we have many differences, basic things about us.
at times it seems they will be our undoing.
times like these.
the thought of it makes me sick,
but what are we doing?
i can’t believe it was only yesterday
that you were here in my office,
our arms wrapped around each other,
and i felt like i was going to jump out of my body
just to get a little bit closer to you.
and here we are?
i understand what you feel
when you say you’re tired,
because it’s fucking exhausting.
all morning i’ve been writing this,
and my feelings are all over the place.
but beneath it all, i can’t imagine
not being with you, and giving up.
i know you’re feeling right now
that perhaps that’s the best thing,
and maybe you’re right.
i really don’t know.
i do recognize that i am
a hippopotamus trying to do ballet
when it comes to being tactful or delicate,
but if you smell funny,
i want to fucking tell you. that’s intimacy.
tell me my dick is crooked. it is.
too much writing.
too much thinking.
sending this now because it’s taken too long,
and i know you’re waiting for it.
…
I blame Snow White. Yep, Snow White. She made love seem easy. She wished in a well for the one she loved to find her; and then there he was, a dashing prince galloping in on a white horse. They hardly exchanged two words. I think: Just wait, honey. Just wait until you fight over chores, awkward sex, meeting parents or cancer. Snow White, you know nothing about love.
Yet, I listened. I believed in once-upon-a-times and happily-ever-afters. Because of Snow White I got my heart broken. Over and over. I kept thinking, he’s coming, my happily-ever-after. Just wish into the goddamn well. I waited for him. I waited for him at a seventh grade dance, then again in homeroom, in college studying art, at the bar sipping a PBR, the grocery store buying two-ply toilet paper… I eventually found him — three times, actually. The truth was disappointing, yet I refused to give up on the fairytale.
“I’m not done loving you,” I e-mailed back.
From: le_samurai@yahoo.com
To: chasityrae@gmail.com
Sent: Thursday, October 27, 10:59 a.m.
Subject: never be done
let’s have dinner
just the two of us tonight.
well, three of us if you count gladys…
do you want to help me come up with
questions to ask the surgeon tomorrow?
some possibilities:
will anthony be as much of an asshole
after surgery as he is right now?
think about it.
"Naked As We Came"
Iron and Wine
chapter twenty-five
in the round
From: le_samurai@yahoo.com
To: friends
Sent: Friday, October 28, 3:27 p.m.
Subject: web+log=blog!
my dear friends and family,
if you are receiving this e-mail
it means that you are pretty frickin’ special,
and in an effort to stay close with each of you
over the next weeks and months,
i have started a blog to post
the latest news/events/thoughts/images,
so that if you’re ever wondering,
you have someplace to go
to see/read/feel the latest.
http://anthonyglass.blogspot.com
love to all.
a.
Thursday, October 27
and all of a sudden
getting ready to meet with my surgeon this afternoon,
writing my list of questions to ask him… kind of slow going…
question #1: “how much is this going to suck?”
question #2: “how long is this going to suck for?”
this month has flown by,
and as eager as i was for the surgery to arrive,
it’s two weeks away, and i can’t help but feel
like that’s suddenly much closer than i thought.
as a follow-up to the chemo and radiation therapy,
two days ago i had to go in to get an imaging scan
of my abdomen to see how my insides are looking.
as is standard practice, i had to down two liters
of barium contrast (with a delightful citrus flavor).
it was disgusting, and i’m quite sure if i ever need
to vomit on cue in the future, i’ll have plenty of motivation.
still facing the obstacles of blue cross.
writing my appeal to get my surgeon Dr. Beart covered*
feels something like writing a personal statement
to get into a college i know will never accept me.
but maybe if i write something so absolutely brilliant…
right.
*quality costs money.
posted by Anthony Glass at 9:54 a.m.
From: le_samurai@yahoo.com
To: chasityrae@gmail.com
Sent: Friday, October 28, 2:59 p.m.
Subject: cuddle
after spending the whole morning
putting my blog together
and sending out the e-mail,
i find myself finally getting into work…
i guess it’s a good thing
since i have to leave before three
to meet my surgeon.
i think you have a lot of reasons
for coming down to cuddle
and should use any one of them to do so.
i will look forward to it.
just in case i didn’t send it before,
here it is again…
this morning was beautiful,
come visit me soon.
"In The Round"
The Cardigans
From: chasityrae@gmail.com
To: le_samurai@yahoo.com
Sent: Friday, October 28, 3:31 a.m.
Subject: Re: cuddle
maybe it’s the cold weather
or that my tummy hurts
or that you’re leaving for the day
or that you are meeting with your surgeon
or that I’m not going with
whatever it is…
I miss you.
