Is this the face of a Killer? I say yes.

Dear and I recently got a puppy. When I say recently, I meant we got him six weeks ago. The journey to get Jesse, or Donkey as we sometimes call him, began when Dear started searching for a puppy to help ease the transition as Princess, his standard poodle, creeps up in years. She’s nine, but he would be awfully sad when that day eventually comes. And I’ll be sad as well. So he began searching for a puppy that could be a companion to Princess, and also help bridge that inevitable gap.

One Saturday six weeks ago, he had finally made up his mind that he was going to go get a puppy. We hopped in the car after eating a breakfast of sausage, sausage gravy and biscuits with some fresh fruit prepared by yours truly here. It was a gloomy, rainy start to what would turn into a long journey all over the state of Georgia. Our first stop in the search for this puppy took us to Hogansville, Georgia, out in the middle of nowhere. But these puppies just wouldn’t do, even after a heart-wrenching story from the owner about how he was in his last days of some sort of stomach cancer. And he didn’t hesitate to show us the scars from surgery. Though he did tell us that Great Danes were capable of taking down coyotes. His had just the night before. From Hogansville we then headed to, of all places, Macon, GA via winding back roads until we hit I-75. After an afternoon of traveling, we finally saw the beast that would become Jesse.

At first, I was overwhelmed with memories of my own dog I had to give up years ago (a blonde labrador named Blue. Only recently have I forgiven my mother for that decision). But then, I saw his sad, blue puppy eyes and I thought I was in love. He was a six-week old merle Great Dane, with blue eyes and mottled light grey hair. I held him in my arms as Dear filled out the paperwork and paid the owner (we suspect she may or may not have been inbred, given her looks, but she was kind enough and smelled like Jack Daniels). We loaded ourselves back into the car and finally began the journey back home, Jesse in my arms the entire way. Mind you, at this time he wasn’t named Jesse; we just called him puppy as we contemplated his name for the next week.

At first, he was timid and afraid. That night we tried to make him sleep in the back of the house near the washing and drying machine where we had kept puppies before, but he howled the entire night until he was brought to the bedside. With my history of dealing and understanding the subtle psyches of children and infants, I knew this was a dangerous precedent to set. But I really wanted to sleep. We had been driving all day and we had to wake up early not only for Pride but also to take him to get checked out by the vet. And so he slept bedside.

The next day, at Pride, Dear and I saw a lady in the parade walking a Great Dane. He exclaimed, with great excitement, that we had just bought a Great Dane, six weeks old. How proud we were! She chuckled and said, “Good luck.” This was the second time my spidey sense went off. “You won’t have any rest until he’s at least two years old.”

Perhaps the fact that the night before we drove all around the state of Georgia in search of this puppy we happened to watch Marley and Me. This one little fact, perhaps, auspicated the life we were in for. I should have read the birds. Divined the tea leaves. Listened to intuition. But it was too late. Dear was falling in love with this new little puppy.

Fast forward to today. Dear’s arms are covered in bite marks that have drawn a considerable amount of blood. Jesse’s way of saying hello to people is to gnaw on them when they least expect it. He’ll draw you in  with sad, drooping puppy eyes, and let you pet him for a few seconds before he’s overcome with an insatiable instinct to use his puppy teeth to gnash and gnaw as though he’s possessed. While walking around the house, when I least expect it, he comes galloping along to chew on my pant leg, as though the most deepest desire in his little puppy heart is to see me trip and fall.

Dear takes him to work during the day, and a lady asked to pet him. He owns a print shop on Boulevard. Dear said to be careful, that Jesse says ‘I love you’ in the most peculiar way. The lady was dressed elegantly, with nice pantyhose. She came behind the counter and sat in the chair to pet Jessie the Donkey Great Dane. Dear turned his back to take care of the lady’s order, until he heard mild screams. He shuffled over there and found Jesse ripping her panty hose to shreds. I’ve suggested a muzzle for this demonic beast. And suggested we change his name to Damien.

And for some reason, this past week, he’s taken to waking up exactly around 3 AM and galloping madly around the house, his huge paws clomping as he puppy romps throughout the house. I’m a light sleeper, and this galloping immediately wakes me up. Perhaps we shouldn’t have started calling him Donkey as a nickname, and he wouldn’t have acquired this trait.

If he starts growing horns or breathing sulphur and fire, I’ll know for certain that instead of a cute puppy we’ve adopted the anti-christ of dogs. Christmas will be the ultimate test.

In my lack of a decent night’s sleep, I’ve resorted to telling this beast to his face, who I now call Lucifer, that I just don’t love him. And I won’t. Until he’s left this biting and galloping stage of his. Deep down I do love this donkey of a creature. I just want to sleep.

If you see this dog, beware. He’s deceptively cute, likes to bring in rocks and drop them in his waterbowl,  bring sticks and chew them to little bits just to create large messes, and prone to gnashing fits of biting.

Fall 2009

CMLT 4300 MODERN/POSTMODERN A

CMLT 4200 LIT & VISUAL ARTS A-

CMLT 4010 APPROACHES IN CMLT  B+

CMLT 3200 CONTEMP LITERATURE A

French Connection/United Kingdom! Yeah.  That’s British for Dean’s List.

I opened up my Gmail account (for probably the first time in weeks) and saw a notice that the movie Pariah was looking for extras. Without blinking, I almost submitted my information and ordered a ticket up to NYC just to be an extra. That’s how passionate I feel about this movie. And I don’t know why. But there was no way I could justify the expenses. Or come up with the cash. What started out as a thesis film has expanded into a feature film.

Coming of age is at times painful, particularly for gay & lesbian youth who are by in large not allowed to be who they are, even if they know who they are. I realize that I spent a good part of my childhood hiding, wearing different masks as different situations seemed to demand. I never really dared to show my own face because it never seemed to fit anywhere.  Dress, speech, manner, persona are all costumes that we can choose to either trot out and parade or wad up in the top of our closets.  In my thesis film project, “Pariah”, I wanted to explore what happens when those costumes begin to chaff and what happens to families when the costumes come off, as they invariably always must.

– “Director’s Statement,” Director Dee Rees

A while back she was up for an award from Netflix, and received a fellowship from the Tribeca Film Institute. Even though I cannot fly/bus/drive up to NYC just to be an extra, I’m glad to hear that she’s realizing her movie dreams. Movie magic never ceases to amaze me.

Dee Rees is an award-winning writer and director, and also a recent alumna of New York University’s graduate film program. Pariah has screened at over 40 film festivals and won numerous awards. What makes her story interesting is that she began work as a script supervisor for Spike Lee, after earning an MBA from Florida A&M and working at three different Fortune 500 companies. I hope to see more from Dee Rees, and also someday follow in her film-making footsteps.  But first I just have to wiggle my big toe.

Link: Pariah Website

Just like Apollo and Dionysus.

Now that the holiday season is upon me, and the semester is over, I feel like I’ve given birth to a set of twins. On Tuesday, I handed in the final paper for my Comp. Lit class, and I also handed in the completed edited manuscript for a dear friend. He’s now in the process of making a few copies to send to family members to get their clearance, and then my work will begin with finding different contests to submit it to and finding a way to get it published.

Obviously I’m a little biased, but it makes for a very informative and entertaining read. I guess they call that infotainment, but it’s not just entertainment. It’s the heartfelt memoirs of someone who survived child abuse and an HIV diagnosis. At one point I was editing it during class, and while reading through it I came across quite possibly the funniest passage about Christmas. The class was (dead) silent except for the teacher lecturing about Barthes or Djabar or I dunno. In the middle of academic droning, I busted out laughing so hard I nearly pissed myself. And it’s not the first time I’ve read through it, but you know how when you’re in the middle of editing and become completely absorbed. No? Well, whenever reading with the intent of editing, no matter how many times I’ve read through whatever I’m reading I always read it as though I’ve never read it before.

