Young hearts

I read somewhere that you must do something that scares you everyday.

To me, that would be touching a pigeon or having a conversation with Linda Blair in her full The Exorcist make-up.

But I don’t think that’s what the author meant.

I suppose what he or she meant was, every day we need to push ourselves to step out of our comfort zone. Whatever that zone is. And in doing so, we quicken our heart and make it young again, if only for a moment.

When I was a kid, I took immense pleasure in trying new things. As a matter a fact, childhood is pretty much a long string of new things. That’s what makes it so intensely beautiful. We grow up and older, and new things are slowly replaced by familiar things, and though that’s quite all right, once in awhile, the child inside peeks out through our eyes and sighs, “Boring.”

That’s when you have to indulge her a little.

I was very afraid of going to London on my own, stepping up on stage to read in front of strangers. So much so that a few days before the event, I almost called it off.

But the little girl in me wanted to see about something…

The train trip went very well. Debra and her wife Karen were fantastic, warm, and so welcoming. I met readers there and shook their hands and took the time to speak with them. Sky Gilbert and Allison Wearing made me laugh and think sideways. They are both talented and lively. I read my work and connected with the audience.

I survived.

On the train ride back, I thought about the little girl who sometimes peers through my eyes and looks at this great big terrifying world…

What does she see in it?

Maybe she still sees possibilities. Happiness to be had. Maybe she allows herself to feel hope and excitement about the future.

Maybe she even believes in it.

Hm. Maybe.

I closed my eyes and listened to the -thump-thump-thumping of the train…

Time keeps on slippin’ into the future…

Okay, so I quit smoking. HOLY SHIT. I never thought I’d do it. I always thought I’d be like my dad and smoke with resentment until forever and a day. I can’t believe I haven’t smoked for three weeks.

I’m never going back there again. I was a slave to it. It decided where I sat, walked, hung out.

I was so scared of quitting. I was afraid I’d learn something about myself I wasn’t prepared to face: that I couldn’t do something I set my mind to and I preferred living with the heart palpitations, headaches, weak lungs, than to fail at trying to quit.

I don’t know what happened this time. I don’t know why I was able to do it. But I guess I chose door number two this time around. I’ve spent the last decade thinking about my mom dying so young and in the back of my mind, I thought, “that’s how I’ll go too” and I kept staring down that door, counting the years to 46, almost resigned to my fate. And then, a person that has a lot of power over me still drew some tarot cards for me and it was intense and I quit the next day.

Which means, I’ll be around a little longer to write and pester you all.

On another note, I’m taking a long train ride to London–Ontario Canada that is–for my first reading EVER. I’m shitting nails over this. I am so fucking terrified of sitting up there and reading but it’s too late and the people organizing the event are so sweet and kind to me, so I will not back out on them and I will not let my anxiety ruin this.

I’ll post some details if ever any of you are in the area and want to come celebrate Pride in London and get a signed copy of one of my books.

I don’t post often so I’ll throw one last thing out there. My new romance is coming out next year and I wanted to share the cover and blurb with you.

When Allan’s boyfriend leaves him for a younger man, Allan lets him go without a grudge. When his sister, Elsie, gets pregnant and ditched, he becomes her support system and father figure to his niece.  

Then, Elsie becomes engaged to Dayton, and Allan meets Dayton’s older brother, his new brother-in-law, Davinder—a fierce and exceptionally gifted artist with a thousand secrets breathing in his eyes.  Davinder is a married man and father of two young boys.  

From the moment they meet, and for over four decades, Allan and Davinder will walk along the edge of their secret lives, never allowed to push open the gates. And though their love is a head on collision, a meeting of the minds, a fusing of two lost souls, both men know, that it is also, and above all…Impossible.

Take good care everyone x

A sample of my new book, Into the flames…

I’ve never done this before, but I think this could give you an idea of the voice and tone and overall feel of my new book coming this August…Hope you like it.

