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This is probably a love letter.
Sunday, December 23, 2007 @ 5:00 a.m.

This is probably a love letter, once you've rendered the fat from the flesh and gotten down to the bare bones of it all.

I'd kill for a dictionary right now. I've no connection to the Internet and consequently no access to merriamwebster.com. (Why does spell check say Internet should be capitalized? Is it a proper noun? A place like Paris, or Orlando, similar to the serenity of Santa Fe, my Santa Fe. Spell check is no help with the homophones and homonyms.) I'm perched up in bed typing in the dark here in my brother's house poised on the western edge of the broad expanse of the Estancia Llano who's haunting beauty is contained in it's vast and lonely emptiness..

My whole life has become painting. My whole existence is contained in the breathes between inspiration when I have to lock myself away and lay paint on panel. It's in those times between the inspiration that I can empathize with Van Gogh's madness. The paintings are there like a schizophrenic's phantom voices. Begging to be released. Begging for an end to their torment in the void of the ether. Begging to be brought forth into the world, to be birthed, created. When I'm done with this letter that's where I'll be, standing in front of my easel painting on the day of the dead suite. Hopefully the rest of the house is still in the deep coma of sleep and wont see my tear stained face and red swollen eyes. I've been pushing the paintings away to much for the past four months. To much so that I might spend time with others, although I'm sure from their point of view they would beg to differ. Maybe that was the lynch pen of Van Gogh's madness? He pushed the paintings away to much and they rose up and engulfed him in a relentless and unforgiving tide-- dog paddling in his insanity when he should have embraced it and sunk down to the abyss and painted Neptune's bidding. It just occurred to me, the old clich� of if you could go back in time and change something, would you? I know there are more noble and tragic episodes in history to try and tamper with, but right now in this moment, I'd go back and buy 10, 20, as many of his paintings as I could. I'd give him that. I'd give him that validation. I'd whisper in his ear, if he would let me, that the entire universe will view you as a giant among artists. A Gulliver among one time renaissance juggernauts that now appear as Lilliputians to your genius. That kings and commoners alike will extol there love for your visions. That your paintings will be the first to garner truly astronomical sums of riches. That your paintings come the closest to expressing what it is to be human, the very essence of humanity, in a time that might prove to be the zenith of our very species. That for generations artists will pale in comparison. Frenetically dabbing paint, making only mud pies, until the next mega genius strikes the chord that will again reverberate and resonate throughout our consciousness. I would do that. Right now, above all else, I would want to save him.

Truth is until just a few seconds ago the tears were still flowing and I can still feel more there waiting for me to stop distracting myself and get down to what I actually set out to write about. It's five-ish in the morning and I've just woken from a nightmare that's left my heart rent and my chest wracked with sobs. It was a dream of what I think was Christmas Eve or Day at my sister's. My niece's boyfriend's family was there and next thing I know they wouldn't eat cause they found I, the chef, am gay something there son has no problem with. I was crying in my sister's guest room and she came in to comfort me and I apologized for my sexuality causing so much drama. She made some remark that implied something about 'my choice.' My disappointment in the situation of the guests behavior turned to anger at having to explain to my family that I don't where my sexuality on my shirt sleeve. I don't force it upon strangers or my family and that it's just as much a part of me as painting, or breathing, it's contained in the secret codes of my genome that are so very swiftly being unlocked by science. Then a shift in the dream and I was sobbing to her, screaming to her that she's never even acknowledged that I am for, all intents and purposes, a divorce and does she realize that? Do any of them realize that? I was screaming that my heart was ripped out of my chest, still beating and gasping for more blood, cause my lover was too afraid to live his life with me, to not have a wife and children for his families sake, to not fulfill his cultural obligations as an Arab, Islamic man-- that I could kid myself that I am over him but when I look in the deepest and most wretchedly dismal recesses of my soul, there lay the shattered remains of my love. My soul has grown a callous, a blister, over them trying to protect me from the hurt, but it's still a part of me the festering poison occasionally, like now, erupting into me. The anger has passed and maybe even the resentment that he couldn't, that he didn't choose me that he cut me out of his life to save himself the pain of exposing his love to his family. That I could pretend that every time I talk to him I don't hope, that I don't secretly hold my breath waiting for him to admit there is some part of him that wants to rush back to me. That I haven't noticed that he doesn't call me �Habibi� anymore when he hangs up the phone. That there was solace in knowing I was, at the least, still his Habibi, his �My love.� That he's betrayed some unspoken agreement that we would both remain each other's �Love� in some sweet since of courtly love. That we would both go on and lead our lives and perhaps love again, but there at the core of us, would be that unrequited and unfulfilled love. That we would keep that and cherish that, a secret from all but ourselves. That I'm just as big a coward as him and have not once asked him if he's dating anybody. If I found out he was dating a man, maybe then I could hate him. I could loathe him and despise him for trampling my heart. Would real healing come from that hate if it were there? Or is healing down the path of forgiveness as my faith would dictate? But in that case what would I be forgiving him for? The real key to it all might be me forgiving myself for being such a fuckin' emotional dumb-ass. Somewhere in the middle of this all the point at which I woke up is contained and the rest is merely my analysis. My tears and snot running down my face and dripping from my beard and chin analysis.

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