I wish I could have approached my lit classes the same way, but I’m just glad this semester is over. And that I’m done editing. Now I just have to focus on how I’m going to replace my coffers for next semester. And work on my own writing. In the midst of pressure from school and editing my friend’s book, not to mention a brief medical scare, I’ve neglected my own writing project I had begun earlier in the semester. And I’ve some pins to sell for FACEAIDS (If you’re interested in buying one, talk to me. Only $5 to help support HIV patients in Rwanda). I really need to get on organizing an fund-raising event within the next several weeks. And I really want to redesign this blog, and get it set up at its own domain. But one step at a time. So, even though I’m on academic break I’ve still got my work cut out for me. I’ve never really been a big fan of the holidays. Except for the music.

So I apologize for the absence. I’ve neglected family and been terrible to friends. But I’m back just in time to celebrate Brumalia, Winter Solstice, Christmahanukwanzakuh and Festivus. I didn’t realize it had been almost two months since I’ve updated. But in all fairness, I did leave a warning.

This little bit of feedback made waking up at 6:53 AM (I set my alarm to odd times, a personal quirk), battling the Connector traffic for an hour ( I did not leave Midtown until 8:30 AM), arriving late to my 9:30 AM class in Athens, and reading a slightly acerbic/passive aggressive email from my father worth all the effort.

Hello, Patrique . . . “The things they don’t tell you about HIV” has been accepted into the following gallery: Gallery of NCTE. This was a moving account–and very honest.

Gallery of Writing – The things they don’t tell you about HIV,   (for those who haven’t read it yet).

No rest for the weary, as the saying goes.

I think, as a writer, that kind of feedback is what makes writing worth all the effort. That little gem right there has made up for the well-intentioned but somewhat detached feedback I’ve received all semester on my writing from all my teachers. True, risk is not spelled “ridk,” but between commuting, reading, juggling schedules and places to be while trying to churn out papers I’m surprised I even manage to turn in something.

What also made the feedback more enjoyable is that I’ve entered a period I’ve begun to refer to as the ‘doldrums.’ It’s a two-and-a-half week period that usually starts around the end of October and doesn’t let up until my birthday has safely passed. And it’s a period that’s packed with a veritable minefield of memories, both good and bad. My father’s birthday. The passing of my grandmother.  Halloween. Longer nights and shorter days. The change in seasons. And the anniversary of my diagnosis. Dear had noticed I was feeling below average yesterday and the night before. He made me laugh with corny jokes and then asked what was wrong, besides the usual post-weekend tristesse. I told him I wasn’t really sure, and never am until I’ve had time to think about it. But the simple fact that he asked, and made me laugh at corny jokes was enough to make getting up this morning just a bit easier. It helped that he reminded me of those who have it worse. It helps that I’m a sucker for corny jokes. And I guess it also helps that Dear used to be a pastor, and has a very gentle soul. That, coupled with the quoted feedback above, and I somehow manage to put everything in perspective. I’ve a penchant for making mountains appear out of slight bumps.

Perhaps some day I’ll be a professional writer (somehow make money off writing); perhaps not. Either wayI write because I love it. And I’ll continue to do it, not simply heeding to Rilke’s advice of searching deep within my soul and finding out that writing, and art  for that matter, is akin to breathing, but because I find myself and I find others through writing and reading. Art is just but one of the ways that the journey through life is made a bit less solitary.

And for those who don’t know:

The National Gallery of Writing is a virtual space—a website—where people [...] select and post writing that is important to them. The Gallery accommodates any composition format—from word processing to photography, audio/video recording to text messages—and all types of writing—from letters to lists, memoirs to memos.

The National Gallery of Writing is now accepting submissions and will continue to accept writing through June 1, 2010. The National Gallery on Writing was unveiled to the public on the National Day on Writing (October 20, 2009) and will remain open for submissions/viewing/reading through June 30, 2010. The Gallery will provide a lively reading experience and an opportunity for writers to share their craft and find a broad and diverse audience. And, all writers can find useful tips and guidelines from the National Council of Teachers of English website.

I’ll also apologize in advance for the absence. The next couple of weeks will be a slammer. Two 7-page papers, a mountain of reading, an upcoming reading (AQLF begins on November 4th at locations throughout Atlanta), submission deadlines; all peppered with birthdays and anniversaries to be remembered.