The blurb:

There are those we’d run back into the flames to save.
Jamie spends his days counselling patients who suffer from anxiety disorders. To his patients, he is Dr. Jamie Scarborough—a brilliant psychiatrist. Yet secretly, Jamie is losing his own battle against an acute panic disorder. Ever since Basil—his lover of five years—left him, Jamie has been in misery. Still hopelessly in love, he’s faced with a choice: heal or lose Basil for good.

Then after a particularly revealing session with Dance Young—Jamie’s most challenging patient—Dance disappears without a trace. For the last two years, Jamie has been trying to crack the compulsive liar’s hard candy surface, but to no avail. When Dance’s identical twin, a trans woman who calls herself September, comes out of seclusion to ask for his help, Jamie can finally shed light on the Young twins’ tragic past. But as he and September begin to collect the pieces of their dismantled lives, a few streets away, captive of a mentally unstable firefighter, Dance is fighting for his own life. And to find Dance, Jamie will have to confront all of his monsters…

Including those he unknowingly helped create.

The excerpt:

Jamie sat in his leather armchair, cross-legged, studying Dance Young’s ravishing, but well-hidden face. “How long has she been this way?” he asked the boy.
They’d been discussing Dance’s sister for nearly twenty-minutes, but Jamie had yet to understand what the urgency was. September was moody, Dance explained. Perhaps depressed.
They weren’t getting anywhere. The only thing the boy seemed to be interested in, was the plate of falafels Marie-Miel had had the presence of mind to offer him. Dance ate with a voracious appetite, forgetting to chew.
“You mean, anorexic?” Dance asked, his mouth packed with the last of the meal.
Jamie stole a look at his notes. He’d jotted nothing about an eating disorder. “You didn’t use that word.” He uncrossed his legs and leaned in to gather the empty plate. Dance had practically licked it clean. “Is this your diagnostic or―”
“It doesn’t take a medical degree to figure my sister out.”
“I see.” Jamie rose and brought the plate to the sink. “And how about you? How are you doing?”
Dance burped into his fist and flashed a smile. Killer, of course. The boy was as slick as black ice. “I’m just dandy, Doctor. How you been? By the look of your hands, you’re still trying to catch up to Howard Hughes.”
Jamie decided to let that one go. Though Dance made an effort to come off as nonchalant, his body language told a different story. He’d never seen Dance so fidgety. The food had been a temporary distraction, but now that there was nothing to keep Dance’s hands occupied, he was beginning to chew his nails.
“Not in a retaliative mood, Doctor?” Dance leaned back into the seat, cap pulled down low over his steely eyes.
Jamie seated himself in his chair once more. He hadn’t used the hand sanitizer since their session began and he planned on staying clear from it, though subtly, intrusive thoughts tickled the side of his mind, making it difficult to focus. “Have you been sleeping well?” he asked Dance, determine to steer the boy back to their on and off therapy. He’d been seeing Dance Young for close to two years, one of the dozen cases he took for the Bunker, pro bono, but he knew little of Dance still. The boy’s file was the size of a phone book, yet, all of the information Jamie had collected on the elusive liar was irrelevant. This case was a challenge, and though Jamie tried to convince himself that he was wasting his time, he relished the idea of cracking Dance’s hard candy surface.
“My sister needs help,” Dance said, dodging another question. “And I think you’re the only one who can help her.”
Flattery was also one of Dance’s gifts. Jamie had fallen for it on numerous occasions, but not today. “If your sister suffers from an eating disorder, I’d be happy to refer her to―”
“Forget the eating disorder, okay?” Dance sat up straight, flustered. “You specialize in Post-Traumatic Stress and anxiety disorders, and that’s what my brother has.” Dance eyed him furiously, his gaze blazing under the long bangs. “So, are you gonna hear me out here?”
“First, you should start by getting the facts straight, no? One moment you say sister, the next he’s your brother. Which one is it exactly?”
Dance darted his stare to the floor, nibbling his lower lip. “September was my brother for a few years, and now he’s my sister.”
Jamie remembered the timbre of September’s voice. “I think I understand,” he whispered, relaxing back into his chair. Dance was telling the truth on this one. Or some of it. “Dance, I still don’t think I’m the right man for this case. I don’t deal with gender disorders either.”
