On Writing…

A look at what writing is for me, and the fear of losing it forever.

When I was in high school, I did my best to not stand out. I was struggling with the question of "Am I gay, or not?" and didn't want to have the answer literally beaten out of me. My fear left me standing quietly by as friends were bullied, harassed both verbally and physically, called names and what not. If I stepped forward, I'd become a target.

In my silence, I retreated to the safety of books. The complete works of Edgar Allen Poe. The fanciful world of J. R. R. Tolkein. The ancient mythology of The Illiad and The Odyssey. The futuristic tales of Arthur C. Clarke and Isaac Asimov. Anything I could get my hands on that would insulate me from the world "out there." It became my "Calgon, take me away" escape.

Little did I realize at the time that in reading I was learning to write. Oh, I knew my letters, the proper use of grammar, and could write complete sentences. Even had pretty good cursive penmanship. What I mean is that I was learning to write. Similies and metaphores, using imagery to paint a picture with a thousand words - or less. And in doing so, I had unwittingly found my voice.

But even that voice was, in my mind, silent. I believed that nobody could hear me. That I remained invisible, flying under the radar like a stealth bomber.

That is, until the last day of high school, back in May 1983. I'd been put in an advanced placement English class my last year, though I couldn't understand why. But on that final day, my teacher, Mrs. Marcheta Huerter, called me aside as my classmates ran from the room, whooping and hollering with glee. Mrs. Huerter looked me in the eyes and said, quite bluntly, "Never stop writing." Her words have stayed with me all these years.

Sadly, I got sidetracked. I majored in Geology in college, not realizing that Texas A&M University didn't have the program I'd been wanting. I wasn't writing, and didn't undrestand it was the path I should have taken. I finally accepted my orientation the summer after my sophomore year, and that made all the difference.

My junior year, Fall 1986, I changed my major to Psychology - just for the inside joke of having once worked with rocks, and would now work with the rocks in peoples' heads. I took a bunch of classes as electives - including a creative writing poetry course. I wrote freely about my first boyfriend in a number of my poems, and had no rejection from the professor or my classmates. I received praise for the vivid imagery or the powerful emotions my poems could invoke.

In February 1987, I had a shock. My first - and only - boyfriend showed up at my door, four months after I'd ended the relationship. He was sobbing heavily, gasping for breath between the sobs, not wanting to believe what others were telling him - that he had AIDS. I could tell that he did, his body wasted to skin and bones. I gave him comfort, knowing that would be me in the not-too-distant future.

I searched for places to get tested and made a list. From that came my first attempt to use my written voice to make a difference. I wrote an editorial article about the importance for everybody - gay and straight - to get tested for HIV, and submitted it to the Texas A&M student newspaper, The Battalion. I didn't expect they would actually print it, A&M being a very conservative university.

April 8, 1987, my article appeared. Inside front page, left hand side, starting just above the fold. It was surreal. Everywhere I went on campus that day I noticed people reading my words. Nobody ever spent that much time on the editorial page before. My words could effect change.

Fast-forward to 1996. I had been working for the university since mid-'87 and changed departments. My new job was providing computer support to the English Department. I was surrounded by faculty and graduate students who had devoted their lives to literature - as well as language and film. When I learned that the professor of the poetry writing course I'd taken ten years earlier was still in the department, I approached her. She remembered me and my work, and asked if I still had one poem in particular - she wanted a copy. I was overjoyed to know that somebody had noticed me.

In the course of settling into my new job, I wrote a number of memos to the department members, letting them know who I was and what I hoped to do for them. Apparently, a few of the tenured faculty believed that I was an upper-level English professor hoping to qualify for tenure one day. When they learned that I'd had three years of college - toward science, no less - and dropped out, they were stunned. How could a man who never pursued a degree in English - or Liberal Arts - write as well as I did? Needless to say (but I'll say it anyway), I was flattered.

Sadly, in 2000, my thirteen-year relationship ended with a bang. Don't worry - nobody got shot. More the bang of the door slamming when I kicked his cheating ass out of the house and out of my life. I realized that we never had any gay friends, and it was something I knew I needed. I ended up founding a professional organization at Texas A&M for queer faculty, staff and graduate students, as well as queer professionals in the community. As first President, I wrote many emails to the group. I was often chastised for being "too verbose". What writer wouldn't take that as a compliment? I would always respond, "Was the message clear to you? Did it leave you with any questions on my opionion or reasoning? If you understood it, and everybody else understood, then the verbosity was exactly what was needed." The "complaints" soon died down.

