Sorry, George Michael. You don't need faith.

Inspired by the request of a close friend, and fact that a blog post is long overdue:

I don't go to church. Raised a Roman Catholic, the idea of religion wasn't introduced to me as a matter of spirituality, but instead of pure, unyielding, blind faith. The kind that allows you to believe one thing even when absolutely everything points in the exact opposite direction. The kind that would allow a person to believe their lying, cheating, abusive partner when they say, "nothing happened." Or the kind of faith that would require a Catholic to believe the interpretation of the Vatican on everything written in their version of the bible.

Growing up I went to church at least once a week. I was raised by a Brooklyn-born Italian mother who sees her religion as a cultural imperative. According to her it doesn't matter whether we agree with our religion. We must follow the religion because it is our heritage. So for me, Sunday School wasn't an option. What was to her an important part of raising good little Italian-American kids felt to me like an obnoxious waste of a precious weekend day. Questions like "how?" or "why?" were never welcomed -and met with an angry and impatient calls for more faith. This was in direct conflict, though, with the encouragement from my parents and school to ALWAYS question the unknown. Needless to say I never made it past the sacrament of holy communion.

When asked by a Christian whether I, have accepted Jesus as the only son of God and the savior of human kind, my response is a simple "No." This doesn't mean I don't believe in Jesus as a prophet. In response I'm told that I don't believe in God. Called an atheist. The claim inspires an exasperation inside me that burns like the worst reflux. I firmly believe in God. But I'm not an unquestioning zealot willing to go to war or fight with others over a personal interpretation of spirituality.

The concept of faith allows governing bodies -be they religious, political, or a mix of the two- to manipulate large groups of people. A common faith in something unbelievable allows immense bodies of people which would otherwise have little in common to experience something important together: their religion. It creates an "us" and a "them." One Nation Under God, in the case of the United States. A curious body of states claiming to separate Church and State. Lies! You only have to turn on your TV to hear our country referred to as a "Christian Nation" on any number of channels. News channels. It's my firm opinion that the notion of faith is contrary to a healthy spirituality. With spirituality, a person utilizes their God-given ability to analyze the nature of the universe. The nature of things which science and civilization have not given us the ability to comprehend at present. Spirituality allows a person to question how people and things are interconnected. And maybe even ask "why?" Spirituality should be the shared ground of a Muslim and a Hindu, for example (or people of any religion), that invites heterogeneous groups to sit together and enjoy a friendly dialog. Through spirituality, people coexist. Through religions, people use faith to draw lines.

On my forearm I had the words Om Mani Padme Hum tattoed. The Tibetan Buddhist mantra for compassion. Without compassion there can be no spirituality. No ability to forgive, or to look into a person who you were raised to believe is your enemy and realize that they are your brother or sister. As far I understand it, compassion is the train toward love. Spirituality is the set of tracks that bring you toward the ultimate goals of love and understanding: oneness. And religion is the scenery that we enjoy on our way. Faith is the toxic smoking exhaust that the train leaves in its wake.

The Winter Cold (or Flu)

Winter is indisputably here. If you live anywhere near the Northeastern part of the country you'll know what I mean when I say the cold has been bone-chilling for the past few weeks. I'm half Italian in heritage. This always seems to work in my favor. But as our strengths are usually also our weaknesses, my South Calabrian genetics don't get me far with the American winter. My body yearns for the temperate Mediterranean hillsides studded with olive orchards and palm trees. Maybe a view of the Ionian Sea. As fate has it, though, it's 22F and frosty.

Every year as our breath becomes visible in the air and the grass turns to tiny blades of chlorophyll-laced icicles I remember that it's time to start taking vitamins in preparation for the annual cold season. Except I don't just get the cold. I get sick. It's a futile ritual, but it makes me feel like I'm not giving in so I strive on doubling my water intake, limiting my alcohol and caffeine, getting more sleep. Then it happens. The weather runs me down and the viruses and bacteria that my body can handle in reasonable weather take over for their annual death parade on my body. High fevers, night sweats, chills, severe migraines are all among the symptoms I'm lucky enough to experience during these week-long bouts of excitement.

My siblings and I all love our mother dearly. She brought us life and nurtured us well into adulthood. Perhaps too much. She gives her all, and when we decide to do something that isn't exactly as she would do herself, she takes it personally. For reasons that are difficult to explain, but probably rather simple to understand, my siblings and I call this form of my mother The Pterodactyl. It was the Pterodactyl that came out when my mother found out that I had begun my annual dance with Old Man Winter. Apparently, I hadn't been dressing warm enough, nor had I been eating enough. Shame on me. So after a tirade of choice words, a trip to the ER, and a Flu Rx I'm well on my way to recovery. But only after a sad annual conversation between my mother and I.