Have you ever woken up from a really bad dream, and then wondered if life was one big dream? I’m not really sure where I’m going with this train of thought. So instead, I bring to you a short film by Anne Renton, featuring the amazing Jane Lynch.

Happy Friday.

Relevant History: Journeyman again

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I’ve noticed that I write better when I don’t care. In fact, it seems caring has become a theme of sorts; or rather, the lack of caring. I’m better at sex, cooking, driving, dancing and talking when I care less. This is the oddest paradox to consider. And yet, emotionally I feel better and get better feedback when I don’t care because I’m unafraid to take risks. When I care, I suddenly become emotionally invested to the extreme. I become self-reflexive and self-referential. Suddenly, this caring spawns another problem: avoidance. I now care so much that I must avoid it because all of a sudden this object or subject I care about now causes me distress, and I need distance. Then, before I know it I’m in a sealed box with a broken flask of poison screaming ‘Verschränkung’ while watching my reflection between two mirrors.

I’ll present evidence on this: every paper I’ve written so far this semester for a certain class I previously trashed I’ve poured and contemplated over, reaching for deeper meaning within the text. And every paper ended up at least 3-4 pages, when the assignment only called for a page. Then, I turn in my paper last week (not the diatribe, but still something that pretty much said “Who gives a flying …” in 1.25 pages. Perhaps my teacher and TA were simply ecstatic I wasn’t forcing them to read extra. Perhaps my paper finally contained passion. I’m just not sure. And I don’t think I want to know, because I’ve suddenly found something that works for me: caring less (if we want to split hairs and argue over semantics, I guess we could say I’m taking it less seriously, but I’ve come to loathe semantic arguments. They’re circular and never end, and usually result in me throwing a glass of water in someone’s face).

One piece of advice I’ve heard over and over again, in writing that is, is never be afraid to kill your characters. I heard it in my creative writing class. I heard it in my dramatic writing class. And I’ve heard it again in my literature classes. They seem to be telling me not to take it too seriously. And why should I take it seriously? When the sun sets on our lives, none of us will make it out alive. That’s a given. That’s remained the only constant: we all die. Some may find that morbid, but I find that exhilarating and freeing. Sometimes I view this life as a burden and then sometimes I view it as the greatest thing since sliced bread or pasta or orgasmic-inducing triple chocolate coffee brownies (winter time is the best time to experience the exhilarations of chocolate. It’s as though the dark, gooey chocolate replaces the brightness of the sun, but I digress).

One of the problems with immortality is everything becomes the same (insert the song “It’s a Bore” from Gigi. And while Gigi invites the inevitable comparisons to My Fair Lady, there’s an irreverent humor lacking in My Fair Lady; or, it takes itself too seriously. With that said, I adore My Fair Lady, and have seen it more than ten times, but I clearly digress).  Life’s probably somewhere in between the two, given that the universe seems to prefer balance. I don’t know, and I don’t want to know. I’ll find out on the other side.

Why should I worry? Why should I care? You can finish the song, but caring leads to inhibition and censorship.

I’ve suddenly found new respect for the phrase “who cares,” sometimes fashioned as “who gives a flying …” From this day forward I’d like to make a vow to care less, but knowing myself I’ll procrastinate or care too much about not caring and then wind up avoiding the whole issue until I reach another psychological crisis point. With all that said, about writing teachers teaching to care less about characters and the arts telling us to care less, perhaps what they’re really saying is ‘Don’t be afraid to take risks.’ It’s as though they’re giving me permission to strap on those imaginary Christian Louboutin heels, press the gas as hard as I can and find out what happens, find the limits of my own personal human existence. Probably not.

But I do think they’re suggesting don’t be afraid to experience the full rainbow of color life has to offer instead of the black-and-white/this-or-that dichotomous view of the world. Or, to quote the Bard, “There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.” There’s irony for you; using the flip-flopping indecisive Hamlet to prove a point about taking risks.

