boy-in-bushother.  I finding love and partnership and success in Chicago.  He and his art landed in New York.  It wasn’t his drawings they placed atop acrylic pedestals.  For dollar bills he ignored their probing fingers; for five’s he forgot their foraging.  We never discussed the activities associated with higher denominations but he emphasized they were few and far between (“even for someone that looks like me!”), a thinly veiled plea for adoration of which I ignored and which subsequently produced a stifling silence as though the bridge between us had been washed away by indifference.

He enjoyed a modicum of success with a small band of go-go-boys that played the voyeuristic circuit of Greenwich bars, and infrequently out-of-town gigs took them to South Beach, Atlanta and, of course, Chicago.  But by that time his mother had passed, his baby brother didn’t want to farm, and his father sold all three hundred acres, outbuildings, and the triple-generation farmhouse and moved into town,  So when he was in Chicago it was all business; most of it public, but private parties were viceprisonerhands down the most lucrative (and dangerous).  His last trip to Chicago was a bona fide performance, secretly cast by the Chicago Vice Squad who raided the place and arrested the lot and charged them with indecency (the cheek dividing string of his g-string was 0.25″ too narrow to entirely cover his anus).  I was called and took clothes and cash and bailed him out of jail.  As the sun started to peek above Lake Michigan we were driving north on Lake Shore Drive when he said, “You know, I think it’s time to hang up the g-string.”

“Really?” I asked in disbelief, knowing (from years of personal experience) that posing whether still or sparkling was his only talent.

Staring out the window he replied, “Yup!  Problem is. . .”  Here it comes, I thought.  “Problem is, the cops kept it as evidence!”

One Creative, One Blossom, One Night

This Rose Represents All Of This Summer's Beauty
The Creative’s Choice To Represent All Of This Summer’s Beauty

Jenni and I joyfully stepped out of the house at twenty past seven for her afternoon walk (kudos to Jenni’s plumbing!).

By that hour it was already dark but for the jostling tree canopy’s flash bulb burst of the city’s ghoulish orange tints.

Our neighborhood Edgewater, enjoys its gentrification’s hushed family sounds which escape their kitchens through screened front doors. Unfortunately we’re squeezed between two struggling, sputtering overlooked or underfunded,  dicey, SRO’s by eager developers looking for quick $400,000 condominium flips and the deceptive veil of unsubstantiated assurance that upscale retail would quickly stake their claims in ground-level build-outs the size of a bird cage. Aldermen often deny developments promising to turn-out now displaced single mothers barely able to keep her family safe in a rent-controlled, 1960’s, poorly planned, troublesome 10-story mid-rise, shoddily built, local drug lords staking claims or disagreements quickly and publicly resolved through an indiscriminate hail of gunfire. This hell hole is still better than the streets.

I guess what better place to plant the most beautiful blossom of our passing summer than in a place wholly absent of beauty. The Creative, the One that irresponsibly plants the most beautiful blossom in the world in one of the most dangerous neighborhoods in the world expresses an unconditonal affection for blossoms and beauty.

He can offer it. What we do with it is, well . . .

NOTE: I snapped this picture in total darkness
and absent of any flash device. I revisited
the sight this afternoon and the blossom
as well as the plant were gone.

There’s Cold and then there’s Cold!

THERE’S COLD . . .