“She doesn’t have a fucking gender disorder.”
“I don’t mean to offend you. That’s the clinical―”
“You’re not listening to me,” Dance snapped, sweeping his hat off. He was truly breathtaking, with finely chiseled features, almost feminine. “September’s problem isn’t in her shorts. It’s the eating disorder. She needs to talk to someone about how much she hates herself.” His voice sunk. “And me.”
“Why do you think she hates you so?”
“Search me.” Dance shrugged again. Typical adolescent behavior. The boy refused to grow up.
Jamie decided to try another approach. “If I agree to see her, I would be going out of my way for you. Have you seen my waiting room? Taking on another patient, with the complexities this case seems to―”
“You want me to suck your dick.”
Jamie’s jaw unhinged, and for a moment, his tongue sat useless in his mouth. “There’s no call for that,” he said at last. “You don’t need to insult me.” He clung to the note pad, hoping he’d have the self-restraint not to throw it at Dance’s cocky face.
“How’s me asking if you want me to give you head, insulting?”
“Because, all I’ve been with you, is cordial and professional, and bringing this conversation down to that level is not only insulting, but completely detrimental to your emotional health.”
Dance processed the words silently.
“All right,” Jamie said. “Permit me to be frank.” Gently, he set the note pad down on the coffee table. “We’ve been going through the steps of this very well executed choreography for nearly two years, and I think it’s safe to say we’ve reached a plateau. You either decide to commit to this―”
“I know what you want and I’m gonna give it to you if you help my sister.” Dance flipped his cap back on. “That’s what I’m trying to tell you. But you don’t listen.”
“And what is it that I want?” Jamie smiled, though he was not at all amused.
Dance held his probing stare, his gray eyes, unreadable. “You want a backstage pass to my mind.”
The boy’s challenging manner, his well chosen words, all of it, sent a jolt of excitement through Jamie, even as he tried to keep his face neutral. Yes, a peep inside.
It could be no less than fascinating.
“So, if you help my sister, if you call her tonight and make her come here to see you, and I don’t give a shit how, I’ll come here every week, sit in this ugly, uncomfortable, tacky vintage chair and tell you every thing you wanna know.”
No. Out of the question. It was against his oath. He could not lure a patient using another as bait. Heart racing, Jamie watched the fantastically complicated young man sitting across him.
“Come on, Doctor Scarborough, you might be my sister’s only chance.”
Inside his pocket, Jamie’s fingers pressed the bottle of sanitizer hard up against his palm. “I want you to send me an email,” he said. “I’ll need as much information as you can give me on September.”
“I don’t have a computer.”
“Then go to the library.” Jamie rose, his legs wobbly. A mistake. This was a mistake. “And make sure you don’t leave anything out.” He looked down at the boy.
Dance’s eyes flickered, and he nodded. “Deal.” He got to his feet and tucked his notebook deeper into the waist of his tattered jeans. “
“And I want to read that as well.”
Dance winked, regaining his usual caustic way. “Maybe later.” He moved to the door, leaving Jamie, flushed and confused. What had he just agreed to?
“Oh and Doctor,” the boy said, plucking the door open, “I wouldn’t have sucked your dick. I’m straight.”

As I lay here living

I see things I want to change but change is collective and the collective escapes me.

I find the things I need are the things I already have, but having is barely enough when wanting gains ground everyday.

I hear music I could write if I knew how.

I resist the rat race whilst it shoves me around with a force cool as a berg and as subtle.

I grab for things one buys with money yet despise every thing currency touches.

I read a book every other day but struggle with writing a good sentence–a sentence that does not come from Ego but from a place that lives only if others acknowledge it.

I love fiercely, with pride and greed, yet know love is a bird whose wings beat faster than my human heart.

I have ambitions the height and width of a Mountain and emotions deep as the shadow it casts.

I have doubts planted in a soil which was tended by others while I was not looking.

And what I know is already changing as I type these lines.

But I am a girl and you are a boy and I love you. And if you were a girl I would love you too.

That is all the truth I need today.