…
Your family became long-distance caregivers. Your mother gave emotional, spiritual support and dietary advice during each call; stepfather coordinated medical services via telephone. Your brothers distracted you with football and reminisced about childhood. I was thankful when your stepfather decided to fly in from D.C. for two days to meet your surgeon, Dr. Beart, for a second opinion. The first was a general HMO surgeon who didn’t seem skilled enough for such a complex and detailed surgery. He had never even worked on a colon. We looked for and found the best possible colon cancer specialist in Los Angeles. Surely your stepfather, being a doctor himself, would have questions and concerns that were more valid than my petty worries.
We never planned an introduction. I’d meet your stepfather when there was time to visit, not between doctor appointments.
…
I’m a sucker for dance movies — Footloose, Dirty Dancing, Step Up 2: The Streets, it doesn’t matter. I cry. Flashdance nearly hospitalized me. So unless I’m feeling pathetic enough to seek out a serious cathartic moment, I avoid dance movies.
Hope. That’s what gets me, every time. The basic idea of hope, the obstacle to overcome, the music chosen to extract tears — I’m an absolute sucker. “Just let her dance! One. More. Time.” I scream at the television. Dance movies are my kryptonite (long pause for dramatic effect) until now (longer pause). There is something out there f
ar worse than dance movies. Just reading a show description makes me sob. Medical dramas. There’s no form of entertainment more littered with hope than the medical drama. Hope that they save the old man from heart failure, hope that the woman can conceive after the accident, hope that the child doesn’t lose a limb after the near-fatal infection. Hope that his surgery removes the tumor…
Sunday, October 30
it’s all happening…
the weekend has expired,
left itself in small pieces
in forgotten places
(it is sunday night, after all).
picking them up, folding them neatly,
and putting them away
(monday comes better that way).
the best news in recent memory came thursday afternoon,
when meeting with my surgeon
for my post-therapy, pre-surgery consult.
he told me the tumor
had responded very well to the radiation and chemo,
and had dramatically reduced in size
allowing for a much smaller section
to be removed when i have surgery november 16th.
i was, however, in mid-exam when i received the news,
and tempered my joy until the anal-scope was removed
and my ass was lowered from the mechanized exam table
that had it perched five feet high in the air.
needless to say,
once i was back on my feet
i was ecstatic.
went to see charlie kaufman at the writers’ guild,
and was reminded of so many things,
so many good things.
halloween party at a house
i don’t live in anymore.
everyone dressed up as someone else.
but there were some familiar faces,
and it was fun, especially the part when i went home,
quiet home.
peaceful home.
feel like a squirrel nesting in here,
trying to get everything ready
with winter fast approaching.
counting my acorns.
good news:
happiness is available for all
in the form of $12 slippers from target.
they might’ve changed my life.
posted by Anthony Glass at 10:45 p.m.
chapter twenty-six
mexico
From: le_samurai@yahoo.com
To: chasityrae@gmail.com
Sent: Wednesday, November 2, 10:08 a.m.
Subject: on the road
this is a sweet song,
a familiar voice.
something that makes me
want to pack up the car
and drive south…
yes, i know…
when will that be us?
driving on the mexican coast
on the road to ensenada.
maybe we’ll go somewhere for christmas or new year’s.
would mexico be fun for that?
feels like it.
i’m so curious to see
how i heal from the surgery,
but i’m expecting to be
feeling solid by new year’s.
solid.
seems pretty far off though, huh?
sigh.
"Mexico"
Panda and Angel
…
A naked man Photoshopped from Playgirl with a scary resemblance to you adorned the invitation to celebrate Anthony Day.
Anthony’s more than just a sweet piece of ass (and that’s good, because the doctors will be removing that piece soon), so join us as we celebrate his better qualities, whatever they may be! Bring your booze, leave your pants!
…
“So explain it to me again slowly, who are York and Julie?”
York and his girlfriend Julie, the hosts of the party, were first to greet me. You’re right. York is a bit intimidating, and his height doesn’t help. He towered over me, and bombarded me with the uncomfortable question, “Do you know Anthony’s nickname is Glassanova? How do you feel about that?” I didn’t even say hello. Instead I laughed nervously as Julie gave you a kiss, greeting you, “Ah, my beautiful Anthony.” Julie was mostly sweet, though certainly considered me another of the “Glassanova” girls. You never did tell me about that nickname — then again, we never played the “how many people have you been with” game. It’s probably for the best.
Guests began arriving. Zach was one of the first and dating a new blonde who kept me distracted with random conversation. Your good friend Jane flirted with this strange guy named Seth whose annoying voice sounded like a yogi’s chant. Jay came with an ex-girlfriend, a rumored tornado. Former co-workers mingled with current. Ex-girlfriends chatted with friends of friends. A guy smoked on the patio and put too much dip on his chip. A brunette with a low-cut shirt bent over to towel her spilled wine, looking up to see who was admiring.
It was amusing meeting everyone and I think I did well, considering that this party was our coming out. I can’t recall a single conversation, only my nervous anticipation and fragments of that night. The girls who actually arrived wearing no pants. Your breath smelled of green tea. The bit of spinach dip smeared on your lower lip as you smiled at me across the kitchen. Even though I wanted to be selfish and have you all to myself, this was your party. You mattered to everyone in the room. Our task was to say a holy hell yes to you. We did it with Jell-O shots, chips, cigarettes, girls missing pants, and drawn-out stories of rowdier days.
When no one was watching we made kissy faces across the room. We drifted close to each other, touching toe to toe, your hand on the small of my back. Just enough touch to reassure.
From: le_samurai@yahoo.com
To: chasityrae@gmail.com
Sent: Tuesday, November 8, 9:41 a.m.
Subject: work
mmmmkay…
its almost 10 a.m.
and i haven’t done any work.
i have written a new post,
and it feels great
to have gotten it out.
there is therapy online.
but i wanted you to know
that i am very much thinking of you,
and i can’t wait to spend the night with you.
jumping into my edits now,
maybe i’ll find you there.
Tuesday, November 8
and i am a creature of habit
going to the sidelines,
we always see the game
with a different eye.
can it be that i’m only a week from surgery?
that this is the last week at work?
although part of me smiles at the thought
of not being here day in and day out
and having to drive across town twice a day,
another part feels slightly shaken.
my office,
my edit bay.
my little meditation room.
it is a place of security and comfort.
a personal place, a private hideaway
(yeah, until someone bursts the door open
by mistake thinking it’s the stairwell).
and the people.
friendships that have grown out of this place,
and acquaintances, that despite their sincerity
never seem to get beyond these walls.
they will all remain, running in place,
wearing the carpet just a little thinner beneath their feet.
who will be in my bay when i am gone?
it is a strange thing to disconnect y
ourself
from the routine and system you’re accustomed to.
and i am a creature of habit.
morning pb & j.
afternoon walk for coffee.
planning on working from home a few weeks after surgery,
and then coming back to the office in the new year.
i guess that’s the new routine.
the new system.
an interesting holiday season this will be.
posted by Anthony Glass at 8:39 a.m.
chapter twenty-seven
in the deep
“I’ve spent the morning on the phone with the hospital and Blue Cross. It looks pretty shitty.”
“How shitty?”
“The surgeon is out of my network plans and won’t be covered. I’m submitting my appeal to Blue Cross via fax this morning, but it looks like I’ll be paying $40,000 out of pocket. Up front? Fuck. Honestly, I kind of expected all of this, so it’s not hitting me as a surprise, just more of a disappointment. I should have handled this whole mess earlier rather than waiting until the week of surgery. I thought I had reformed my procrastinating ways… talked to my mom yesterday and she said she was bringing the home equity checkbook. I should call her again before she gets on the plane to prepare her for what’s coming.”
“I’m so sorry, babe. Is there anything I can do?”
“No. I just need to get this letter out. Dinner with my mom should be fun tonight. Right?”
…
Men worship their mothers. Studying Freud in college convinced me and the rest of the human race of such basics. The Oedipus complex: the desire to possess the parent of the opposite sex. So, it came as no surprise when you raved about your mother. That’s what sons do. They hold in high regard. And when you told me your mother was beautiful, I figured every son says that about his mother.
But your mother was absolutely dazzling. Her hair perfectly straight, thick stunning shades of grey. The top half pulled back to reveal her strong features. High cheekbones, powerful eyes, perfect lips, a soft glow off her skin shimmering twenty years younger than her age. She didn’t need make-up to show off her beauty. Make-up would have only distracted. I couldn’t stop staring at her during dinner. I should have guessed her voice to be persuasive, soothing; she’s a therapist who works with children.
I was nervous. I said very little as the two of you talked about health, strength, surgeon, fees, and procedures. You turned boyish in your mother’s presence. I tried to interrupt, give my opinion when necessary and seem useful. It came across aggressive. Then I complimented the taste of my pork chop just to say something. You looked at me funny. What? It was my first time meeting her, and it was under unusual circumstances. I wondered how many other girlfriends met your mother.