Lost things

I have an image in my mind that is my home.  There is a concrete frame, columns and beams, and the sense of wide floors above. The concrete feels old and it’s badly weathered, flaking in parts, exposing the rusting steelwork behind.  There are no walls, and no interior finishes though there is a sense they once might have been here. Where there once was a floor, there is now a choppy sea, rolling around under the frame, splashing the columns. Some time ago, long ago, there might have been a wall and a drawbridge. But the sea has long since removed any evidence of these.  

The sound of the wind and the waves is strong, and there is a distinct taste of salt in the air – mostly sea salt but tinged with other flavours like sweat and rust and age. Some sort of dark maroon igneous rock sits at the side of the frame, barnacle encrusted and deeply pitted, anchoring it. The frame is quite sturdy despite its clear decrepitude, and in no danger of collapse. It appears to have been ransacked, pillaged.  But the reality is this is place was abandoned well before it was looted. 

I’m not sure why but I can’t see above the frame. There is partial ceiling, again bare concrete, and there are holes in it, quite large holes with twisted, rusting reinforcing bars poking down here and there below the level of the frame.  Even though I cannot see what is above, somehow I know it is in a similar state of ruin.  I think there’s only one or maybe two floors above.  They too have no walls, but there’s a hint of remnant furnishings. It’s breezy up there and there are torn, sun bleached curtains flapping in the breeze around a pile of cushions or maybe bedding. Maybe it’s a throne from when this felt more like a castle. But it’s more Arabian than that – summery warm colours and open like a sultan’s palace vaguely reminiscent of the Red Fort in Agra. A ransacked sultan’s palace. But it’s too hard to make out.  I know it used to be quite richly appointed when that sort of thing seemed to matter. I’d like to think there was an observatory on the roof, but that would be mere conjecture. 

Off to the distance there’s a beach somewhere, around the headlands of similarly formed igneous cliffs. But it’s deserted.  I’ve never seen anyone else there, even though I know exactly who ransacked the place. Well, the first few… starting with me. After that, who can say.

I feel safe here.  There’s nothing left to destroy.  There is no value in the concrete – help yourself. The wind blows through and the sea washes in, but that’s how it is. How it should be.  Gently scouring the surfaces. No one lives here now.

Somewhere, far away is a man with a hooded robe and a backpack.  His face is shrouded. I see him occasionally looking back, but I don’t know exactly what he looks like. I cannot see his face but he is often grinning. If he were a tarot card he would be the Hierophant or perhaps the Hanged Man. He has some of my home with him as well, in the backpack. The valuable portable things that also say home. Not gold and gems, but things that have a special resonance. Things that marked and witnessed particular events. I can’t tell you exactly what they are – some are metal, some fabric, weird trinkets like bottlecaps, ticket stubs and corners of playing cards. 

I don’t know where he is taking them. Perhaps he is keeping them safe, constantly on the move, away from the ransackers and pirates.  Perhaps he has taken them for himself. Maybe he is condemned, exiled. Or perhaps he is free. Maybe these are the items that he will bring back at some future time, when the frame is renewed and the spalling concrete patched and repaired, the sea calmed and drained from the foundations. Or perhaps he and these trinkets need to exist elsewhere. Like fixed moments in time, they need to happen, and they need to exist. Eventually they will decay and corrode. But they can neither be destroyed or returned.  Perhaps they will recombine and witness new moments far into the future.

It brings me great calm that he has these things. And that I do not know where he is. I sometimes wonder if that is me under the hooded robe, hiding in plain sight somewhere. If that is me, then who am I? And why do I keep remembering this frame in the ocean so far away.

MADness

It’s a brave man that goes digging around in gay relationships.  I don’t mean anything more than a couple of gentle questions – you wont need a shovel and a pick. After my umpteenth romantic failure I made it a bit of a habit out of it. Like Danté, I had found myself lost and unable to find the “straight way” (diritta via) to salvation (yes, technically, also translatable as "right way" but you see my point). Perhaps I was searching for my own answers. Perhaps I was hoping for a role model - a template I could roll out at some future time should the opportunity ever catch me off guard again. No sense reinventing the wheel – surely some of the men living in Sydney must have found at least some of the answers. Let me tell you it is a line of inquiry that could just as easily have carried above its gate the same inscription Danté found. 

