I emailed anonyboy with the information that I and my partner, David, will celebrate twenty-two years of life together this November. I provided this information to him simply to communicate to him that, hey, if he has any questions about what this whole gay thing is about, I could probably provide some answers. And, now that I think about it, what I could provide has probably more to do with just the nature of commitment and love than with how any of us are oriented sexually.
I have been reading lately about Peter Illyich Tchaikovsky. Last night I read that his death from cholera on November 6, 1893, (the same year David's and my old house was built) was, most likely caused from his decision to intentionally drink a glass of cholera-infested water; seeking the comfort of death rather than living with the painful knowledge that his beloved nephew, Vladimir, had forsaken their relationship by associating with female prostitutes.
Love hurts, or so the song says.
Yes, and love laughs and love cries and love is silent and love is cacophonous and love is ugly and love is pretty and love is all there is and love is lacking and love is fulfilling and love is a tear and love is a smile and love is a nod and love is a mystery and love is known and love is unknown and love is brilliant and love is stupid and love is bright and love is dull and love is tough and love is easy and love is … a many-splendored thing.
And, I guess love could sometimes simply consist of sitting before a monitor and, through cyberspace, just connecting with someone, somewhere.
Love? No, I still don’t know what the hell that word means. I just know that the years David and I have had together have been … lovely.
And, I guess that’s really all that needs to be said, except … yes, except that the spirits who haunt our old house have returned. They whisper in my ear … their breath a cool wisp against my cheek. "Peter Illyich," they say in a voice as old as the walls of this house, but as vibrant as a new spring. "Peter Illyich," they say as softly as the creak they make as they pass through the floor to surround David sitting on the love seat below. "Peter Illyich," they say softly, sweetly, as they leave me to kiss David’s eyes with their smiles as our old house reverberates with the sound of the Sixth Symphony, known as the Pathetic which Peter Illyich gave us in 1893.
Anyway, give anonyboy a visit.