The Gift the Keeps of Giving

I stood on a mountain peak in the rocky mountains and looked out at the horizon. I was out of breath. It was a struggle to reach this point, the air was thin, but you could see forever. My weakened body was on the verge of collapsing. “Well, this is it; I either fight, or give in to this.” At this point I knew I was choosing to fight. I knew I would not win the war, in this war I would lose many battles, but I was going to dedicate every fiber of my soul to win as many battles before I could not fight any more.  I did know that I was not alone, as The Amazing One walked each step up this mountain to its peak. 

This was before the $10,000 month medications, multitude MRI’s and during my non-stop expert Neurologist appointments. There was the never-ending doctor appointments to try and diagnose the symptoms, the books, and peer reviewed journals spanning a decade.  At this point I couldn’t fathom that Cristina Applegate would be a role model in my life. I did however; have a diagnosis. 

We made down he mountain peak and I asked The Amazing One for sixty seconds of unbridled rage. I screamed about how I loved to go hiking, to walk out in nature, I loved the freedom, and it was all being taken away from me. I was slipping away. It was unfair. It was completely unfair WHY? After the sixty seconds was up, I just understood what life was going to be from then on. I was kind of wrong, and kind of right. 

It’s called DMT. Disease-modifying therapies. A group of specialized medications that can treat multiple sclerosis, or M.S. It’s done by dampening immune system activity, reduces relapses, and possible limit new brain and spinal cord lesions. This in hopes of slowing long-term disability progression. I have multiple lesions on my brain and down my spinal cord. It mostly, for now, affects my balance and walking. There are several DMTs to pick fromå. I picked the injector pen, a once-a-month jab followed by a very long sleepy period of complete physical exhaustion. I am now not that weak Steve up on that mountain, as the DMT helps me tremendously.  

This era of my life has taught me many things, mostly about how the medical industry works, how “big pharma” does not have our best interest at heart, and how insurance companies are insidious. More importantly I have seen friendships fade and some get stronger. I also finally learned the real meaning of unconditional love.  

It's a G-G-G-G-Ghost!

I might not of mentioned this before, but we live in a tastefully decorated condo overlooking Denver’s most haunted park. Spooky. Well, mostly it’s bothersome because there is a constant parade of hipster type people taking up parking to go wander around the large sea of green with EVP grabbing voice recorders in their little alt-ironic Slayer tee shirt wearing hands. 

Picture it, Denver. As Denver grew up just after the “toss your dead into the closest river” fad, the town needed a place to bury its cowboys and strumpets. It started a cemetery and buried both rich and poor way outside of town. After a while the town grew closer and closer to this out of the way cemetery. The city graveyard began being used for poor, or poppers graves, and gasp, Chinese, Jews, and Catholics burials. The WASPS began burning their fancy dead in a farther away cemetery, and the city graveyard fell farther into disrepair. With more mansions being built closer and closer there were soon calls for the graveyard to be emptied and moved. 

The history of what happened next is well documented. There are nine-hundred Youtube uploads about this history. All of which use the same, not quite right source material. 

A fraudster who won the contract to move possibly thousands of graves, cashed the check and then pulled some of the dead out of their “final” resting place and left them laying them around everywhere. ‘You moved the headstones and left the graves!” When the city, state, and the federal government got involved everyone decided to just grass over the whole situation and begin building their new park. Leaving thousands in the ground. 

It has been very well documented about the spiritual rift this caused and the ghost stories of the unsettled dead. **Eye roll** Not that I am discounting this at all, there have been many documented reports in the area. I’ve seen a couple of things myself. 

Flash forward one hundred and fifty years and Youtube is invented. With this new media comes the phenomenon of the amateur ghost hunter. For the cost of a handheld voice recorder and a flashing thing called a “spirit box” anyone can post “real evidence.”

October is spooky season. This is the time where these local Hipsters come out of the dark to meet and began their annual rituals. Complementing each others band tee shirts, and to hunt for proof of the undead. This is also the season for us to sit on our balcony and watch the bobbing lanterns float around the dark on formal ghost tours and independent adventures. Random screams and skreeks of delight as something extra scary happens. It’s very delightful to watch. Some choose to not walk around and instead take the full bus tour of “haunted Denver” and have a guided tour of all the ghoulish scenes. This includes a stop in the park below our balcony where we can hear the tour guide speak of the haunted buildings surrounding the park. Uh… Bitch, where?

Okay, there was that time someone tapped The Amazing One on the shoulder when he was home alone. And the shadow person. Meh. “If they ain’t paying your bills, pay those bitches no mind.”

 

Here is the plan; White sheets at the ready, when the next tour comes by, we toss on sheets and dance around on the patio like crazy ghosts. Cultural Appropriation, but they will be able to say they saw a ghost.   

   

 

The Balcony that Changed Me

Okay, one more story about the building I live in, then we can move on. Well, maybe. How about one last historic story before we move into the modern era. 