001-pondsCold cream, the cold shoulder, cold as ice, having a cold, Cold War, stone-cold dead, cold sores, knocked-out cold, cold (sexual disinterest), cold feet, cold turkey, cold water man (a Scot that doesn’t drink alcohol), cold cuts, cold storage, catch a cold, “…has a cold…” (politician, diplomat, or executive is fired), cold air, quit cold (die suddenly), cold fish, cold snap, cold as a cucumber, “blood runs cold” (profound apathy for others), cold blood, cold storage, cold cereal, cold sweat, cold front, cold comfort, “cold hands, warm heart” (lovey-dovey idiom), “cold, hard cash” (nothing’ but greenbacks003-coldone (US currency printed in green on one side starting in 1862; aka “Legal Tender”)), “feed a cold and starve a fever” (axiom first used in 1574 as a remedy for fever), “a cold one” (euphemism describing an ice-cold beer), “… she’s a cold one (or, cold tart)”, (disparaging expression used by a refuted suitor when describing a woman disinterested in his unmannerly advances), “cold as a witches bosom [sic]” (vague expression of “cold” in varying contexts), cold, hard facts (1. Empirical Data generally used in the sciences for unquestionable facts; 2. My mother’s off-handed remark whenever I 004-coldduck1was dumped by a girl (implying “. . . silly boy, you’ll never get a girl so face the facts . . .”)), cold case (police investigation which remains unsolvable after exhausting every lead), cold plate (recipes served cold), cold duck (originally invented in Detroit in 1937 and was based on a German legend. The recipe calls for one part Mosel wine, one part Rhine wine with one part of Champagne,002-coldshwr2 seasoned with lemons and balm mint.), knocked cold, leave out in the cold, out cold (unconscious, intoxicated, sound asleep), stop cold, take a cold shower (an often futile attempt to quell the hormones associated with lust). 

AND THEN THERE’S COLD . . .

004-below01“Cold enough for you?” I kept an eye on my thermometer all yesterday. The temperature remained steady at -13º F which coincidently is the precise temperature of ice cream. I’ve lived in the Northern Hemisphere all my life, so I’m very familiar with the winter season: days are shorter, sun remains low on the horizon, a cloudy and snowy day is likely to be warmer than a clear day (clouds capture heat and the sun’s too low on the horizon to radiate warmth added by clear skies which allows ground heat to rise upwards), all dogs love snow, we all wish for a “White Christmas.”

006-lifebelow0“If you don’t cover your ears and nose they’ll be the first to freeze, next will be your fingers and your toes,” At -13º F frostbite can begin immediately to susceptible parts of the body such as: tip or whole nose, ear lobes, fingers, and toes.  Common warning signs include: progressing numbness and a loss of sensitivity to touch. The affected area will also tingle or feel as if it is burning. As the condition worsens, the pain begins to fade or eventually disappear. Frostnip (which I experienced only yesterday on my right hand)) is a superficial freezing of the outer layer of the skin which turns white as blood circulation decreases, then stings, and becomes quite painful. Frostnip can occur during vigorous outdoor activity and you may not be aware of it until you stop exercising. 

001-sledding2“Come in from the cold!” was a chorus sung ritually during winter by my aunt that babysat for us. She knew what was coming when I refused to wear the childish, insulated, and nylon snow pants. So she kept vigil at the window which overlooked the school yard for that first warning sign of a child wearing cotton pants and sliding and falling into drifts of snow. I never noticed that my wet pants quickly yielded to the cold. Suddenly my bottom half was encased in ice which would stick to my legs. Every step home felt like pen knives were being poked into my legs, my bottom, and my feet. When I stepped into the house and started to undress my aunt hurried to stop me, then quickly placed me right in front of the heat register and turned up the heat. Then she handed me a cup of hot cocoa saying, “Drink that cocoa slowly because as those pants begin to melt, so will you. And honey, you ain’t felt anything that hurts like that!” Then over her shoulder as she walked away, “And tomorrow those snow pants won’t look so childish!”

001-girlwithdog1 “It’ll be a cold day in hell!” before I cross the street to schmooze. The other night I saw a leggy woman walking an equally leggy dog wearing a unitard (the long-legged dog was wearing it not the leggy walker, who’d resemble an Olympic swimmer languidly strolling down a snowy sidewalk on a blustery eve). I and my dog crossed the street beneath the guise of doggy introductions. After they’d had their bouts of butt-ery I finally asked the woman, “what on earth is your dog wearing?” Her Tsk, followed by the 180 degree hair toss followed by a voluminous, lung-filling sigh told me that our humorous repartee was chilly when her answer was dipped in the patronizing tone fondue, “Why, it’s a Unitard, of course; cold dogs are a reality. They’re all wearing them in Lincoln Park. But I suppose way up here in . . . in Roger’s Park . . . “ to which I interjected, “Lady, are you lost? This is Edgewater where, believe it or not, our dogs wear fur coats in winter and in summer we relish our hot dogs!”

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