Despite the facts that meeting Robert was both a seminal and a fascinating event, I have never felt up to the task of describing it on paper. It always come out as precociously cute and romantic when told to friends, and it really is the sort of thing that belongs in a movie or book. Nonetheless, I have been either too timid or too close to the situation to attempt doing it justice until now.
After my accident, I was an odd near mess. I was on the brink of tears every day, but filled with a hopefulness that made me feel at times that the worst of me had been excised with my leg. Before they took my leg--before I told them to take it, rather, I had to milk the pus out of it by running my fingers down along the shin until it came out of a drain that had been sewn into my leg and collected in a little bulb. This morbid daily ritual was a visible, but ultimately pointless reminder of the effort to rid my body of that which had led me to this point in the first place. That terrible fluid came to represent, not only this injury, but all that had preceded, including and especially whatever it was that had infected my spirit since the age of thirteen or so. After the leg was gone, the dark, infected flipper that it had become, I was relieved, for if it indeed represented to sick, dark parts of me, those parts were now gone and I could start over, cleaner, more ironically whole.
So it was with a sense of humor that I began my recovery, rather than a sense of despair--though that came in due course as well. Before leaving the hospital bed even, I had determined to get my teaching certificate, and then to begin teaching in a foreign country--all of which has come to pass. To spite my injury, and perhaps to bloster my determination, I drew a face on my new stump with Sharpie and gave him an online profile.
Happy Stump had a knack for bad puns. His profile revealed that he loved to get off on the right foot with people, and to put his best foot forward. His favorite movie was My Left Foot, and he loved to eat at the Ihop. His favorite book was A L'Recherche de Temps Perdu. I chose this book more out of vanity than anything else, not thinking at the time how appropriate the title was for my purpose. Pleased with his persona, Happy Stump cruised about online, and looked at the pretty boys. One in particular was a vision of loveliness, but Happy Stump knew that this Robert fellow was way out of his league. Chiseled features, painfully young, literate, sassy, a real catch.
Happy Stump was merely window shipping, of course, and did not have any intention of striking up a discourse with this fellow, or any other for that matter. Still less did he expect to be contacted himself, in the form of a wry instant message: "Happy Stump, you don't really read Proust, do you? Nobody reads Proust." It was this very Robert over whom he had mooned briefly just before.
Thus can it be said that Robert and I were introduced by my stump. I IMed him timidly from my own profile, feeling sure that he had no interest in such an ancient lecher as myself, but determined not to leave stones unturned. We struck up what has become the most charming conversation, online or otherwise, of my life. You can witness it begin here: http://thelifeofbrandon.blogspot.com/2005/09/mood-swing.html#comments.
within a week, I loved him. What is more, I openly told him so , and received his declaration in return--albeit with a thin veneer of Philia. It was a small irritation that he was dating . . . how shall I refer to him here? Why not use the nckname that afterward became commonplace in our conversations: The Consonant. The Consonant as the opposite of fun, and the opposite of attractive, and as we found out later, the opposite of stable. Eventually he came to refer to me as "The one-legged drama queen from the pit of hell" for reasons which may already be obvious. nonetheless, I invited the two of them to see a John Waters lecture with me at the Fine Arts center in Colorado Springs, and scrambled to find a date of my own so as not to appear pathetic. The account of that date can be found here:
http://thelifeofbrandon.blogspot.com/2005/11/nice-dilemma.html
Of course, Jason knew what I did not at the time, that he was just a place holder, and beat a speedy retreat.
Robert and I began to spend more time together--sometimes with The Consonant, sometimes without. I did not feel insecure on such occassions as I seemed to be the third wheel, for well I knew that I outshined him in every possible capacity. Perhaps Robert and I would end up together, perhaps not, but Jeff . . . sorry, The Consonant . . . fuck it. Jeff was not a factor in that equation. Hr csmr to see my debut as the hilariously straight son in La age Au Folles, and we went out afterward with my dear friend Christine, one of three or four people in life whom I worship, a true goddess. Afterward, Christine asked if we were dating, and I said that were just friends. "Good." she replied. "I don't like him. He treats you very badly." I was stunned. I had loved this man, baldly, for months, and one of the only people whose disapproval is crushing to me declared her open distaste.
Later I received a few comp tickets to see Christine in Pippin. I invited Robert of course, but afterward when Christine invited me to the cast party, I had to blow Robert off, terrified in fact of Christine even seeing him near me. I acted at that time as guilt-ridden parties often do, like a complete asshole, as thought the fault were not mine, and as though it were not me that was behaving in a shady manner. Sensitive to this offense, Robert left in a huff, and we didn't contact each other for a while.
When I did abase myself and reach out again, it was to invite him to the Springs for some meningless event. I forget what. He drove through a snowstorm, something that I didn't recognize until later as an expresson of his affection. I drive in snowstorms all the time, for I am scarce to be deterred from my goals, but he has no such determination, and would have stayed home if his heart did not impel him. On that night--or lets pretend it was then for the sake of narrative--I declared to my friend Venita that he would be mine.
It came to pass, as all things I declare do, June 15th, almost a year after our first contact. We went out to a cabaret with Jeff in the metaphorical rumble seat, and I was fun and charming, witty and energetic. Jeff was, by way of contrast, moody and doughy, no doubt sensing Robert;s and my growing interest. When Jeff departed for the evening, Robert and I set out in search of bacon. It was, of course me that made the first move, as it would ever be. We ended up making out in the parking lot of Denny's and he tasted like syrup.
