Your Life Now
New York. May 2012
There you are. Finally. For all to see. Like bumping into you in the street. That’s how it felt. But you were where we met…virtually…on the internet.
Peony, the rain, the winsome songs.
If we had bumped into each other in the street, I think I would have felt the same. I left the page with a sweet smile on my face. I felt proud of you. I know how exciting life must be for you. And if I had bumped into you in the street and you had told me that you were in love…inevitably you wanted me to know that you were in love and inevitably I crumbled.
I am indeed that cliché you despised so badly. 😉
I called Robby and he listened. I called Joan and we looked into your life and we all agreed that it was swell.
The end of the film needs rewriting. All the world can see your love. Ironic huh? Now you know how I felt when I wanted to publicly celebrate what we once had, when I wrote about us.
There you are, together…pressed together. In love. You looked great. Your hair well cut, your pants the right length. Your boy friend looks extraordinary and familiar. Celine is a great brand. I know you didn’t put that Tumblr page up for me but you knew I would see it. You knew I’d have an opinion.
It was a perfect way to let me know.
If we hadn’t ended things so badly and we’d met in the street…I would have hugged you. I would have thanked you. I would have smiled gently. I may have shed a tear. I loved you very much…you know that. But, we knew what we had was fleeting…needed to happen for you to set yourself free, free for this relationship that you celebrate so publicly today.
The metamorphosis is complete and you have emerged fully into the world…a beautiful young man capable of great love and glamor…and your underwear was chic as all hell.
I know that you will make something amazing one day…something I would have never guessed. A film or a book or a room or a garden. You are capable of all those things.
Of course I still love you. But not like that. This is all I ever wanted, to know you are happy and to share your happiness
By publishing your life so publicly I am relieved…even though I cried, I cried because you were there on the street telling me what I needed to know.
That you are happy and in love and…of course…beautifully dressed.
PS I bought the book.
The weeks and the months pass by.
Since my release from the county jail, life has become…tranquil…passes effortlessly…with relative ease.
I imagine this is what Percocet feels like?
I have settled back into my life but scarcely write about it.
The twins are living here with their friend Kevin. They move out on the 26th. We cook, we prepare good food. We eat at the table, we use the linen napkins before they are packed up or sold.
They drink red wine from crystal glasses they have no idea are as valuable as they are.
I know that these formal dinners are at odds not just with these youth but with all youth.
I am trapped in another universe, insensitive to their discomfort. They have no use for anything I know.
I am not sad. All I have to do is re-imagine life in jail and I am delivered from self-pity.
I have tried going back to AA but I’ve no stomach for it, nor the people. I am done with AA in LA. It’s over. Over.
Occasionally I have to go back to court and they hand me more papers to add to the huge stack I already have on my desk.
You can feel that neither the judge nor the DA has the enthusiasm for the case now I am not incarcerated.
Certainly, with the serious press and the ACLU in pursuit of answers re. my illegal incarceration and with a huge law suit in the offing…I can’t imagine that it’s party time at the DA’s office when they mention my name.
Anne Marie the special DA looked positively miserable when we saw her yesterday. Her hair looked good tho. Nicely quaffed and bouncy.
She was wearing a very chic black, cashmere coat belted at the waist with dramatic lapels and long hem line.
I was a bit hard on her in earlier blogs. She is prettier than Michelle Bachman.
I am most eager to go to court. To clear my name. To start the law suit against the realtor who started all this mess.
I am not allowed to sue him whilst we are in this criminal tangle. That’s the law…apparently.
Yet, even that may be taken out of my hands by HSBC, my lender.
The twins birthday on Monday. They will be 22 years old. Remember last year? How they bounced down stairs in the morning and sang Dave Mathews songs?
I met Miles when he was 19.
Robby has fallen for someone and my surrogate child spends nights on end away from the house with his new love.
I want him to be safe, he looks at me like I’m an idiot when I remind him to be true to himself.
Watching Robby grow into a fully formed young man, the young man he wants to be…not who I want him to be.
He reminds me of another young man who liberated himself from the closet not so long ago. Before my very eyes.
There are so many similarities. Robby and Jake. But the outcomes are so different.
Again, I play over those past events. The events of that doomed love affair. Wishing I had done things differently. Wishing I could have helped rather than hindered.
The death of love.
Mostly, as Robby reveals who he is, I have the same feeling I had when Jake came out. That he shouldn’t be betrayed, that they wouldn’t make the same mistakes I made.
It was so hard to let him go.
Now I can’t even remember that he was beside me in Paris or London or New York…because, I suppose…he was a ghost or I was never truly allowed to enjoy our time together.
He was tortured by self doubt. Guilt.
Sometime, I wish I could call him and listen to his voice, listen to his loves and losses. How he has evolved.
Then, seconds later, I know that I don’t want to hear anything. That it would still be too painful. Isn’t that absurd?
We are strangers. We are strangers. We will remain forever…strangers.
If I had lived in NYC when I was seeing him things would have been different. We both needed continuity. The goodbyes destroyed me. Every time he said goodbye. I was bereft.
Well, that was then…but even so, just writing about him again…my whole body ached. He was consuming and passionate and never mine to have.
Meanwhile on twitter Roseanne and I have been publicly sharing our philosophies and mutual revulsion of the way things are. Two old people meeting in the virtual town square putting the world back together the way we think it should be.
I like Roseanne.
Tranny Hooker/Model Booker
Sitting in Ground Works coffee spot on Sunset with Kevin and Fielder yesterday. Eating a cheese Danish after my latest stint on the JVM show.
Alleged ‘Madame’, Anna Gristina has been locked up in solitary on Rikers Island, charged with a single count of prostitution. Held on an absurd $2million bail.
“It’s not about me; it’s bigger than me,” “They’re trying to sweat me out. They are clearly trying to break me.”
The self-described “hockey mom” and real-estate developer claims to have no idea why prosecutors are so intent on digging up dirt on those men – half of whom she said she knew as friends or business associates.
“I’d bite my tongue off before I’d tell them anything,”
Since my run in with the LAPD I know exactly how they try breaking their victims of choice. Can you believe that they tried forcing me sign a gagging order? As part of their ‘deal’ the DA tried to get me to sign a gagging order…
Obviously I won round 1 by getting myself out of jail.
The fight will get a great deal harder, nastier and…as I predicted…the Immigration Department are already trying to discredit me.
They already lied to the Newsweek journalist Christine P (a meticulous journalist with great sources) about my immigration status.
As I pointed out to her, even if I had been here illegally or ‘out of status’ the immigration department and the Sherrif’s Dept. are still obliged to follow rules and protocols.
As it happened, when I was arrested, I was neither here illegally nor was I out of status.
Kevin and I had lunch yesterday at the 101 Coffee Shop on Franklin. Delicious. We polished our ‘trans superhero’ idea.
By day Ricky is a model booker at LA Models. “Hello? Nordstrom? Yes, you got it.” However, by night, after the emergency call on his ‘weave phone’, he’s Tranny Hooker! Solving gay crime all over WeHo. Dressed in his bad wig, gold disco shorts, crop top and size 13 stilettos he flies (fueled by huge amounts of Tina) along Santa Monica Blvd, to The Abbey where he/she solves most of WeHo’s gay crime…
Mostly crimes against style, including badly cut pants, shopping at Vons and old men pawing mid-western model boys at their palatial homes in the hills…
There by the table I leapt up, over the blackened chicken sandwich, acting out Tranny Hooker’s flight through smoggy LA…just as Robby arrived.
Great being back on Jane’s show. Love CNN. Love the make up girls. Love the security guards…