Now, after twenty-five years of living with HIV, I've found my mind to be less focused, and the vast vocabulary that used to be ever-present has seemingly vanished. I struggle to write, even more to stay on topic. It's taken me over a week to write this, as I'm less certain of myself and what I've written.

If I've meandered in this, I do apologize. But it's why I keep writing. To recover that written voice I'd treasured so much throughout my life. The hope that, through this, I'll find what I've lost.

All because my high school English teacher, Marcheta Huerter, told me to never stop writing.

Silver Flame (Happy Birthday, Robert)

I wrote this to Silver Flame for her birthday. She'd proven her friendship when she told me truthfully that Keith never wanted a lover. This is another poem I regret writing, but learned too late why.

---

Silver Flame

It is said there grows
At the edge of World's End
A flower formed of twilight.

Tall and graceful it stands,
As the lily in water.
It's ebon petals burn
With silver flame.

Dancing in the shifting currents
Of the gentle West wind,
Shining with the argent light
Of a thousand distant stars.

Mighty Orion bows deeply,
As Luna rises from behind the flower
To chase the sun away.

Venus looks upon the fragrant blossom,
Blessing it with her smile.
And Pluto rises from his nether realm
To behold such a view as this.

Fiery Mars drops his crimson sword,
Falling before the flower's fragile form,
Ceasing his endless war.

Neptune's daughters laugh with joy,
And sing to fair Adonis
Of fish that swim the foamy waves
And coral castles in the sea.

And should ever that gentle bud
Lose its argent fringe,
Or be lost to view amidst the world,
Still know that its beauty lives,
And the Fates bless it all the more
For having lived at all.

Breathless

This poem is one I wrote for myself the day before I ended what I saw as the month-long relationship with Keith. I had to come to terms with the fact that it was the right thing to do. Didn't realize at the time I wrote it that sometimes the wind returns and needs your embrace.

---

Breathless

To catch a gentle wind,
Breath of the Earth;
To feel the soft wet kiss
Of sweet rain on lips,
For even a brief part
Of the shortest eternity
Is as divinely impossible
As touching the fiery heart
Of the most distant star.

But I have done this.

And perhaps again,
In a different world,
I will do so once more.

And yet will I release the breeze
When my heart dares not continue
To bind the dying wind.

For happy am I in heart and soul
To have caught the wind,
And happier yet
That I could return its freedom.

---

The Legend of the Cookie Monster

NOTE: This is the introduction to a book I'm working on. It's sorta-kinda-maybe based on semi-true facts. To a degree. Any similarity to a real person will be so fictionalized as to be unrecognizable - except to those who know who it's supposed to be, that is. Still deciding if this will be written for adolescents or possibly for young adults on up. Depends on how things go in the story. - Dave

Intro

Legend of the Cookie Monster

Deep in the Hill Country of Texas, a monster lurks. Oh, not your typical brutish fiend like Dracula or the Wolfman. No, this one is more of an annoyance than a terror. Well, perhaps not in everybody’s eyes. Those who have encountered it seem mixed in their reactions and perceptions. But opinion defines more often than fact.

You see, this monster has a name. Not one given to it by its mother at birth, but one that describes what it is, and its typical victim - as it were. And that name is - the Cookie Monster.

Now, despite the label, it doesn’t just go after cookies. Anything with sugar - the more the better - is likely to meet with an untimely demise. Nothin’ left but a scatter of crumbs, or juices puddlin’ on the floor where the beast devoured the sweet.

I’m not here to judge the creature. We all have a hankerin’ for a nice sugary dessert now and then - myself included. Can’t blame the poor thing for giving in to temptation time and time again. Hell, I know when I was a child, I sometimes wished I were the Cookie Monster myself. No more broccoli or green beans for me. Give me chocolate cake and ice cream for every meal and I’d be happier than a June bug in July!

Yes, the Cookie Monster has been around for quite a long time. My grampa told me stories when I was but a boy. As I grew older, I began to think his tales were as tall as a the state capitol building. But lately, I learned I’m not the only one who heard talk of this critter.

And then I met folks who swore they’d seen it with their own two eyes.