When I dropped out of school took a sabbatical from academic learning in 2007, my maxim became ‘Take Chances, Get Messy, and Make Mistakes.’ That’s right, I went back to my childhood and my favorite show. I thought, “What would Ms. Frizzle tell me to do in this situation?” Actually, I didn’t think so much as I did. And that’s what was exhilariting. This time around, I’m running into the same roadblocks as before; my caring leads to self-censorship, which leads to less risk-taking and has left me feeling rather bland. Not to mention my general anxiety’s been acting up in the form of sleepless nights and haunting dreams. To some (I’m pointing at my former psychiatrist and psychologist), this may come off as bipolar. Hell, I just may be mad. I’m willing to admit that. I’ll concede on that point. But I’d rather be creatively mad than artistically bland. And I’d rather hang around the slightly mad and insane, those touched by fire, who keep you mentally on your feet and physically out the door. They inspire and require action, instead of planning and contemplating. Who is that who said “God laughs at men who makes plans?” By Jove, those Jews just may be onto something. Not that plans don’t have their place. But one could spend an eternity planning and daring to eat a peach while the moment passes by

Oh fuck, I just realized perhaps that’s the meaning behind Pound’s “Make it new.” To think, he and that silly maxim used to be my nemesis. I blame this entirely on my Modernism and Postmodernism class.

With all that said, in a curiously diatribing way: Bus, do your stuff. Never is not an option. Now let’s go play in traffic and see what happens (I’m kidding).

I like to pretend I’m not a competitive person, but underneath the smiles and joviality, there’s a mean competitive streak. Especially when I’ve adopted a cause. It becomes my child, so to speak, and like any parent I’m extremely protective. I want to see them do well. Here’s the deal:

Have you ever run into the Causes App on Facebook? No? Well go check it out. Right now, they’re running a contest in association with Parade Magazine and  the Case Foundation:  America’s Giving Challenge. The leading charity wins $50,000 dollars. I won’t say go and support a certain charity; instead I encourage you to find your own. But, while I’ve got your attention:

Every donation can change a life: $4 can prevent the transmission of HIV from mother-to-child; $60 can provide treatment to an HIV+ child for a year; $120 can provide treatment to an adult; $250 can send an HIV-affected student to school.

–http://www.faceaids.org

So, I’ll present two options: ‘FACE AIDS‘ or ‘Help Children Affected by HIV/AIDS (if the links don’t work, go to causes.com, and find either cause).

FACE AIDS has managed to raise $46K so far, while Help Children Affected by HIV/AIDS has raised only$1400 (rounded). You can decide.

And, while you’re at it, click on the sidebar to the right and help raise some money for DirectRelief through SocialVibe. (or if you’re viewing this somewhere other than my webpage, go to patrique.wordpress.com) My own personal contest still stands.

New advances are being made every day in HIV/AIDS research, and it’s possible that we may have a vaccine in our lifetime. I think children should definitely stand to benefit from the advances society has to offer. But I’ll get off my soap box.

If Obama can win a Nobel Peace Prize, and if someone can eventually get Jon and Kate 1) off of television or 2) reunited, then anything is possible. Go. Donate. Spread the word.

And, if you’re in the UGA-Athens area, I’ll be ‘Seizing the Airwaves’ for AIDS Athens from 1-2PM, courtesy of WUOG 90.5FM. But if you’re not in the area, just visit wuog.org and click on the listen live link on the right.

If you have lived fully, then you have no regrets, because you have done the best you can do. If you made lots of goofs– much better to have made lots of goofs than not to have lived at all. The saddest people I see die are people who had parents who said ‘Oh, I would be so proud if I can say ‘my son the doctor.’ They think they can buy love by doing what mom tells them to do and what dad tells them to do. They never listen to their own dreams. And they look back and say, ‘I made a good living but I never lived.’ That, to me, is the saddest way to live.
– Elizabeth Kubler-Ross, “On Death and Dying“

In my short years on this planet, as a new soul in this very strange world, I’ve made plenty of mistakes. I’ve taken stratospheric chances and gotten abysmally messy, like a hog takes to mud. But without those mistakes I wouldn’t have learned, so I tend to view them as life-lessons. Still, my attempts to learn the ins and outs of life have sometimes affected other people. Bear with me.