 

Hello again

Forgive me Father Internet.

It’s been 10 months since my last blog entry. 

Since then a lot has happened. It’s been one of those years. My first novel, Split was well received, now nominated for a Lambda award…So I am going to NYC for the first time since I was eleven years old. I don’t even have my passport yet, but it’ll work out. I’m on it. My last book, Franky gets real, is also doing well and is nominated for a Foreword review award. 

Very encouraging and exciting, but I’m still broke. Still struggling with writing a new novel.:-) 

This year, I began volunteering again, and now give some of my spare time to different places, one of them being a crisis centre here in Montreal’s Queer village. These experiences are slowly transforming me, heightening my sense of “others” and making me feel more connected to people. Yes, working on one novel after another, had turned me into a bit of a hermit. It was grand time to step out of my comfort zone. 

I’m trying to drink less and take care of myself. But,  it’s win some, loose some, on that end. 

I’m tackling my anxiety and social awkwardness, and scoring some points there. I’ve actually stopped wearing my earphones every time I step out…

No matter how many successes I had this year, I’m still hyper aware of eminent defeat and seem to measure losses before they even have a chance to happen. In truth, I am obsessed with my writing and can’t really let go. I suppose I will always feel like this and this is the nature of my beast.

Into the flames, my latest novel is coming out in August. It’s a thriller with a lot of romance in it, and one of the main characters is trans. I wrote this character, September Young, with as much sensibility and respect as I could, but can’t help wonder how the trans community will react to this character and her part in the story. If they react at all. You never know with a book. It’s a hit and miss most of the time. I’m learning that.

This year, it will be nine years that my partner and I are together. Who could have predicted that two bi people could stay together so long, right?:-) Tongue in cheek, of course.

Life is moving pretty fast for me these days, yet, everything feels a little out of reach. I’ve never even met any of my fellow writers and editors and the first time I come out “in public” is at the Lammys? I know promoting your work is just as important as anything, but I’m still way behind on that…

Because of my system of beliefs, I’m not on Twitter or FaceBook and this blog is my only contact with my readers.

So this year,  I promise to be more present here and let you in a little more. 

Today I am thinking of an Albatross and how clumsy it looks on the ground. Then, I see it soar through the blue, and I feel regret and delight–knowing beauty and strength can only be revealed through Freedom.

And I wonder if I’ve ever let anyone be free.

Truly and wholly. 

 

 

 

 

Type O. Type B. Type AB…Type Queer?

My mother died of Leukemia at the age of 46.  I was 22. After she passed, I promised myself I would give blood, but never did–too scared.

That was 11 years ago. Today, I kicked myself in the arse, put my game face on, and went to the local community center where they were holding a blood collect. I entered with much trepidation, but that nervousness quickly vanished as I was greeted by a group of charming senior citizen volunteers who immediately made me feel great about what I was doing for my fellow-man. Because in the end, that’s why I was there…To help save lives.

As was everyone there.

Well, there wasn’t that many “everyone” there. Just me and a couple more people–mostly older men and women. Where was my generation?

First, I had to fill out a very detailed questionnaire. By detailed I mean, highly personal questions followed by more embarrassing ones. Who’d I sleep with in the last 12 months? Have I used intravenous drugs? Have I ever been pregnant and if so, how did that pregnancy end: birth, abortion? Have I been to such and such country in the last 12 months? Have I ever paid for sex? Has anyone ever paid me for it? Have I ever slept with a man who may have slept with another man?

I don’t like answering these questions. It pisses me off.

But, I was willing to answer them because I wanted to fulfill my promise.

Why was I being asked all this?

What does it matter?

If you’re going to test my blood before you pump it into another human being, whom I presume is in dire need of it, and then proceed to test my blood for Hepatitis, HIV–all of the undesirables of the blood–why should it matter if I slept with a queer man or not? I’m here. I’m giving blood. Take it. Do what you want with it. I want you to put every drop of my blood under the microscope…Not my life.

Here are questions, which to me, would be deemed acceptable:

Are you HIV positive? Do you think you may be? Have you been practising safe sex in the last 12 months? Have you been tested for HIV? Do you use intravenous drugs?