--

Dating in the Modern World

Why finding a relationship seems more difficult these days

As every day passes, we as members of the gay community find ourselves at the center of a political and social conflict which seems to be tearing the nation and our lives apart. A fight we never asked for, but one we feel obligated to participate in — or avoid. It's our lives, after all. Who are they to tell us how to live? Who are they to tell us who we can love? Who are they to tell us that beige goes with everything?

It seems a distraction at times. The fight takes a great deal out of us, and so we feel rushed to find anybody to stand at our side in the battle for truth, justice and the GAYmerican way. As long as they fit our excessively strict criteria, of course.

If the queer community, in all its various and diverse facets, comprises an estimated ten percent of the world's population, finding a match is certainly more difficult for us than it is for the heterosexual horde. They have nine times more chances at love than we do. Britney has seven more to go. Liz has one or two, depending on how you do the math. Condi Rice has a lot of catching up to do; her dance card is quite empty. Unlike the Carpenters, she hasn't even 'just begun.'

But there are other factors affecting our ability to find "the One." Turning thirty or even forty is certainly an obstacle (in our community especially), but more dreaded — believe it or not — is HIV. It is far harder for somebody who has tested positive to know where they fit into our relatively small niche in the universe. It can isolate you to the point that you believe you will never date again.

I know. I felt that way myself.

But in the course of more than twenty years living with this, I've learned a few things. I realized that stigma begins within ourselves, and only we can end it. It's easy to allow others to humiliate and ostracize us and make us feel ashamed of ourselves when we accept it from them. Far too easy. The pain and fear of rejection just adds to our lowered self-esteem.

Now, ask yourself: was I talking about being HIV+, or being gay?

Sometimes, you must put yourself in the place of the other person to see things from a new perspective. A person living with HIV/AIDS is no less human than you, and you are no less human than a straight person. Which means, believe it or not, a straight person is no less human than you, though you are allowed to question their concept of taste, especially in clothing and what they call 'dancing.' You may even question the humanity of some. Falwell, Robertson, Rove and Phelps come to mind…

Now, to answer your previous query (or was that mine?). I came out and became positive within weeks of each other twenty-one years ago at the age of twenty-one. It had taken me so long to come out to myself because I was letting others stigmatize me. When I tested positive, I had already learned the lesson, and refuse to this day to let the words of others knock me down. That playground proverb, "I'm rubber, you're glue," has a moral that is effective even for adults.

What does all this have to do with dating? My point is that we often set standards so high that even we would not pass muster, peering through the eye of a needle wondering why nobody can get through to us. We limit our field of view to only the pretty people, thinking the plain are beneath our notice. I have found more value in the mundane than in the plastic unreality in which most of us seem to live.

Must be fit, hung, masculine, muscular, neg, blond, butch, slender, young… the list goes on. And that’s just the woman… Okay, maybe not.

The harshest are six simple characters: DDF UB2. Not sure if there’s more offense in the apparent ignorance of the “DDF”, the seeming lack of intent to play safe, or in the fact that people can’t spell out the words. You aren’t paying per character; if you’re going to discriminate, at least be intelligent enough to write it in plain English.

How would you feel if no one could see past the battle scars of your life, failed to notice who you really are? Or only saw the plastic we wrap ourselves in and passed you by as nothing special, just another piece of meat in a zippered bag?

Remember the words of Shakespeare: "To thine own self be true." If we are to find our perfect match, we must first know ourselves. Know our imperfections, and thus overlook them in our potential mates. See what others see in us, and refuse to return the disservice of judging the book by the beige cover. Abandon your plastic façades, and embrace the real you. Just don't do it in public; it creeps people out. Could even get you arrested in some states.

Who knows? Maybe your knight in shining armoire, or your damsel dyke on a bike is closer than you think. Look again with your eyes wide open, and let the new world dawn. It's only over when you give up, and when you stop trying so damn hard to find perfection.

We are, none of us, perfect. Well, none of you are at least.

Hmm. Maybe it’s time I start taking my own advice…

Breathless

This is a poem I wrote on October 10, 1986. It was mainly for myself, about a hard decision I had made - to end my month-long relationship with Keith. His life outside of sleeping and work was at the only gay bar in town. I wanted to live my life as a gay man outside of the closet; he seemed content to stay inside.

Breathless

To catch a gentle wind,
Breath of the Earth;
To feel the soft wet kiss
Of sweet rain on lips,
For even a brief part
Of the shortest eternity
Is as divinely impossible
As touching the fiery heart
Of the most distant star.

But I have done this.

And perhaps again,
In a different world,
I will do so once more.