Being gay has its perks. I'll give you that. There are plenty of downfalls too, but most of you that read this are with me on the inequality stuff so I'm not going to waste my breath as it doesn't relate to this post and it would be preaching to the choir. The downfall you get to hear about tonight consists of three letters and strikes fear into the hearts of millions. HIV. The stigma is with us, owing to its original false-nomer, GRID (Gay Related Immuno Disorder). Since then it's gone through a number of other wonderful nicknames, "The Gay Cancer," etc.. To the point where now I can't even cough without my mother asking me, "Could this be HIV, Adam?" Even when I was in a committed monogamous relationship of over four years, my mother was convinced that my being gay alone put me in prime cadidacy for contracting HIV. It's not that I don't already know that she doesn't intend this comment to offend or worry me, but what else could it do to a person who has been conditioned by the society that he lives in to believe that his most likely cause of death will be A) The result of a brutal hate-crime or B) The slow and inhumane wasting away that goes with dying of AIDS-related illness. Why couldn't she have asked if it was Bird flu? Needless to say, people: we need to continue to fight ignorance with education. Both in preventing the spread of HIV and in understanding that we are neither the source, nor the cause of the pandemic that affects ALL humanity. Damn the statistics. I trust few statistcs about the gay community based on the fact that nobody knows what the population size is. In short, we're in this together. Stop looking down at us... and let me recover from the flu without the added stress of worrying about the possible ways I might have contracted HIV. It doesn't help!

Hot, Steamy...

Sex.

Have any of you noticed the lengths people go to in the name of sex? Not all people, but a lot. More every day. It's frightening.

I think it all starts out pretty innocently. Sex feels good, afterall. Maybe people don't want to feel alone. I didn't. Is it that people are mistaking sex for love? Or is it that people are falling in love with sex itself -instead of the people they have sex with? It used to be seen as an act of love.

It seems like sex is more frequently being used a weapon now. Not limited to rape. For example, "Whoa, (he/she) is so hot! I'm SO gonna bang that!" Even the word bang is a word of violence. I'm not the first to make this observation. Now, though, it's becoming more difficult to ignore. People are more interested in fucking, screwing, banging... but could care less about getting to know their partner. Loving them.

Shut up, kid. Stop your emo, judgy, puritanesque bullshit. Right? I'm sure that's what some of you are thinking. My point isn't to pass judgment. Just take a moment to think about this for a while. I'm a little lost myself on this issue. Help, maybe?

Hold my hand. Walk with me. See?

The Parks Tour

Squirrels, pigeons, rats. The homeless, the athletes, the musicians. Cracked cement, dirty patches of grass, benches.



How do you know a homeless person when you see them? You really don't. You can assume based on appearance. You can assume based on the piles of clothing and other items that the homeless are known for carrying around with them. You can assume based on (lack of) cleanliness, stature, or any of a variety of other indicators. The only real way to know, though, is to ask.


Then there remains the question of what homeless means. The saying -"A home is where the heart is" comes to mind. In that case, where is my heart? My heart lives all over the place. With family, with friends, with an ex lover, with fields of study and activities I enjoy, places I love -all over the place. If I had a permanent address my heart is not likely to reside there. So how displaced does that bring me from the homeless? No, I don't sleep outside swaddled in carboard and newspapers -but I do depend on the kindness -or sympathy- of others. Whether for work, for food, or whatever else, I am not self sufficient.

But then who is? Corporate executives depend on others, so do doctors, religious leaders, politicians... everybody. They're all valued, though -whether or not they have a permenant residence. You don't ask your physician where they go home to at the end of the day. You might ask where they went to school or about their training. You never ask questions of religious leaders -they're holy... or existing outside critique in most cases. Where they live, though, does not matter.

My family and friends don't seem too concerned with where I stay. Aside from making sure I'm safe and away from physical or legal trouble, they don't worry that I don't have a home persé. They just want to know what I do, what I am contributing. Do I have health insurance (yet), am I going back to school -this is what they care about.

The only thing that separates me from the term homeless is that there are still people that think I have value. That people -friends or family- believe what I have to offer is worth keeping me around for. This is the tragedy of the people that sleep outside in the cardboard and newspapers. That out of all the people they grew up around and all the people that got to know them, none value them enough to take care of them when they cannot take care of themselves. Or equally as tragic: that some people just need way more than even the people that love them can offer them. So am I homeless?

A thousand words each:

I am lost.

The NYU students are out in full force today. Most of them just moved back to town. Classes are just starting for the semester. Washington Square Park is the perfect place for me right now. It has no connection to the things I don't enjoy remembering. It seems like everyone here is either a hipster or a tourist. I feel like I fit in. Not because I'm a hipster or a tourist, but because like them i am also running from something. Or a lot of things.

There are little birds under the bench I am sitting on. If they're waiting for crumbs they're wasting their time. I have no food. I lost my appetite when my ex dumped me. We were together for four years. It happened two Saturdays ago. We went to a club together and he met a guy. He left me for him that night. A dinner guest recently asked him why he didn't transfer to a job location closer to where we lived. He said it was a loyalty thing.

I'm staring at my bruised fingernail as I write. I slammed it in my car door a few months ago. I remember that it hurt badly but I don't remember what it felt like. The car is destroyed now. A few weeks after a tree fell on it while I was sleeping. Termites. Karma can be a bitch.

A few feet away from me a girl is playing a cover to a love song. It's the same song that close friends of mine played at their wedding. I tried to model my failed relationship after their very successful one. I called my ex babe because I liked how genuine and sweet it sounded when they said it to each other. I loved him.

I'm not a smoker, but there is a pack of cigarettes in my bag. Marlboro Lights. I bought them because they're the kind my father smokes when he doesn't know how to cope with bad news. Right now I am struggling to cope. I don't like how they taste or make me smell, but they are good at keeping me from crying. I wonder if this is why my father smokes. I don't want to remember what this feels like.