Try it if you dare. Be kind. Life, even easy life, is hard. Ask gentle, reasonable questions about why they stay together, how often are they intimate, are they happy. Are they like affordable flat-pack furniture: underneath the beautiful thin veneer of mahogany all offcuts, chipboard and glue - sturdy so long as it all stays dry? Or are they like a Balinese villa – completely open to catch the trade breezes?  Can you ever really tell what’s going on inside a relationship unless you are in it? Even if you are in it? Every relationship it seems has its own individual arrangements and fine print. Often it seems each party has a different contract, a different set of rules. Or perhaps they’ve just never read the rules, just agreed on face value, and let finer points be most oft observed in the breach: Special clauses written on the go, subtle changes to wordings, never spoken about, but cajoled into existence. Ask them. Inquire.

I can count on one hand the number of gay relationships I know that are based on any kind of demonstrable honesty, trust, or integrity. It seems to me that the rest of them are an art form of coercion, of intimidation and subterfuge. You see them out at brunch, smiling and shaking hands like Reagan and Brezhnev, posing for the cameras. But later they’re at separate sides of the sofa blocking each other on Scruff. Perhaps there was genuine love and attraction at some point, early on. Perhaps deep down they still remember it. But now it’s a state of political hostility characterised by implied threats, plausible absences and other measures just short of open warfare. Then they return home to their designer apartments with the mortgage payment neither could individually afford, and the 1000 count Egyptian cotton bed linen that is a more loving caress than either of them still have for each other. 

These are not the model relationships the counsellors and the self-help books tell us about.  These are the antithesis: Relationships built on the complete absence of trust. A kind of détente. How could this be? Is this even possible? It is a familiar scenario to anyone who like me grew up in the 1980s.  It is called a cold war.

Perhaps the pinnacle of cold war strategy is the doctrine of mutually assured destruction - MAD. It is based on the theory of deterrence where the threat of using strong weapons against the enemy prevents the enemy's use of those same weapons. In its ultimate expression, the full-scale use of high-yield weapons of mass destruction by two or more opposing sides would cause the complete annihilation of both the attacker and the defender – annihilating humanity. Is the cold war alive and well, and living at a domestic scale in apartments throughout Darlinghurst, Potts Point and Waterloo? The fear of being left driving acceptance of almost any behaviour, and the thought of leaving always just below the surface and justifying almost any kind of behaviour. Actually leaving though – this is a horror far too uncomfortable to contemplate, far too destructive for either part – that would be madness! So it is a power always held in reserve. 

Despite concern over the hair trigger that the United States or the Soviet Union might possess, and that was a very real concern in the 1980s, when it came down to it, neither side went through with launching their missiles. This was proven on a few particularly gut-wrenching occasions like the Cuban missile crisis of October 1962. I suspect it’s the same for gay men and their infidelities, betrayals and designer apartment lifestyles.
MAD, however, didn’t exactly create an atmosphere in which Soviet premiers and American presidents were great companions. The nations had very little trust in each other – with good reason. Each side was steadily building its arsenal to remain an equal party in the MAD doctrine. They were like two gunslinging foes, adrift alone in a lifeboat, each armed and unwilling to sleep. Sound familiar?

Mutually Assured Destruction. And yet, it was arguably the greatest period of stability and prosperity the world has ever known. I can’t help but think that this may the best I have to look forward to. Stability, prosperity and détente. "Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch'intrate".

Twice as bright, half as long

I'm sure you've all heard of speed dating. I’m not sure it necessarily helps you find Prince Charming, but it’s fast and efficient. Like interviewing a few hundred frogs in one evening to see if there’s any you’d like to kiss, without all that risk of warts. Or is it?

Have we gone far enough? Could we grow the notion of speed dating, but stick to the timing.  In our world of 30 second sound bites… wait – scratch that – 5 second sound bites (sorry I got bored)… apps screaming for attention, red badges on the screen, reality TV and the catastrophisation of everything, who has time for a second date on a second evening? It’s laughable! What about speed relationships?