And yet will I release the breeze
When my heart dares not continue
To bind the dying wind.

For happy am I in heart and soul
To have caught the wind,
And happier yet
That I could return its freedom.

Excerpt from my Memoir, "But I Remain Standing…"

But I Remain Standing…

A Memoir

by Dave Martin

FOREWARD

When I first set out to write the story of my life, I wasn't quite sure where to begin. Perhaps with my birth; but no. To start there might imply the tale would finish where my life ends. That has yet to happen. Of course now I hope I won't regret writing that…

As a writer and a poet, I have a license to embellish. The freedom to tell a story as I see fit, to bend or twist the truth without breaking it. And as a native-born Texan, I am required by state law to always tell a tall tale – a Texas tradition, as it were. Texans do not invent truth, we simply overlook or ignore facts in favor of a show of bold color. Spice it up, turn it into something worth listenin’ to.

There I go, garnishing reality already. There is no such law. Perhaps it’s something in the water that drives Texans to go beyond embellishment to blatant lies. Sorry; untruths. We never actually lie. Honest.

But, truth be told, it does make for a wonderful story, does it not? We Texans can make even the most fantastically ridiculous event seem like an everyday occurrence. Remember the Jackalope? And, perhaps therein lies the real truth. You believe what you wish to believe. Ay, there's the rub. You, the reader, beg for the fantasy in an all too real world. A singing frog is more entertaining that one who simply croaks. Now wouldn’t you agree?

As desperately as you wish to brush off a such a tale as rubbish, you can get drawn into the yarn until, ensnared by the brashness of the storyteller, you hope it never ends. Truth be damned!

However, this narrative is about my life. It’s not a fable or fairy tale - well, so to speak. Perhaps it is a bit of the latter. But, more on that as my epic progresses.

I cannot make a Texas-sized saga of it. We may stretch the truth beyond believability, but when it comes right down to it, honesty and integrity must prevail. For you see, that too dwells in the heart of a true Texan. Just more proof that George W. Bush ain’t a Texan at all!

This does not mean that I will not make justifiable use of my freedom to embellish. As a man of Italian descent, I am well aware that the seasonings make the dish more appealing, and thus memorable. The harsh truths more palatable. The aroma masking the odors of the past, perfuming the elephant dung. And that’s no bullshit, either.

Which is good, since as we age, our memories sometimes confuse us. Our brains can hold far more than we could ever hope to draw upon, and it often manages to hide from us the things it believes would only bring us pain. Or it fills in blanks with how we wished our lives have been, to the point we convince ourselves that the make believe really happened.

But none of this postulation and philosophizing aids in answering the question: where to begin.

The answer was oddly found in one my earliest poetic works. My second poem, to be precise, written during my senior year of high school. It not only provided me with the title for this monumental endeavor, but a starting place. It gave me the opportunity to reflect on the words I had written over twenty-five years ago, and be amazed at how clearly they described and defined my life before I had even lived it.

And so it begins, somewhere in the middle…

But I Remain Standing…

At once, I see myself,
Standing among a crowd of people.
And though it is but Summer,
The crowed dwindles, but I remain standing.

And when Death stands before me,
I walk around him,
For it is not me that he has come for.

As the Autumn leaves fall,
The crowd grows smaller,
And Death is once again before me.
Yet now I laugh, for he is not to take me yet.

But now, the snows of Winter fall,
And I am alone.
Once more, Death faces me,
Though now I say nothing, do nothing.

I then see myself,
Standing among a crowd of people.
And though the Spring sun shines,
The crowd dwindles,

But I remain standing…

Don’t Let Sex Ruin Your Life - Revisited 2010

Note: This is an update to a column I wrote for the Texas A&M University student newspaper, The Battalion, originally published Thursday, April 9, 1987 on the inside front page. It seemed like the only day the students actually read the editorials. It's been over 23 years since I wrote the original; I'd been living with HIV for six months by then. With thirty years of AIDS rapidly approaching, the message hasn't changed much, just perspective.




Good. Now that I have your attention, it's time to talk about a very grave matter – quite literally. By now you have all heard of Acquired Immune Deficiency Syndrome, or AIDS. You know basically what it is, what it does and how it is spread. But do you know how to avoid it?

You may be saying, "What, me worry? I'm not gay, and I don't use needles, so I won't get it." Wrong. A common misconception is that you must be in a high-risk group to get AIDS. While the gay community was the first and hardest hit in America, it is not and never was a “gay disease.”

