HE DOESN’T KNOW HOW MUCH I LOVE HIM

I never feel more judged than by old friends.

  • English major from the West Island, terribly droll, one of several men I have known whose boyfriends were murdered. I found a cache of his old letters and postcards. (I have his 1994-era electronic mail, for he was as early online as I.) Both of us were young and depressed and we argued all the time. Once too often.

    I see him on the subway, often with Whole Paycheque shopping bags in hand. He has matured into a full-fledged cinnamon-sugar bear while remaining slim. My last image is of looking up from Instapaper on my iPhone to notice him lean against the subway door and push up his spectacles to read his iPhone.

  • Buddhist librarian. Defies the implied traits of both by judging the most. Like the foregoing, achieves the improbable by being unlocatable online.

  • Engineer and former indentured servant to the Reichmanns. Vanished off the event horizon for years at a time, about which I worried every day. I see now he was near death on several occasions. Had the guts to leave this town, thereby leaving its mediocrity behind. Now does IT for online porn; works as an extra; and views television-episode recapping as a viable life course. Could not recognize a friend if the supplicant sucked his cock, a recently-instituted substitute and prerequisite. With him, my feelings are the definition of “mixed.”

  • My virus-inscribed friend. He had a depressive episode or psychotic break just after the reëlection of W. and has not been the same since, a fact denied to my face on a visit here. Latterly has had the gall to salute the survivors, though not of his own breakdown and betrayal.

You see how this started out with regret and ended with anger. Imagine how angry these old friends will be. (The librarian would just laugh.) Indeed, this is only gonna get worse, because it isn’t just me.

Systemically

In an era where gay males are being written out of history, ostracized, and erased in queers’ and transgenders’ program of cultural genocide, the crunching you hear underfoot is of the shattered friendships of aging eldergays – the men laughably described as “survivors.”

The foregoing posting appeared on Joe Clark’s personal Weblog on 2014.04.01 11:36. This presentation was designed for printing and omits components that make sense only onscreen. (If you are seeing this on a screen, then the page stylesheet was not loaded or not loaded properly.) The permanent link is:
https://blog.fawny.org/2014/04/01/vieuxamis/

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