If you answer no to all of these questions, you should be able to proceed. Of course, the blood is tested no matter what your answers are–as it should be. No one here is questioning that. At least, no willing blood donor.

Now, hear me out. If I slept with a bisexual man or paid an escort for sex, but practiced safe sex on both occasions, got tested diligently and was given a clean bill of health, what does that make my blood?

It makes it life saving blood.

There are risk groups/factors, I agree, but within those risk groups there are plenty of no risk donors. By rejecting these people on the basis of their sexual partners, and not their actual BLOOD, which if I remember correctly, is what the whole blood collect is about, we are cutting out a HUGE group of willing and healthy donors.

They took my blood today–I was considered low risk. Lucky me. Lucky you. Lucky everybody.

I left the place with a pamphlet and a sore arm. As I stepped out, I turned back and saw the line of old people waiting to give blood–bless them all–but, it occurred to me as I scanned the room for a young face–I didn’t have to ask where my generation was.

I guess my generation isn’t very low risk.

It’s definitely a queerer generation and if Héma-Québec doesn’t adjust to that reality, soon, their 3% donor population will dwindle to nothing.

Malcolm X and the power of humility

In the last days, I was immersed in the autobiography of Malcolm X as told to Alex Haley.

I finished the book this morning, but of course, the book is far from being finished with me.

I won’t attempt to review the work or even lay out a chronological line of the events that spun from this man’s immense, untamable, and fierce energy–to do so would reduce Malcolm X’s life to something which has a beginning, a middle, and an end.

Amongst all the facts and details revealed in this work, I found myself trying to relate to him. I read passages, scanning the emotional horizon for a shared sun. I’d ask myself, “Have I ever felt this way?” or “Am I as smart as this man?” or even, “Do I have that kind of dedication when I believe in something?”

The more I read, the more I regressed to teenagehood. Nothing felt the same anymore. I watched the world through black colored glasses. It was a little like the first time I discovered the “queer” dimension and from then on, began to peel away the layers of myself and the images, music, media around me, searching for that pink or purple spot which would tell me that this or that was really not what it seemed. The deeper I got into Malcolm X’s psyche, the more I lost any sense of being a white girl from the burbs and turned into some kind of radical groupie. I’m telling you, I was close to framing a picture of him and hanging it on my bedroom wall so that I could prostrate before it in the morning. Facing East of course.

So what was it in that book, that life, that man that robbed me of my middle and threw me into my extremes? Why am I so dramatically attracted to the men and women who walk the edge?

I crave that cleanliness. At the edges, everything is always sharper and ideas lose their blubber–that gelatinous substances which often coats our mind. They are the sinewy body cut out of the stone. I can only begin to think when I begin with the most extreme of a thought and then, I work my way away from the marrow, into the flesh. Does that make me a radical at times? I would say in the gestation phase of my ideas, yes. But give me some time and I will meet you somewhere in the middle.

However the writers, thinkers, activists, scientists, philosophers I seem to be drawn to, are not the kind of people we would call “people pleasers”. They haven’t made their name by kissing babies and flashing smiles. Their words are not warm and fuzzy, nor are they comforting and duping. Does that make them true?

Not always, but it does make their words clear. And that’s a good starting point.

Ayn Rand, Malcolm X, Irshad Manji, Yeshayahou Leibowitz, Jon Rappoport, to name a few, are all people who have voiced very drastic philosophies/ideas on very very contreversial subjects: religion, capitalism, sexuality, feminism, racism, etc. And these are men and women I admire, but more than that, these are people I respect. But being the excessive girl that I am, I tend to soak up their ideas like a child does maple syrup, and while I am reading their work, one could begin to worry about me–if one doesn’t know me. Those who do, will listen to my long, winded tirades on whatever subject I am reading at the time and will not fret when I begin to speak of various quotes I intend on tattooing upon different body parts as soon as I have the money. If I am not thinking of becoming a Muslim, I am debating on entering the police force, or even pursuing a degree in Political Science…Or maybe joining the Anarchist movement in Montreal and STIRRING SOME SERIOUS SHIT with the powers that be.

