when i remember that i ought to forget those two and a half weeks

• you, standing next to my piano, pretending to peruse old photos on the wall
• grabbing gas station wine
• running for coffee and Hannaford muffins
• smoothing white sheets and white sand and rubbing white sunscreen into our tanning backs
• letting our waitresses and the coffee girls and that sexy artist believe we were a couple from "The City" on holiday
• your fingers tickling the air when you talk
• acknowleding my stony disappointment when you talked about your four-year-long Him
• hating/needing/loving that final dinner together (thank you, Subway) before your four-year-long Him showed up for the opening of our show
• smiling because you're a bitch-of-a-flirt (but so am i) even when your four-year-long Him is around
• trying to assuage your appalled frustration and eventual fuck-its when she re-clumped/re-staged/re-choreographed your show
• your teeth, lined up like tight soldiers
• your arms
• your red swimming briefs
• you
• being late to "lobstah" dinners and being okay with being tardy
• neither of us stopping the rumors that we were show-mancing each other
• letting the rumors fuel fiery undercurrents
• trying to convince myself to keep a difficult boundary
• you, not letting anyone else sit next to me when we all went to the beach to watch 4th-of-july fireworks
• me, not letting anyone else to sit next to you when we all went to the beach to watch 4th-of-july fireworks
• acknowledging i'd let myself have my first crush without feeling any sort of guilt or fear or self-condemnation
• you, telling me i was the only "option" you would've pursued
• me, wishing i could have talked myself into yielding
• now, glad i didn't yield
• missing you so much more than i expected i would
• arguing with myself each time we've communicated since you left
• looking at some lessons learned
• knowing that even though i tripped in the water and probably broke my foot, this day was one of the best and happiest days of my life.  #becauseiknewyou

  

Young Women Lessons, or How I Bawled Out a Bunch of Pre-Teens

Sam and I decided we'd go to an improv show a few Friday nights ago. It was going to be the show's 6th or 7th anniversary show, so we thought we'd better get there early to save a spot in the line. We thought right. Excitement pulsed through the line as we anticipated the show. The line snaked through a large room and people started crowding into each other as the room in which we were standing filled with sweaty, excited people. We are not going to lose our place, I thought. "Sam," I said (loud enough for the people in front of, beside and behind us could hear) "make sure you stay right behind our neighbors." He looked around, his eyes widened and gave me a look that read You're crazy if you think we're going to be in the same place when they open the doors, but nodded his head.

People rushed the door as soon as the ticket office lights were lit, and all seemed lost. I watched as the young men ahead of us speed-walked toward the ticket line, their smokey-eyed dates in grip and dragging behind them. I pulled some cash out of my wallet as we maneuvered through the throng, readying myself to make the ticket transaction as efficiently and quickly as possible--I really wanted to get to a good seat. We maneuvered through the throng of people and pretty much maintained our spot in line. It'll be fine, I thought. We're still pretty close to the front of the line. There aren't too many people who've butted in front of us. We'll get good seats. And then, I looked to my right. A group of about six pre-teen girls meandered and shuffled next to us, trying not to make eye contact with anyone. I wasn't sure where they had come from, but I knew they weren't anywhere near us in the earlier line. I got a little bitchy.

"Hey! You girls!" I pointed in their direction and shouted, relishing how quickly their quick-texting fingers stopped all movement, their mouths gaping from shock as I bawled them out. "What? You think that just because you're shorter than most of us your mom can drive you here five minutes before the show and you can sneak in here and butt in line in front of us when we've been waiting for a half an hour? Or more?!? I did not see you there five minutes ago. Not cool, ladies."

I'm not sure what scared them more, the fact that I'd called them on their complete disregard of ticket-line etiquette, or that I was a 25-year-old man yelling in registers that were higher than their 12- to 13-year old voices. They didn't move, except to look at one girl (I'm assuming their queen bee: their alpha female: that girl in every group of junior high girlfriends who intimidates the others with her hair, her clothes or her newly budded boobs and thus has the power to command, coerce, and connive against the others) and silently ask, Shit. What do we do now? Twilight didn't prepare us for this!!! I smirked at them and turned back around to talk with a chuckling Sam.

"Oh, Nic," he laughed, "I think you scared those poor girls more than you intended."

"Good," I retorted, "Maybe they'll learn their lesson."

I turned around to see their huddling shoulders. They looked a little more than intimidated, and I started to feel a bit bad about my outburst. "Ok girls, so here's the life lesson to be gleaned from tonight's run-in with me." They looked at me, horrified at what else I might do or say at their pride's expense. "You never, never, never cut in line in front of a gay boy, ok? We will call you on it every time. We're just that way."

They only responded with a few slight nods of their heads. I looked down at their young, awkward little selves. The make-up was a bit too brightly applied; the hair was in need of a bit more coiffing and smoothing; the clothes were a study in badly matched cuts and colors. I felt sad for them, but I knew there was hope. "Oh, and when you grow up and go to college, you'll love the gays: We'll help you pick out great shoes and clothes; we'll discuss whether or not your new haircut is right for you; and we'll always talk with you about the stupid boy problems you'll run into. You'll see: we're indispensable, even if we do call you out when you cut in line."

