Listening to Joni Mitchell.

I miss thinking about a future that includes someone.  I am so sick of facing every trial on my own.

If I had to write a description of a perfect man he would have almost fitted the bill.  Almost.   A little taller maybe, ten years older, not just out of a long relationship.

He was kind.   He wanted me.   He missed her.  He was brave.

Thank you-all of you.   You have all been so kind.   The kind words, the suggestions, the solution.  I tried explaining to him how important this blog is to me.   Not only do I get validation and feed back but I get to write my most troubling thoughts and when written down they vanish-as if by magic.

So, it turned out to be a strangely productive day.    I had to file a police report-the policeman had seen me on the sex rehab show.   I spent a little time up at the house making sure that the tenants are ok.   I saw two friends for lunch and I have a conference call regarding my app at 3pm.  God knows what will happen next.  It’s really not in my hands.

Michelle and Frank for coffee at the café on the corner.  Ate lemon bunt cake.

Of course I think about him.  He flitters like a moth through my head all the time.  I want the best for him-the best does not include me.  He has been central to my thoughts for the past few months.  He will not simply vanish.  I know that he will have time and space to think about his own grief.  The end of his long relationship and start afresh.

I do feel sorry for him.

Gay men have hugely intense relationships and an entire lifetime of emotion is often squeezed into just a few weeks.   He and I were no exception.

We gays are well aware of this phenomenon, most of us make morbid jokes about ‘gay years’-like dog years, and say “They were together for a year which is like a decade in gay years…”

Sadly, he was not the great love.  The truth is: if we had lived in the same city we would have scarcely lasted a month.  If I had met him as an out gay man I would have scarcely noticed him at all.

Fuck.  I need moth balls.

Off to have dinner now with Jamie and Anna.  They are waiting at a table on the sidewalk this balmy St Patrick’s day.  I am bleeding from the war.

Kristian will be buried this Sunday in Dorset.