Saturday, December 1, 2012

WORLD AIDS DAY - death disco

It's world AIDs day. I am sure i should be creating a media frenzy about all the art i have for sale before the holiday instead of a whoasme post. But holiday is never as great without the person AIDS took from me. This is my experience with it and it seems like it's taking a long time to fix this problem as this is an old story. This is completely stolen from a previous post on my old web log :

I am sitting in my two toned tan Chevrolet. Its the summer of 1990, and it's coming to an end. Soon, i think or hope. I am parked, windows up outside of the Rego’s, across from Parmatown Mall. It’s hot as balls and I am blasting WILD PLANET from the B52’s. If you flipped the tape over, it was the first release. That tape didn’t get turned over much and eventually ended up melted on my dashboard one afternoon in future weeks outside my day job. I am smoking to gleam the edge off the cube. I don’t want to go back so I sit and wait a few minutes until a cop pulls into the parking lot. Suddenly, I get very nervous, turn on the car and zip out of the parking lot on to Church to go back. And back I go, the fuzz of smoke not really dulling the reality of what I am doing. I park in the cul-de-sac of fancy my grandparents live at and walk back to the pool area. I undo the gate I have undid to access the paradise of the pool since I was too small to reach it and now I burn my hand on it’s metal refraction heat. I cross the cement, past the sparkling pool but it is empty. No relatives allowed. New rule. I am an exception, I don’t get sick. So far. I head down the stairs behind the house to the deep cool basement and the smell of death is the hit of the cool inside that envelopes my sweaty body. It chills my bones and causes serious hair raising on my body but I trudge on, thru the quiet den/basement and up into the sixties decor of suburban catholic chic. Many crucified jesuses stare at me, bleeding and dying in many styles, colors and mediums as I hurry past the flat figures of faith. But I don’t hold much faith these days, these poorly painted pieces just make the situation more ironical everyday. The kitchen, off to the right is where I check in and unload my bag. Several packets of green lime jello, I start a pot without thinking to make more and put the rest away. I put it next to cereal I wonder how old it is, was it the same cereal when I was young ? My grandma had slacked on cleaning up since my dying uncle had moved in a few weeks earlier and I was pretty sure I had eaten Honeycomb cereal. Then I did the math and figured out I had consumed a time capsule, as they had stopped making them. I started to try and pay attention to what was too old to consume, but I did not live thru the depression and god forbid I throw out anything you might HAVE to eat if things got bad. I hoped, that things would not get that bad, that soon. But that summer of 1990, things had got bad. I had gone to visit my uncle at his house and he had fallen and not been able to answer the door. Sadly, once I reported that I had to break in to see if he was still alive and turned off running, overflowing water he was confined to my grandmother, his mom’s. So I started to come by everyday, after my day job until I had to leave for the summer, back to school. I worried when I was going to go back, would he die because I stopped my visits ? Would his will give out knowing I was gone ? Could my friends keep up the supply keeping him alive without him finding out it was me making sure he could eat still? Everything almost worked. But lately, even that wasn’t really working as the disease ate him away in front of my eyes as july and august wore on. It got hotter, sometimes I would not leave and just stay over, sleeping in the frigid air conditioning on super high to get the heat of fever and swelling down. I would spend hours, listening to him breathe horribly, waiting for it to stop and my mental pain stuck in my head like a railroad spikesize might just cease to pound my sanity when it did. No large amount of drugs could quiet my demons that summer, try as I might to quell all frantic panic about the situation. I would walk around the dark pool my family used to frequent for decades until the situation. It was hot and I would use the huge cordless phone and sit and smoke away from my grandma’s view, behind the basketball pole in the middle of a field behind the pool fence. I don’t remember if there was ever cement under it, but we did try and hit baskets from the diving board jumping into the pool. Now it was overrun with grass and I would sit on the phone and listen to my friends cry about their stupid problems with drinking, money, boys and sex while waiting for a light to go out in the house so I could leave or pass out. Many nights it was just us three, Gram and my unce and what was left of me. That summer the man my gma lived with traveled a lot. My real biological g-man was long dead and unaware his oldest lie dying from a trendy new disease for gay men. I always wonder what the fuck that guy would have done that summer. My grandmother retreated from the horror sideshow dying in the guest room into the lost shadows of her mind, never to return or recognize life as she knew it ever again. Watching the two people in my life who mattered the most after my immediate fab four die was a long, hot ninety days of hell. My sketchy friends lived in the sketchy apartments not far from the community college down the road, a few backyard trips to the north and later maybe I would order a minderaser and try to sleep for more than a few hours. I would tell my grandma I was going to the store, run over and fill my head with a whole lot of nothing. Often I would drag myself back, late past everyone going to sleep and sit and watch MTV as if I was ten. But I am about to be twenty and life is about to chip a large part of my heart away through a suffering humiliating disease affecting my white suburban American dream at the moment. In my hurt, I knew I could handle this but the unfairness over weighs my logic and I often destroy how I am feeling to function thru I on massive amount of soma I might not normally dabble within. The phone rings and I turn the ringer off, it’s late. Death, I think, is late. I sit up to wait for him and smoke another until the orange and pink put me down for the night that remains. I forget to turn off the tv and when someone does, it’s another day.

1 comment:

  1. I love you Bridget Ginley. Your story is so sad, but so powerful. Thank you for sharing.