By all means start with eyes-across-a-crowded-dance-floor, but from there, why not pack a whole relationship into just one evening. Kissing under the mirror ball, proposal in the queue for the bar, consummate it in the toilets, dance for a magic hour or two until the attraction starts to flag, have an affair (also under the mirrorball while he has one in the dark corner next to the cloakroom, which he will later deny even though the evidence is all over Instagram), accuse each other of cheating, make up, both kiss someone else again, have the stand up argument and then get divorced before you’ve even left the club... with on-the-spot counselling provided by Rihanna and Beyoncé (or if you’re at Palms, Whitney and Michael). You don’t even have to delete your Grindr and Scruff profiles or argue about who's on which side of the bed. Since you haven’t had time to add them as a Facebook friend there’s no awkward issues about unfriending them later that morning. So much more efficient.

You think I’m joking? I wish. Actually my record for this kind of a relationship is just three hours. It makes the whole experience so much more intense and without inconvenient things like children and property to divide when it inevitably goes south. Some 'speed exes' may still feel the need to glare at you if your paths cross again, even when it was him that broke it off, but this normally passes in a week or so.“The light that burns twice as bright burns half as long”, says Dr Eldon Tyrell in the film Blade Runner. And you can burn “so very brightly” in just three hours. 

Yesterday I cooked Osso Bucco, an Italian stew of beef shins and vegetables. Three hours into it and the beef was looking, well, tough. It had more in common with shoe leather than with something edible let alone tasty. But I held the line. The simmer at the tiniest of bubblings. Another five hours staying the course. An outrageous, old-fashioned, act of faith. And then something magic happened. Everything relaxed. Everything melted together. And it was good. Better than good. It was delicious.

By all means ask me out on a speed relationship. But just remember you can't divorce me until you've actually married me. And don’t even think about dating me unless you’ve known me for six months. If you have no idea who I am, what makes you think you’d want to have a relationship with me? First things first. Seriously!

Swedish Crapture

Have you ever heard of Norrmalmstorgssyndromet. No? I’m not surprised. Coined by the criminologist and psychiatrist Nils Bejerot, it is named after the robbery of Kreditbanken at Norrmalmstorg, Sweden August 1973 in which several bank employees were held hostage for four days in a bank vault while their captors negotiated with police. But you might know it by its anglicised name: Stockholm Syndrome.

Stockholm syndrome is a psychological phenomenon in which hostages express empathy, sympathy and positive feelings toward their captors, sometimes to the point of defending and identifying with them. These feelings are generally considered irrational in light of the danger or risk endured by the victims, who essentially mistake a lack of abuse from their captors for an act of kindness.

During the Norrmalmstorg standoff, the victims became emotionally attached to their captors, rejected assistance from government officials at one point, and even defended their captors after they were freed from their six-day ordeal.

Have you ever been held against your will? Perhaps with a mortgage, or waiting for that rental agreement to end. Was it on an overseas holiday that had a lot more baggage than there seemed to be on the airport carousel and in the overhead locker. Maybe it was the long, long wait for permanent residency. Maybe it was just the long wait for him to become emotionally available.

I wonder if Norrmalmstorgssyndromet explains all longer-term human relationships. There’s the initial honeymoon, the swoon, head over heels. And then, before you know it, there you are defending the indefensible, supporting the outrageous. Even craving it. Now, heels over head, the slightest kindness and you go to pieces.

Why do people stay together when they so often behave so badly to each other. Also called capture-bonding, Stockholm syndrome does not necessarily require a hostage scenario: It can be seen as a form of traumatic bonding, which describes strong emotional ties that develop between two persons where one person intermittently harasses, mistreats, or intimidates the other.

When you think about it, it’s not a very big change between rapture and capture. Six days was it? I guess I’ll let you know if I ever find myself in such a long-term relationship.

The Blessing of the Werewolf

Do you remember the scene in... well I was going to suggest a specific werewolf movie, but it's all of them really.  The werewolf, back in human form, waking up naked in the cold morning light. Unsure exactly where he is. Maybe the taste of last night sill in his mouth. Possibly a few scratches or bite marks. Torn clothing discarded. The quintessential version for me is from American Werewolf in London, waking up in the cage at the London zoo, but there are as many different versions as there are full moons. I suspect you've all done it. 