If you are having sex, regardless of who you are with, you are in a high-risk group. It's as simple as that. While gay men are no longer the fastest-growing group of new HIV infections, it doesn’t mean our community isn’t still hurting.

Gay youth are a rapidly increasing category. This is due mainly to lack of education about having "safe sex." Primarily, if there is sexual health education in the public schools, it’s limited to abstinence before marriage - meaning heterosexual marriage, of course.

AIDS is caused by the Human Immunodeficiency Virus (HIV), which is spread through the exchange of body fluids such as blood, semen, vaginal secretions and breast milk. Non-infectious fluids are saliva, tears, sweat, urine and feces. And no, despite what you may have heard from Donny Darko, feces are not baby mice.



HIV does not discriminate about who it infects. It doesn’t care about your sex, age, sexual orientation or shoe size. You are at risk unless you follow safe sex practices. This primarily means you should USE A CONDOM. No, Dr. Ruth hasn't taken over this column. If you aren't going to follow Reagan's advice (as mimicked by George W. Bush) – complete abstinence from sex – then a condom is necessary equipment.

"Why?" you ask. Remember Mom's wise words, "Don't touch that, you don't know where it's been." Can you be certain that whoever you're in bed with is healthy? Sure, he said you were his first as he threw the feather boa on the bed. Or maybe he told you that he's been saving himself for just the right man. You can trust them, can't you?

NO. Absolutely not. It has been said that nowadays when you take someone to bed, you're also sleeping with everyone they've had sex with. Ever. And vice versa. How can you be sure that you haven't been exposed already?

Many places in Texas perform blood or oral swab tests for the HIV antibody. This is not a test for HIV or AIDS. It can only detect the presence of antibodies that indicate infection from the virus sometime in the past. You need to be aware that it can take six weeks to six months for those antibodies to develop. If you may have been exposed, it’s not going to show up the next day. Testing negative doesn’t mean you definitively are, unless it’s been at least six weeks since your last sexual contact.

Of course a positive result does not mean you have or will contract AIDS. In fact, with early detection and treatment, you can live for a long time without ever developing AIDS-related symptoms. The darkest days of this storm are behind us –people are living much longer – but complacency and poor prevention education may herald the thundering return as infection rates continue to rise unabated.

To find a testing location near you, just go to http://www.hivtest.org/ and enter the zip code. There may be others (listed under LABORATORIES, MEDICAL in the phone book), but I’d recommend using those listed online.

The question now is, how do you talk to a potential sex partner about practicing safe sex? What if it scares them away? Or if they tell you not to worry about it, what should you do? First, you should ask yourself, "is sleeping with him really worth dying?" If your answer is "yes," you had better start digging. This isn’t Romeo and Julio.

The best way to handle the situation is to simply express your concern about HIV/AIDS, and discuss the ways to decrease your chances of contracting it, i.e., safe sex. Remember, both of you must follow the safe sex guidelines if they are to do any good. Don't let your partner convince you not to bother "just this once." This is your health they are risking, and possibly even their own.

Many people believe that talking about AIDS or using a condom takes the romance out of love-making. Yes, perhaps it does a little, but how romantic is the tale of the man who killed his partner with his love? Actually, safe sex need not detract from the romance. The general rule is to use your imagination, as long as you keep your fluids to yourself. I know, mommy always told you to share, but there are limits after you reach puberty. Sorry. We can’t be children forever. Well, maybe Michael Jackson can…

Just what is safe? Basically, there are four categories of safety. "Safe" sex includes dry kissing, mutual masturbation, oral sex with a condom, massage and fantasy. Vaginal and anal intercourse with a condom are "possibly safe." Sorry about dropping the V-bomb, boys, but there may be bisexual men reading this. Stop clutching the pearls and read on.

Those practices classed as "risky" include oral sex without a condom (aka barebacking), cunnilingus, and use of drugs or alcohol. Drugs and alcohol decrease judgement ability and also lower your immune system defenses. Unprotected vaginal or anal sex, intravenous drugs, sharing needles and rimming are considered "dangerous" and should be avoided.

Some numbers you can call for more information on AIDS and safe sex are:

• CDC National AIDS Hotline (Recording) 800-342-AIDS


• National AIDS Hotline (Live Operators): 800-447-AIDS

Despite the occasional jokes, this is a serious subject. You should not only learn safe sex, but use it. You may think, "I can't change my habits." You can, and you had better. All it takes is one night to ruin the rest of your life. Protect yourself – and the one you're with. Play it safe and live.