The next week, Jeff broke up with him. That it was not the other way around would serve as a running metaphor for the next three years.
After my accident, I was an odd near mess. I was on the brink of tears every day, but filled with a hopefulness that made me feel at times that the worst of me had been excised with my leg. Before they took my leg--before I told them to take it, rather, I had to milk the pus out of it by running my fingers down along the shin until it came out of a drain that had been sewn into my leg and collected in a little bulb. This morbid daily ritual was a visible, but ultimately pointless reminder of the effort to rid my body of that which had led me to this point in the first place. That terrible fluid came to represent, not only this injury, but all that had preceded, including and especially whatever it was that had infected my spirit since the age of thirteen or so. After the leg was gone, the dark, infected flipper that it had become, I was relieved, for if it indeed represented to sick, dark parts of me, those parts were now gone and I could start over, cleaner, more ironically whole.
So it was with a sense of humor that I began my recovery, rather than a sense of despair--though that came in due course as well. Before leaving the hospital bed even, I had determined to get my teaching certificate, and then to begin teaching in a foreign country--all of which has come to pass. To spite my injury, and perhaps to bloster my determination, I drew a face on my new stump with Sharpie and gave him an online profile.
Happy Stump had a knack for bad puns. His profile revealed that he loved to get off on the right foot with people, and to put his best foot forward. His favorite movie was My Left Foot, and he loved to eat at the Ihop. His favorite book was A L'Recherche de Temps Perdu. I chose this book more out of vanity than anything else, not thinking at the time how appropriate the title was for my purpose. Pleased with his persona, Happy Stump cruised about online, and looked at the pretty boys. One in particular was a vision of loveliness, but Happy Stump knew that this Robert fellow was way out of his league. Chiseled features, painfully young, literate, sassy, a real catch.
Happy Stump was merely window shipping, of course, and did not have any intention of striking up a discourse with this fellow, or any other for that matter. Still less did he expect to be contacted himself, in the form of a wry instant message: "Happy Stump, you don't really read Proust, do you? Nobody reads Proust." It was this very Robert over whom he had mooned briefly just before.
Thus can it be said that Robert and I were introduced by my stump. I IMed him timidly from my own profile, feeling sure that he had no interest in such an ancient lecher as myself, but determined not to leave stones unturned. We struck up what has become the most charming conversation, online or otherwise, of my life. You can witness it begin here: http://thelifeofbrandon.blogspot.com/2005/09/mood-swing.html#comments.
within a week, I loved him. What is more, I openly told him so , and received his declaration in return--albeit with a thin veneer of Philia. It was a small irritation that he was dating . . . how shall I refer to him here? Why not use the nckname that afterward became commonplace in our conversations: The Consonant. The Consonant as the opposite of fun, and the opposite of attractive, and as we found out later, the opposite of stable. Eventually he came to refer to me as "The one-legged drama queen from the pit of hell" for reasons which may already be obvious. nonetheless, I invited the two of them to see a John Waters lecture with me at the Fine Arts center in Colorado Springs, and scrambled to find a date of my own so as not to appear pathetic. The account of that date can be found here:
http://thelifeofbrandon.blogspot.com/2005/11/nice-dilemma.html
Of course, Jason knew what I did not at the time, that he was just a place holder, and beat a speedy retreat.
Robert and I began to spend more time together--sometimes with The Consonant, sometimes without. I did not feel insecure on such occassions as I seemed to be the third wheel, for well I knew that I outshined him in every possible capacity. Perhaps Robert and I would end up together, perhaps not, but Jeff . . . sorry, The Consonant . . . fuck it. Jeff was not a factor in that equation. Hr csmr to see my debut as the hilariously straight son in La age Au Folles, and we went out afterward with my dear friend Christine, one of three or four people in life whom I worship, a true goddess. Afterward, Christine asked if we were dating, and I said that were just friends. "Good." she replied. "I don't like him. He treats you very badly." I was stunned. I had loved this man, baldly, for months, and one of the only people whose disapproval is crushing to me declared her open distaste.
Later I received a few comp tickets to see Christine in Pippin. I invited Robert of course, but afterward when Christine invited me to the cast party, I had to blow Robert off, terrified in fact of Christine even seeing him near me. I acted at that time as guilt-ridden parties often do, like a complete asshole, as thought the fault were not mine, and as though it were not me that was behaving in a shady manner. Sensitive to this offense, Robert left in a huff, and we didn't contact each other for a while.
When I did abase myself and reach out again, it was to invite him to the Springs for some meningless event. I forget what. He drove through a snowstorm, something that I didn't recognize until later as an expresson of his affection. I drive in snowstorms all the time, for I am scarce to be deterred from my goals, but he has no such determination, and would have stayed home if his heart did not impel him. On that night--or lets pretend it was then for the sake of narrative--I declared to my friend Venita that he would be mine.
It came to pass, as all things I declare do, June 15th, almost a year after our first contact. We went out to a cabaret with Jeff in the metaphorical rumble seat, and I was fun and charming, witty and energetic. Jeff was, by way of contrast, moody and doughy, no doubt sensing Robert;s and my growing interest. When Jeff departed for the evening, Robert and I set out in search of bacon. It was, of course me that made the first move, as it would ever be. We ended up making out in the parking lot of Denny's and he tasted like syrup.
The next week, Jeff broke up with him. That it was not the other way around would serve as a running metaphor for the next three years.
posted by Brandon | 4:25 AM
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