It’s the Aquarius in me. Or something.

Then the Pisces in me bubbles up and I decide to take a nap instead. Oh yes, but I dream violent dreams. Not senselessly violent. Just violent enough to keep me alive when I open my eyes.

As long as there is breath in me, I will never stop thinking. I will never stop questioning. I will never go with the flow or get in bed with the majority (no matter if they may be right) and I will never ever ever stop changing my mind.

That is the one thing I admire the most about Malcolm X AKA Detroit Red. That is the beauty of his legacy. In the end, after every thing he had said with such conviction, after believing all of those ideas for such a long time–ideas which made him and elevated him, in the end yes, when it was time for him to face down those ideas and see them for what they were, he had the humility and GREAT intelligence to admit that he had been wrong on some levels.

And he changed his mind.

Can you imagine a world where our leaders could step up to the podium, stare down the microphones and flashing lights, and then admit they made a mistake, that they may have been wrong, and that they would like to explain anew their position on this or that bill. Can you see the power of humility?

I believed Malcolm X when he spat out the cutting words, “white blue-eyed devils”. And I believed him when he later said that he had gone to the Mecca and experienced spiritual enlightenment during his pilgrimage to this Holy Place–that he had seen the errors in his thinking and could explain them to himself and to the world. I believed him, because everyday, I have at least a hundred contradictory emotions and thoughts.

You can change your mind and still be coherent.

You can kneel and ask for Forgiveness, yet still remain Proud.

I suppose, if being a radical thinker means simply having radical, vastly unpopular ideas or opinions on sensitive subjects for the mere sake of shaking up the system or firing up the masses, then I am not a radical thinker. However, if it means having radical ideas which are born organically, deep within one’s own cerebral womb and not surgically implanted by a particular group, person, or work–if it means having these ideas while still remaining open to the possibility that they may be flawed or even wrong, and furthermore, if it means, developing these ideas knowing that at any time, you may have to readjust your thinking and change your course, then yes, I am, a radical thinker. And I have been holding back sometimes. I’d like to stop doing that.

Yes, I have rather uncommon views on marriage, sexual identity/gender issues, child care, the environment, immigration, globalization, capitalism, monogamy and culture media. Often, I chastise myself for having these ideas, and too often, I uproot the idea right out of its soil before it has time to bloom.

But really, how can one witness the complete form of anything if one does not allow anything to reach maturity?

Only then, can one decide if the idea is ugly but comestible, or simply beautiful but poisonous.

I feel you

I sit in my seat, book in hand, earphones safely pushed in, music blaring, leaning as far as I can from anyone–eyes anywhere but on any particular face. Subway, one pm.

I spend much time on my own. It is my nature and it is also the pitfall of the writer’s life and those two things are the same. So, when I am out and about in the city, ripped away from my comfort zone, I have to fight the clammy hands, irregular pulse and all the beautiful symptoms of mild social phobia. Yet, I crave crowds, strangers, unfamiliar settings, incomprehensible conversations–those things feed me. They populate the ever changing landscape of my fertile mind. It is the contraction that I seek. I dislike most people, but I love them deeply.

Sitting yes, in the metro. Book in hand still.

A blond seats herself next to me. She smells like old cigarettes and the cheap version of Anais Anais. The dollar store kind. I recognize it because I sampled it last weekend. I read on. I am reading A gun for sale by Graham Greene. The song is Coming Home from Shilling. The blond touches my knee with her wrist. I try not to mind. She begins to fidget. I tone down my energy. I try to ease down in my seat. I want her to think I am friendly and not minding of her constant moving.

I look out the black window and see the tunnel racing by. I see my eyes as well. Brown and watching.

The blond is now stretching her arms, bending the elbows and then stretching again. She leans over to touch her ankles. Stretches again. Perhaps she is a dancer and I will see her on a poster one day. I smell her body odor when she lifts her arms. I try not to mind.

My stop is five minutes away. She is still stretching and bending and twisting. I turn the music on louder and read the same sentence for the third time.

