Wasn’t sure what to call this one but kept coming back to something gravy. Either way, it’s long, so bear with me, as there was a lot to unpack.
Thank you for reading,
G.V
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Part two: Gobbled up by the gravy train
I didn’t know a thing about him except that he was handsome, charming, and not wanted at his parents’ home for Thanksgiving. Having spent many Thanksgivings apart from family, I knew the feeling of not wanting to be alone and needing to drum up some Friendsgiving activities for fellow orphans and people staying put. Freshman year of college, it didn’t make sense to go all the way home to Texas for both Thanksgiving and Christmas, plus my family didn’t have the money to spend. I stayed in New Haven and had a small turkey dinner with a few upperclassmen in the basement of my residential college. It was uncomfortable and didn’t feel anything like home. Sophomore year was different, spending it with a college pal and his infamous Auntie M. This was a very good thing.
Then there was one Friendsgiving when my best gal Alex and I tried making Hennessy gravy (Hennevy, if you’re into portmanteaus), which was more terrible than we ever could’ve imagined. And a Drinksgiving where I brought home a bearded vagabond from Portland’s Thursday night queer dance party, Booty. The traveling person turned out to be straight but needed a place to crash and ended up staying for two weeks. I didn’t learn of his orientation until a week into his residency at my Church Street house, this after several mild-mannered make-out sessions and now I knew why.
The first Thanksgiving of the pandemic took all of my past Thanksgivings, doused them in kerosene, and set my entire existence on fire. All I knew of grand mal seizures was from my aunt’s stories of her early twenties spent in San Francisco. She described their violence, and the danger of being alone and in the wrong position for the inevitable tongue-biting, blood, and vomit (and possible death). She was hospitalized at St. Mary’s, in a psych ward whose reputation wasn’t for its bedside manner. Against medical advice and just after Thanksgiving, she was released into the clammy, pocked arms of a hazy and sometimes hateful Haight-Ashbury. Family was thousands of miles away, and at that point in time, they knew not of her whereabouts and likely wouldn’t have cared to.
Not eager to put themselves at risk, my houseguest’s family asked that he not come for Thanksgiving — for pragmatic reasons but also because of his lifestyle as a sexually active gay man. From the outside, this is a perfectly reasonable request given the nature of the coronavirus and our understanding of it at the time. As the person having their invitation revoked, and with nowhere else to go, this feels like a fatal blow, having already invested in the idea of going home and being with family.
Two years prior, Hurricane Harvey was heading for Houston when my dad told me not to come for my birthday, when I had already booked and paid for everything. I even signed up for Volunteer Houston and planned to join the relief effort should I have made it down there regardless. Shit happens, but it still hurts when you’re looking forward to seeing someone you’re not typically thrilled to see. Turning the ship when you’re that close to shore can be a challenge for even the most experienced seaman.
So, alone, in a town where he knew hardly anyone, this fellow found himself couch surfing, somehow landing at my place on Thanksgiving Eve, which is, apparently, the biggest drinking night of the year — a night also known as Blackout Wednesday. I was in the living room, taking a moment and giving some space to my guest, who’d grown increasingly distraught about his family situation and his current position in life. Some time passed, and it was just after midnight when I figured I’d ought to check in with him. What I discovered next will haunt me for many Thanksgivings to come.
The image of my new friend lying semi-unconscious on the bed, the vomit and blood my aunt had described in her episodes now a very stark reality for Johnny and me early this Thanksgiving morning. Months earlier I’d redecorated the bedroom and tszujed up the place with the hope of making my house into a home once again. Family-less, boyfriend-less, and job-less, it was all I could do to not feel like a creature operating by the basest of instincts. This didn’t help. We’d gone full-throttle into goblin mode.
I shook him awake and rolled him into his stomach. He was alive at least. I cleaned up the mess, changed the pillowcases and sat with him, scared shitless, while he slept. Several hours later, with barely a word spoken between us (just the late-breaking news that he had epilepsy), he packed up his belongings and left. I don’t know where he went and haven’t heard from him since.
One-note Nancies have their thing and always gotta get, be, do, or have that thing. Whether it’s an obsession over ceramic frogs, addiction to Gossip Girl reruns and other illicit substances, or unhealthy adoration of butt stuff (or nipple stuff or hoo-hah stuff), these people (I’m guilty of being one from time to time), get that proverbial tunnel vision from which it can be hard to break. Down one rabbit hole and up another, one-note Nancies lose sight of this all-important quality worth maintaining in our modern world: multi-dimensionality.
When you feel the tether on reality starting to fray and grow threadbare, when your world is closing in on itself, and your curiosity of outside interests has diminished, reach out to a friend you haven’t talked to in awhile. Someone who knows a past you, or who holds a different worldview than the one you’re currently in. It’s the only way you can hope to not become an echo of a lost soul in a canyon so deep and so narrow no Sherpa would ever dare to try and reach you.
I thumbed through Chad’s stacks of books, finding mostly self-help titles mixed in with a handful of art books, some historical in nature covering certain periods or specific artists and others focused on the various methods, media, and practical applications of art. The majority of the books overall, however, kept hitting upon a very singular theme: the inner child. Whenever I text Chad to this day, I always ask about his inner child before asking how he’s doing, knowing that they’re often one and the same and that this is the one of the truest expressions of his identity, especially in his art.
He and I both came from somewhat broken homes, with absentee fathers and alcoholism and addiction branching far and wide and deep across our family trees. Much of our childhoods were spent learning how to enjoy our own company, left to our own devices, and creating imaginary fantastical worlds for us to escape to and play in.
The Innocent archetype can be prone to magical thinking and dwells in fantasy when the gravity of a certain situation is too tough to bear. When in balance, the Innocent exudes a playful, easygoing attitude, but this bubble has a tendency to burst when one’s expectations for a peaceful and just world are met with the stark realization that its flaws and inadequacies overshadow any goodness and stability we so desperately had hoped for. Overwhelmed by life’s challenges, the Innocent may not feel equipped to confront the feelings that arise, retreating into imagination once again. This can feel incredibly invalidating to someone who’s attempting to reconcile and move beyond their history. Ensnared by the past’s powerful grip on whatever they’re facing or trying to avoid, the inner child becomes a vessel for all that is sacred, safe, and comfortable — but this is a fragile vessel at best.
Riding in an Uber is already occupying a liminal space, but doing so with the window partway up or down takes the experience to another place. Highlighting the contrast of being between two worlds, here are two of my Viëwbers from Spring/Summer 2021:
Four issues in and I’ve grown weary of this section of the e-news. When you’ve got a hacker on your case about getting his bitcoin, it’s time to take a step back and consider forsaking society altogether. I kid.
All jokes aside, it’s important to get educated on technology and protect yourself from potential harm. Take it from someone whose back-end is flapping like a sail in the wind. Stay curious, ask questions, and expect the worst. If anyone wants to set up an IT help desk inside the Feral Fringe, please be in touch. Happy and safe computing, everyone!
Remember that guy I told you about? The one from Booty? This is a photo from his childhood: