I am currently in the middle of a very confusing relationship.

The love and affection I receive from this person is constant and without fail. No matter how gloomy the weather or mood, no matter how shitty the day, this person is always able to offer me love. This person’s love is a beacon, pulsing in regular intervals throughout the night. This love calls out to drifting ships and low flying planes, to the city’s quick steppers and stragglers alike. This love is timed to the heart beat.

“I Love You! I Love You! Allelujah!”

The tall, skinny man shuffle-strides down Broadway, right hand raised, poised, holding a Book. His eyes face forward, unyielding. In many ways, this man embodies the opposite of How One Should Be in New York.

My small three bedroom apartment is off of Broadway, and I chance into this man, this erstwhile lover, with frequency. And when I do, I am struck by the most conflicted feelings imaginable.

At first, I am delighted by this selfless man, walking day in day out, proffering the love of his heart to each and every one of us, to complete strangers. What could he expect to receive in kind from us? Agape, altruism, pure love.

Immediately following a bite from this love bug, my heart makes a whiplash turn. The unceasing love call pounds into my ears like a drum. I want to shake him to make him stop! I want to do something nasty and demand love in return. He doesn’t know me! What sort of love is unqualified? What sort of love is untainted by circumstance? How can that be love at all? Who is he serving when he says he loves me?

Am I jealous that his love is not personal? Am I jealous that I have to share him with everyone else on Broadway?

I don’t think so.

I am angry at the Love Man. Love is not an idea; it’s not even an emotion. Love is a balm, a cool kiss on abraded skin. Love is whispered right into your ear; it tickles the cochlea and stirrup. Love is an arrow piercing your chest.

Love does not shout down the walls of your heart. Love is not one-size-fits-all.

One day, I want to stop this man in the street and ask him who I am, ask him what I need, ask him how I must be loved.

How does it feel?

October 4, 2007

I confess: I ate that last kudos from your secret kudos stash back in 2001. But in the spirit of ridding myself of the ghosts of 2001, I must also say I went so often to the comedy cellar back in 2001/2002 that I could have recited the comedians´acts back to them. Still though, I am not sure if the comedic memory I have now is from those moments of live hilarity or from something I saw on comedy central ohsomany years ago. With all the grayness of hindsight, what sticks with me is a white male comedian talking about how when he was trying to break-up with the girlfriend he was living with what held him back was the brutal, heavy reality of moving furniture. The main gag was him deciding, “we can work it out,” once he tried to lug the couch. “Next time, all wicker furniture,” he vowed.

It`s like my Aussie friend who I met back in Japan used to say, “the things you own can end up owning you.” And today I met my owner; it was a maroon bag of dirty laundry. But it wasn`t just any bag. That bag was the dividing line between a civilized existence and insanity and I hovered on the border for quite some time. As I write, my laundry is actually in the hands of a beautiful, Eastern European blonde working at a different hostel than mine who told me to wait until 9. Lisbon, city of 7 hills, is not the city of laundromats.

If freedom is just another word for nothing left to lose than I am not free. I cannot lose my pants bought in Porto`s chinatown (please note that this chinatown is a discontinuous one, made up of various spread out stores selling clothes and nail polish remover and anything that can be made of pleather) with the sparkly butterfly on the rear. I am more than lost if I will never again see my pink cotton nightgown that reads, “have you stolen my heart”? Clearly I am a romantic at heart/drag princess at my core. My point is not that if you try to buy clothes cheaply in Europe you will end up with more than your fare share of glitter and English phrases that try to penetrate the core of what love is, but that when you escape from your past there is only so quickly you can go.

I don`t know if this is acceptable for a first post but it is ostensibly about moving and I must note that I am incapable of sarcasm. Irony there may be, but only the kind I am unaware of, and the rest is all sincere, sincere, sincere.