Picture it, Cheesman Park 1990. I was living in tiny attic space in a victorian on Downing St.  My best friend lived on the other side of the park so anytime we wanted to hangout one of us would trek across the green expanse of lawn. This means I would have to traverse a main street leading in and out  of the park. The same building I live in now was on this path. Balconies line the front of the building overlooking the street. As I crossed in front of this building I noticed a guy leaning on a balcony railing. I noticed him for two reasons, I had been introduced to the art of Tom of Finland, and this guy was a spiting image to one to one of the gentleman in this art, and two; he was pointing at me and hollering for me to come closer. So I did. He kindly requested that I go to the front door and buzz his apartment. Walking to his door there would be no way of knowing that 1,000 years in the future I would live there. Well directly upstairs. He met me at this apartment door.    

He was was very old in my young eyes. But we was probably forty, meaning fifteen years younger than my current age.  I would later learn that he would be classified as a levi leather dom. Sooooo, let’s skip the details, you know what happened. We can say he created and formed my lifelong views, tastes, kinks, needs, fantasies, and standards in one amazing afternoon I still think about often. With one man’s tongue and smelly underwear my life began.   

They say you always remember your first. And why he wasn’t my first boy. He was my first man. I carry his torch and try to live in his footsteps. 

The Pavilion

When I was just out of high school and fresh to living out on my own, I spent my early days of  freedom sunning in the park, walking to Taco Bell, and generally being lazy with a lesbian named Michelle. We would spend hours on the steps of the park’s pavilion dreaming, of our future loves, and lovers. Somehow this involved a move to San Francisco. I would meet the love of my life in the mythic city. These were solid plans. Plans that turned out to never move from the marble steps of the pavilion into the world of reality. I think bout how easy a move would of been to pull off in 1990. Everything I owned would fit in the back of my ‘68 Mustang. No strings to tie me down. As of today I cannot actually tell you why I never did it, fear I guess. Fear of the unknown; of failure, maybe of this love of my life not existing in the real world. 

I started adult life in Denver. I got many-many jobs, slowly went through college, grew my hair out, shaved it off. Grew a beard, shaved it off.  Had string of boyfriends both bearded and un-bearded. It’s funny about my experiences with boyfriends during this time we will call Steve’s adult life. With every “love of my life” I had a sense of forcing the idea of love and companionship. Like that over-used song says, “ I would tell myself they were right for me, but I would feel so lonely in there company.”

During this long chapter I would find myself returning to the steps of park’s pavilion and find myself gazing off into my future countless times. These steps were my daydreaming space. I soon settled on the fact that this was, actually what love was. A cheesy song by Gotye about being in and out of love.  

This, without warning and without my approval, changed when I agreed to a lunch date with a man we will call, “The Amazing One.” Within the last couple of years The Amazing One and I started walking, these walks seem more and more end up at the pavilion in Cheesman Park. I sit and chat with the most amazing, talented, warm, smartest person I ever met. Every second I am filled with gratitude. As I sit and daydream with this amazing human, I think about my first summer sitting on the marble steps and how long it took to really find my place of contentment and pure happiness. The hows and whys don’t affect me any more. For the first time it’s real. As solid as the marble steps. 

The Blue Light Project

During the darkest days of the AIDS epidemic the community in Denver was devastated. To cope and indicate our strength many houses placed a blue light in their windows. The Blue Light Campaign.  You could drive around Capitol Hill in 1988 and whole streets were lit up with blue light bulbs glowing from windows. During this time I was in high school and rode the number 10 bus every day, riding early in the mornings way before the sun would rise. As I left my safe neighborhood to head to the grey suburb I would count the glowing blue bulbs. One building next to Cheesman Park had every window lit up with a blue lamp marking the defiance to a disease. I would stare at this building with a sense of belonging, solidarity, and fear for the future of the disease.  

Then the violence started. 

Rocks began to be thrown through windows shattering the widows and the lights. Somehow attempting to stop and deny the solidarity in a time of crisis. The news refused to cover the growing violence, community leaders started civilian patrols. I remember meetings at the gay community center trying to build some sort of protection. Not only were we fighting AIDS we also had to fight roving bands of rock throwing nasty hate. But, the building next to the park never stopped shining their blue lights. Window glass was replaced and the lights were still lit. 

One morning on the bus to school I saw that a large picture window in this building was shattered.  On the ride home that day I noticed a sign. It read “WHY? You will not break us!!” I cried the rest to the ride home. The sign became my mantra. My driving motive to get involved in the movement. All of my belonging to the community was started and formed on that day. They may throw rocks, but will not break us. 

I thought about that day a lot growing up. So it was surreal when I stood in an empty bedroom on the other side of that window where the sign was posted. The window I looked out of was once shattered by hate. The blue light sat in the condo where we were touring. Thirty-five years later I stared onto the street below where someone once stood and threw a rock. Someone bravely lived in this home we were deciding to make our home. My partner stepping up next to me seeing the look on my face as I stood thinking about that day. “You okay?” He said. “Yes, we need to live here” I said. We moved in soon after. 

I have blue lights decorating our balcony. I am 100% sure no-one knows the significance. But I do. It’s for the person who hung up that sign in the window.