At some point, possibly after a beautifully prepared meal, some fine wines and an evening of stimulating conversation, possibly just seconds after he walks in the room, there it is. The unmistakable increase in body heat, the rising of blood. As though the full moon had suddenly uncloaked itself then and there in the room with you, its gravity demanding your swoon and fall. And there it is. The animal. The werewolf. 

Who can say what happened next. There are vague memories of unclear shapes, shredded clothing, the smell of sweat and other fluids, echoes of growls and animalistic gruntings. The flush of all consuming life still coursing through your body. Heart still beating fast, lungs still heaving. Then eyes rolling slowly back into the now, and there you are, in birds-eye view at first, out of body but returning. Naked, clothes strewn who-knows-where. The ersatz crime scene. Perhaps you are at the London Zoo, perhaps the kitchen floor or the dining room table. And so is he. Do you even recognise him? Do you even recognise yourself?

The moon has set. The present washes back in. Clothes are found, socks pulled on, ties and belts tightened. Plausible deniability. Perhaps there is a cheeky grin, perhaps a shudder. Maybe even a phone number. The door closes behind him, and still you are left wondering what strange power had possessed you. Safe now, for a moment, from the curse. And you laugh. Partly because the whole act is so ridiculous; partly from the divine release of tension; and partly to mask the fear of knowing that you will transform again, in the blink of an eye, the second the opportunity arises.

Clinical lycanthropy is a rare psychiatric syndrome. Its name is connected to the mythical condition of lycanthropy, a supernatural affliction in which humans are said to physically shapeshift into wolves. Affected individuals report a delusional belief that they are in the process of transforming into an animal or have already transformed into an animal. It has been linked with the altered states of mind that accompany psychosis with the transformation only seeming to happen in the mind and behaviour of the affected person. And maybe the mind of their partner/trade as well. I wonder is it really that rare, or is it actually very widespread but very short lived?

Do straight men feel the same. Maybe they have had it bred out of them, like pedigree dogs that howl at the moon without knowing why. Is it a blessing or a curse? Could you even tell the difference?

The Shadows of Unseen Things

If you've seen the movie Interstellar (2014), and I recommend that you do, you may have heard the word tesseract used to describe the manifestation of time as a physical dimension and seen it's magnificent portrayal inside the black hole Gargantua. The Marvel version is a bit more cryptic - a source of great power and key to travelling to and from Asgard in the Avengers movie (ah, Loki, when will you learn: Hollywood loves an ending where good triumphs). 

In geometry, the tesseract is the four dimensional analog of the cube. Or to put it another way, a tesseract is to the cube, what the cube is to the square. So while the surface of the cube is made up of six square faces, the hypersurface of the of the tesseract is made up of eight cube faces. But wait. A cube face? What does this mean? Well please feel free to spend a lazy afternoon trying to imagine it. But let me warn you it is a four dimensional construct, and if you're like me, the regular three dimensions plus time are baffling enough.    

If you've got some wire and some detergent though, you can have a mathematically rewarding play for a half hour. Bend some wire to make a cube - neat as you can but you're not being judged on this so keep it real.  Just make sure the corners touch for later, when you dip it in the detergent.

Got your cube? Hold it in the sun. Play with the shadows? Can you make a square? The three dimensional cube casts a shadow on a two dimensional plane that is it's two dimensional analog. Interesting.  Now dip your wire cube into soapy water, as if you're about to blow bubbles. Look at the iridescent angular planes and the smaller cube inside. This is the shadow a tesseract casts on the three dimensional plane we think of as our reality.  A three dimensional picture of the shape you will never see.

What other shadows are there of things that you cannot see. Your partner's dark secrets, manifested in the idiosyncrasies of their repeat offences and curious behaviours. The boss who sings your praises while all the time undermining you with an unseen agenda, setting you up to fail. The fairweather friend, who spends his summers out and about but suddenly calls when the skies turn dark.

Look deeply into the shadows. Measure them, taxonomically. Map them. Delineate their projections across all your dimensions.  And then turn your gaze upward. Towards the light.  Do not play with the shadow - it is merely an analog. Go for the real thing. Look directly into the light and see things for what they really are. 

Better still look at your own shadow. Do you really know the full shape that casts it.  The unseen shape.  Turn towards your own light and understand all of your dimensions. Perhaps this is enlightenment.