Why is she moving so much? Am the cause of this discomfort? Am I sending her waves of disapproval? I shift–very very slowly–in my seat, slipping my leg closer the other. I am in pain from squeezing my thighs shut and away from hers. I am sealed into myself.

She is stretching more violently now. She is mumbling. I know it. I can’t hear it but out of the corner of my eye, I see her mouth–chapped lips and lined–moving.

And I turn my head ever so slightly to catch her face. It is hidden behind gigantic rip off Gucci eyeglasses and a pale blue scarf which loosely drips over her sweaty brow.

She sees me looking and my heart cramps up. I dart my eyes away. The tunnel is gone.

The blond moves but with more care.

Two more stops for me.

I stare at her hands. She won’t see me staring at her hands. They are weathered and her index and middle finger are stained yellow. They are not girl’s hands. They are boy’s hands.

The boy moves in his seat as he if he is speaking to me through jerks and spasms. Saying, “I am jonesing. I am riding the train to my next hit. I am trying not to come apart.”

My throat is tight. I want to touch his boy-girl hand and ask him to try to live without death.

For a moment, he is still.

My stop.

I stand and gently move past him. I want to look at him.

I don’t.

He knows that I’ve seen everything.

Do you really want to hurt me? Do you really want to make me cry?

What can you say to someone in the name of honesty?

What latitude can you allow yourself?

Lately, (in my personal life) I have been on the receiving end of the honesty stick and I am still limping around from its blows.  And it’s made me reassess the subtle variants–nuances if you like–of this wonderful trait we all seek, both in people and in ourselves.

The H-Bomb.

Ask around and you may be surprised to find out that most people will gloat about their “straightforwardness” , their “no bullshit attitude”, their “tough love approach”, etc. Then, poke around a little inside their current relationships and you will often discover many bruised, angry, guarded, weary, defensive, confused, and dejected people. Sisters who watch the phone ring when the “honest” person calls. Friends who cringe at the thought of having to spend another evening with the “straightforward” person. Colleagues who’d rather eat ramen noodles, sealed into their cubicles, than sit across this “tough love pusher” in the office cafeteria.

And of course, confront the “honest” person and she or he will vehemently defend his reckless verbal abandonment he or she calls “telling people what they need to hear.”

They are doing us all a service. They are being altruistic. They are telling you and me what we don’t know about ourselves.

They are doing us a favor.

They are telling us THE TRUTH.

Oh yeah? Well, in the words of Garth, “Squeeze me? Bacon powder?”

What truth would that be? Do these people have copyrights on Truth?

I think not.

When a person close to you hurts your feelings and belittles you–all in the name of HONESTY–they are not being frank for your sake.

They are being rude. Period.

So, am I advocating sugar coating here? Fuck yeah. Life is hard enough, ugly enough, complicated enough for everyone. And we all have our own very very critical voice inside our heads. We need our friends and family to help us rise above ourselves and our faults, but need them to do it with care and sensibility.

Diplomacy is not a weakness. It is a sign of great emotional maturity.

Come here, 2011.

What color are 2011′s eyes?

Dark and fiery, like roasted coffee beans soaked in Sambuca liquor.

And what kind of face does the year put forth?

A brave face. Weathered, but handsome all the same. Fine wrinkles here and there. It’s earned its dues. It isn’t the face of a child, no. This face has battled the elements. This face has got some mileage on it.

And its mouth? Does this year promise supple lips and bubble gum breath?

No, this year won’t kiss you on the mouth. At least, not until you’ve given yourself to it.

What kind of lover is 2011 then?

The kind of lover who rips your clothes off, breathing insanely erotic words into your ear, and then, takes a phone call.

Will you throw your shoe at it and walk away? Or will you lay back, light a cigarette and wait for it?

Who knows, this year may surprise you.

Good bye broken-hearted, blue-eyed 2010.

2011 is here.

This year is high maintenance. This year doesn’t have time for complaints. This year knows what it wants and how to get it from you.

Now, all you need to do, is make this year come, and then go.

And maybe then, you’ll be happy once more.