If you do test positive, don’t panic. There are many resources for counseling, support (individual or groups), medical assistance and more. The testing sites should be able to provide you with information for your region. You aren’t alone. Don’t isolate yourself from those who are there to help.



Remember, there is still no cure. No “morning-after” pill. But think on this: I’ve been living with HIV since September 1986. I was diagnosed with AIDS in November 1999. I’ve never been sick from this disease in twenty-four years of being positive. Nobody can give you hope, because that’s something we have to search for within ourselves. Perhaps my advice may help you find what you are needing.

Nearly ready…

For over four years a film concept has been brewing, fermenting and growing in my mind. It no longer resembles the story I began with - and that's good. Actually, it's beyond good. As any good writer does, I listened to the voices in my head. They tore apart what I had, selected the portions they liked, then built something more wonderful.

This will be an AIDS film unlike anything before. It takes place between 1985 and 1987, when testing positive was still seen as certain death and the only hope - AZT - was financially out of reach of most people affected by AIDS. I, personally, was infected with HIV on September 13, 1986 and tested positive in March 1987.

Many of the characters in my film have a basis in real people.

"Richard" and "Keith" - the two main characters - are named for my first partner, Richard Keith Harris. I contracted HIV from him, though neither of us was aware of his status at the time. Keith passed from AIDS in February 1990. Other than the names, neither has much else in common with the man they are named for.

"Silver Flame"/"Robert" was a drag queen I'd become friends with. He died of AIDS around 1990. I've given more life to Silver than I knew of her namesake. The real Silver lip-synced. My version will sing for herself.

"Gregory" and his sister "Cynthia" is a nod to Cyndi Lauper's song "True Colors" and the reason Cyndi sings that song. Her good friend Gregory died of AIDS in the earliest days of the epidemic. Some things can't be changed, but one important thing will. A song will finally be sung to the one it was chosen for.

Shaun is in memory of my close, dear friend Shane, who passed from AIDS. Shaun's last words to Keith are the same as Shane's to me.

"Michael See" is in honor of Michael Callen, one of the first AIDS activists, a singer/songwriter, and more. With luck I can get the rights to have one of his songs performed in my film.

There are eighteen songs, all of which I can see in my mind. The minutest details of each scene plays out, from camera angles to timing of the song. Most songs are re-imagined and/or mash-ups to make them unique and to fit the film. There are a few that will be written specifically for the film.

All the music but one will be sung a cappella. Only the music for the opening credits will have instruments. The score to set the mood for the scenes will also be a cappella.

I hear it all in my head, and see each scene as it would play out. Every camera angle, every note, every laugh and every tear are all there. If I could only sell tickets to see what I see, it would make it much easier.

To be honest, I realized that my dilemma is the same as Keith's in the film. What he sees is beyond description, and the enormity of it all freezes his tongue when he tries to figure out where to begin. It's good that I can empathize with my character, even if it doesn't help me to write things out.

But, it's almost time to try.

Inspiration from a movie

“Your life is like a river. If you’re aiming for a goal that isn't your destiny, you will always be swimming against the current. Young Gandhi wants to be a stock car racer? Not gonna happen. Little Anne Frank wants to be a high school teacher? Tough Anne. That's not your destiny. But you will go on to move the hearts and minds of millions. Find out what your destiny is and the river will carry you. Sometimes events in life give an individual clues as to where their destiny lies." - Lyn Cassady, The Men Who Stare at Goats

It's not often that a move surprises you with a kernel of wisdom. At least, not often for me. The last film that did that was The Hours, when Virginia Woolf tells her husband, "You can not find peace by avoiding life, Leonard."

The quote from …Goats strikes a chord with me. The last six years I've been floundering without direction, fighting against something I didn't understand. I moved to Austin in search of something that is not here, when what I needed was always a part of my being. The clues have been there, I've seen them, acknowledged them, yet consistently I find myself turning in another direction. I wanted an easier road to follow, but it's my destiny to take Frosts' road less travelled by.

Blogging helps me find the path. It illuminates the way, guiding me toward my true destiny. I know it will be a struggle, that the journey will be hard, but the destination may prove worth the hardship and heartbreak.

My destiny is to write, to give voice to all the thoughts and ideas which fill my mind. I have to keep reminding myself to let the river carry me where I must go.