After the Paris Debacle of 2006, I wanted to write a letter of apology to a teacher who helped me go there. Actually, I wanted to finish those classes, honor the commitments I made and get those grades; thinking accomplishing all of this would stand in place of an apology. My mom always taught me actions speak louder than words. But, my avoidant personality led me to avoid classes, renege on commitments, and at that point I decided I needed a complete break sabbatical from school. I needed time to figure myself out, and figure out this new me. I was still in the process of mourning for my old self, and trying to find out how to live as this new me. I think it’s safe to assume that the alter ego of Patrique was born in this process. On a cold fall night, I shed some tears and mourned for my old self. No candle. No ceremony. No fanfare (technically, there was a six-to-eight month period of fanfare, but that’s for another time). All the while, the guilt from my old self and the wake of destruction plagued me like a cancer eating away.

In addition to going cashless, I’ve been attempting to make amends to those I had wronged. Sort of a “My Name is Earl” type situation. In 2007, I sat down to write my letter of apology, and wrote about four pages. Old habits and fears flared up. I didn’t send the letter. Instead, I withdrew from school, yet again. I had fears of running into this teacher in the halls of Joe Brown and being stricken with a severe panic attack.

In the fall of 2008, I sat down, and wrote another four-page letter of apology. I had ample time on my hands, as I was bound to a PICC line for two weeks. A friend suggested steel condoms. I giggled. I pushed the letter of apology aside, and instead began visiting the past, to confront it and truly mourn. I poured over old journal entries, and crafted the story of when I received the ‘diagnosis.’ Now I had really begun to mourn. More importantly, I had finished working through the five stages of grief. It took five years; a year dedicated to each stage, but I had finally reached acceptance. I had begun the process of telling my closest friends in 2007. Each time, they cried and I wondered to myself ‘Why are they crying? I didn’t cry when I found out. I’m not sure I’m comfortable with all these emotions.’

In retrospect, they were mourning the old me and forging a new concept of who ‘Patrique’ is.  When I pushed that letter of apology aside, and wrote about my freshman year of college, I cried like I had never cried before. Not the sobbing hysterical kind of crying, but the silent tears that just wouldn’t quit. I had accepted reality and my new identity. I credit that moment, along with copious amounts of therapy, that allowed me to forge ahead and enter into something that resembles a relationship. Keeping it nameless helps us both to avoid heightened expectations. It also helps having someone to whom you can communicate fears, hopes and dreams, without the fear of judgment. Still, I had failed to apologize.

Yesterday, I was sitting in class and a classmate brought up this teacher’s name. Immediately I felt pangs of guilt. So, I did what I do best, and on the drive home pushed the thoughts out of my mind and focused on a letter I’d like to write to my future child (I’m fixated on the epistolary form). I got home, fell asleep, and had a fitful night with yet another dream where someone died. I woke up this morning to drive my younger brother to school, irritable from the lack of sleep. I came home and caught up on sleep. But still woke up irritable. I got on the treadmill; hoping exercise would provide the endorphins I no longer get from smoking. I turned on ‘What Hurts the Most’ and ‘Already Gone,’ hoping the music would stir some release inside of me. Nothing. And then, while reading for class, I realized what I was really irritable about. The fact that I still felt guilty, even though three years had passed.

My mom, in her infinite wisdom, told me that forgiveness isn’t done on the part of the forgiver but the forgivee. Acknowledging past wrongs. Hoping to make amends. Ultimately, putting ghosts to rest. My mom also told me, last week over lunch, that I tend to work on my own timetable but I usually get around to doing what needs to be done. I know that I’ll remain restless until I finally slip that letter of apology into that teacher’s mailbox. And that teacher may or may not forgive me, but I’ve done all I can. I will have acknowledged past wrongs, and will hope for a better relationship in the future. And also hope to not make the same mistakes, but make entirely new mistakes so I can write new letters of apology.

It’s a learning process, with a steep learning curve. So, I’m going to go back to avoiding reading Italo Calvino’s If on a Winter’s Night a Traveler, and whenever I need breaks from reading I’ll work on my letter of apology. And finally slip it into that teacher’s mailbox. Hope for the best. Put old ghosts to rest. And finally stop listening to Rascal Flat’s “What Hurts the Most” and Kelly Clarkson’s on repeat.