Their eyes lit up at my mention of "boy problems". They all circled around their queen bee and started up a chorus. "Oh! Oh! She's having boy troubles right now." "Help her! Help her!" "Tell us what to do to get him back!"

We were next in line to buy tickets. I turned around, cash in hand, and left them to figure out their own solution for their broken-hearted alpha. Sorry girls, I thought. You're not gonna get that lesson until you learn you don't cut in line.

The Beauty Is: Love is for Everyone

*My goal in writing this blog is to record the discoveries, the beautiful and transcendent events, transformations and tender mercies I find in life which lead me to greater good.  I do not wish to turn "flowers" into a "Gay Mormon"  or "Moho" blog, although those types of blogs have their place.  This post is a reflection on an experience which has fueled a lot of thought for me, and I'm sure posts on similar subjects will follow.  I'm not afraid, nor am I ashamed, but I do ask any Reader to read with love and empathy.


My university's musical theater department is putting on a production of Adam Guettel's The Light in the Piazza.  It's a beautiful story in which the main character (Margaret, a middled-aged mother from North Carolina) begins to see how love can make a person blossom as she witnesses the way her daughter (Clara, an innocent and beautiful young woman) grows when she falls in love with a young Italian man (synopsis here).

I've been brought on as the production's pianist.  Auditions and call backs were held about two weeks ago.  I was impressed with the exceptional level of talent and preparation that many fresh-faced and bright-eyed students brought to their auditions; I was also a bit unsure of how these young actors would be able to pull off characters who are 20+ years older than they.  I knew that when my friend, Kathy, entered the audition, she'd be sure to impress.  Kathy is a 40-something, conservative LDS woman, thoughtful and empathetic, and she has a fantastic soprano voice.  The only thing standing against her playing the role of Margaret was the fact that she's a voice major (read: not a musical theater major).  She gave a great audition and made both call backs, but didn't get the part.

We were talking in a hallway at school, just after auditions.  I was tired from having just sight-read what seemed like the entire American Musical Theatre Songbook for the past three hours, and I was hungry.  Kathy began a conversation I wouldn't quite realize I didn't want to have until it was too late.

"I learned a new phrase today," she said.

"Oh?" I queried.

"Yeah.  We were sitting outside auditions, talking about the characters.  The fact that Fabrizio is a tenor role came up and one of the girls said that whoever plays Fabrizio has to be able to 'keep his fruit in the fridge.'" Kathy giggled.  "I wasn't quite sure what she meant, but I thought about it for a minute.  And then, I got it!"

"Ah, that age-old stereotype that every tenor is a gay man, and Fabrizio is a straight role" I rolled my eyes and smiled.

"Yes, that." Kathy said.  She paused for a moment, and then went on.  "You know, they don't have to be gay."

Oh, shit, I grumbled inside myself.  I don't want to have this conversation with you right now.  Deflect Nic!  Deflect!

"Oh, I think that depends on who you're talking to, Kathy," I shrugged.

"No," she posed.  "It's a choice they can make.  We all have to make tough choices.  Why do they think they have to be gay?"

Now let me tell you, I love Kathy.  She is a dear, dear friend, but I was incredibly stunned and hurt by what she was saying.  I wanted to tell her that -- having discussed the very topic of whether or not anyone "chooses" to be gay with self-identified gay men and lesbian women, and also being a gay man myself -- I know that sexual identity is not a choice.  True, identifying one's self as gay, lesbian, bisexual or transgendered is a choice of recognition and reconciliation with one's self, but the attractions which lead any human being to identify as GLBT is not.  Coming out is a very delicate, difficult process (that action deserves a series of posts in and of itself), and I commend anybody who finds the courage to do it.

For my own reasons, I decided to withhold the disclosing of my sexual preference from Kathy.  It wasn't imperative.  We work regularly together in a variety of musical settings, but I don't believe I'll have much need of sharing any information about possible significant others with her.  I said something about needing to heat up some food and get my blood sugar back in balance and I left, agitated and upset.

Perhaps playing Maragaret would have lead Kathy to make discoveries about why it is we love, and why we must give everyone the room and space to love whoever it is they love.  Perhaps I should have used the conversation in the hall to give Kathy a larger vision of what is "right" and what is "wrong."  Maybe, like Margaret's character, Kathy would have have the epiphany that LOVE IS FOR EVERYONE.  I'm sorry she didn't get the role, and feel a little regret that I didn't say anything more.

"Love if you can, oh my Clara!
Love if you can, and be loved--"

May we all come to that kind of understanding.

