“The problem for us is not are our desires satisfied or not. The problem is how do we know what we desire.” Slavoj Zizek

Sunday night treat.

Day 3: No pancake joy.

It's pancake day. Except for me. Even if I were to do a slowcarb version (omelette or meat-pancake) it's really the fillings that make pancake day: ham and cheese, banana and nutella, raspberry jam.
No, I'll have to content myself with chicken breast and broccoli. But a lighter, healthier me is worth it.

Day two of the 4-hour body

Day one is always a breeze. It's good to know I have willpower enough for that. This was dinner. A Mexican pork and chickpea stew with homemade guacamole. By far one of the best stews I've ever made.

I couldn't face hardboiling eggs this morning at 5.30 so have eaten an omelette from Bene Bene and now I feel sick. I'm not sure doing what they do to eggs with a grilling machine should be called an omelette.

Consolidated

I blended the two sadly ignored blogs into one. I promise to start writing. After a nap. Then maybe some lunch.

I'm not a very good gay. I know a few show tunes and own some diva CDs and like watching naked men on the net, but in general I have very little interaction with the culture. Few gay male friends. Fewer nights out doing gay things.. I don't know what we're meant to be wearing or listening to or reading or doing or debating or supporting or kvetching about. how does a middle-aged man dive back into gay culture. I'm not one for club music and taking my shirt off to gyrate to anything isn't going to win me legions of new friends? Gay film festivals? I'd spend the night wondering if its better I nod with esoteric consent or lament the inanity of most of the storylines. I'm worried I no longer understand the culture. When I was really gay it was easy - culture was dualistic. One raved or one leathered. Now I don't know. How to dive back in. Any suggestions?

August is the cruellest month

Grim is the best word. From the weather to the things that are happening to my family. My Uncle who went far too quickly. Only 42 days from the diagnosis of throat cancer to his death from the effects of chemotherapy. The race my mum and aunt made from Wisconsin to South Dakota and back only to return later that day when news reached them he had died. My mum awaiting results of a mammogram she didn't tell us she was having. The eventual and dispiriting diagnosis of breast cancer while she grieved the death of her brother. The helpless watch from a distant country.



One couldn't have made up this horrible story. But we banish feelings of despair to build positive momentum for my mum's surgery. The experts are decidedly positive. Caught in early stages. Options for treatment. My mum arming herself with understanding and support resources. Her children rallying. Communities of people she's touched arming her with their prayers. Her agnostic son willing to come to a truce with her God if he delivers the healing karma she's earned. We believe I can be here in body and there in spirit and count the days until I can be both together.



There are some storms which do not pass so quickly and which haunt the memory of the heart for much longer.