Cabaret Night

My best friend, Corey, sent me a text last weekend, "Hey, my plans fell through this evening.  Are you doing anything tonight?"  I smiled and rolled my eyes, trying to remember who it was he was supposed to be going out with that night, but he has too many admirers to keep straight.  Nice, I thought, a bit ascerbically. I really just love being the back-up plan when his dates cancel.  Rehearsals had gone long that Friday afternoon and I hadn't had any food; I was in a sour mood.  "I'm going to Cabaret Night tonight.  A few of my friends will be in the show.  You're more than welcome to join me," I texted back.  "Meet me around seven."

I was late meeting him, as I usually am.  He was waiting, smirking as I got out of my car, rushed and flustered and carrying an empty Arby's sack.  I offered my apologies, "Sorry I wasn't here right on time.  I had to grab a bite to eat."  We ran inside, payed the suggested donation and waited outside the door until we heard applause after the first performance.  After entering the room, we scouted out a couple of chairs on the back row and sat ourselves down.

We enjoyed the numbers, gasping with delight when Kaylyn sang Sunday in the Park with George; clamping our hands to our hearts as Angela belted about leaving the schmuck she'd been wintering with; sighing as Cameron sang a lovesong from Adam Guettle's Myths and Hymns; and getting "the church giggles" as Liz milked it like crazy in "The Alto's Lament."  I was as impressed my friends' performances as I've ever been, and I quite liked watching Corey's varied reactions to the powerhouse talent at Weber State.

"And now, for something a bit out of the ordinary," Gregory, our MC for the night, introduced the next performer.  "Please welcome Harrison to the stage as he performs a dance piece he choreographed."

I wasn't quite sure what to expect.  Now, in the kindest way possible, Harrison is just not always someone I understand, and I was a little embarrassed for him as he bumbled along, setting up his CD player at the front of the room.  Isn't that a little tacky? I wondered.  Bringing your own CD player onstage?  That should've been set up before the show--

"Um.  So okay, guys.  This is a dance choreographed to Ingrid Michaelson's 'Men of Snow,'" Harrison announced.  "I'd just like to thank you guys for allowing me a venue to perform this in."  Oh, our Utah grammar makes itself known, I silently chided.  Someone should tell him it's "a venue in which to perform."  My sense of smug, snide superiority sometimes worries me.  I thought, I'm a bitch.

And then the music began--

Once I made a man all out of snow
He had the darkest eyes and a button nose
I told him all my sadness and my fear
And he just listened with a snowy ear...

And Harrison danced.  Beautifully.  With a snowman he created in the air.  He looked so happy to be dancing with this invisible man of snow we all could see.  He used such long, lyrical movments in connection with short, sharp, almost seizing guestures.  I was taken aback, and I coudn't take my eyes off him.

But when I came around the next day
My friend had gone and melted all away
I saw his eyes lying on the ground
And I made a sound that was something like crying

We watched as Harrison bent down and picked up the snowman's eyes, shock and fear filling his own.  He continued to repeat those siezing guestures as he moved and circled across the floor.  I imagine it was his way of expressing the ceaseless question of "Why?  Where did you go?"

Oh one day you will go away from this
Oh one day you will know we're men of snow
We melt
One day

I heard that lyric in the chorus, "you will go away from this," and I thought of Grandma.  I wasn't prepared for the ache in my throat which was the ache in my soul which was witnessing the poignant beauty and sorrow in life and death expressed in dance.  I tried to keep my composure, but my tears started to fall.  I continued to watch Harrison dance, safe with the belief I'd just cry quietly and no one would notice.

Ingrid sang the last verse, telling us that "...It won't really matter when we disappear."  There is a slight break in the music before the last chorus.  The chorus, accompanied by strings and a choir of voices, rises up the scale and crescendos beautifully.  I rose with with it, and Harrison's choreography became such an active evocation of passion and grief -- so much honest movement.

Then, the piano played its motive, passing the song to the strings and chorus.  He stopped dancing.  He heaved his shoulders and sighed the heaviest, saddest sigh.  He stayed there for the remainder of the song, on one side of the stage, staring down at the floor, where a man of snow once stood.  The image was too much.  I broke.  I sobbed.  I tried to ignore the fact the the people on either side of me (one of whom was my dear Corey) were concerned at my emotional purge.

I left during the applause and found the nearest bathroom and wept and wept and wept.  I knew that Corey, kind friend that he is, would be coming to find me if I wasn't back by the next number (and he later told me he was considering doing that very thing), so I took time to compose myself and then went back to see the rest of the show.

I love the theater because it does that sort of opening-up-thing to you when you're least prepared for--and when you're in most need of--being open up.  I wasn't even thinking about the deep, heavy parts of my life when I met Corey in the parking lot that night.  I was late and rushed and in a hurry to get inside and sit down and ride the wave of a light and entertaining show.  But Harrison's dance piece invited me to stop, take stock, and remember how to feel.  I'd sent my feelings on vacation for quite some time, but it was nice to have them back that night.  And every day since.

Thank you, Harrison, for reminding me that deep beauty can be found where you least expect it.