There I Go Using That Word Again.

Hey,
It's me again.
Of course, who else would it be?

I spent last week in Cedar City. I needed to get away for a bit so I went home. And yes, I do consider Cedar City my home.

I got to see Gus. He came to the party Sean was having. You remember Gus, right? I dated him after Greg, who was after Sage, who was after you. I faintly remember you two having a class together. Was it philosophy? I don't remember. Gus is smart, wicked smart. (I also faintly remember writing these exact words to you before.) We have the same kind of conversations that you and I used to have, although you two couldn't be more different. Gus is a legit bohemian. I'm dead serious. He's unemployed, spends his days writing, painting, drinking wine or whiskey out of a mason jar. There's something about that kind of lifestyle I can't help but find attractive. Do you know the poet Charles Bukowski? I've been reading a lot of his stuff lately. He once said, "A free soul is rare, but you know it when you see it--basically because you feel good, very good when you are near or with them." That's how I feel about Gus. He's a really good guy. He's one of the very, very few guys who "gets" me, who understands me. I really shouldn't have let me go. Religion & Russia were the causes of our end, though more the former than the latter. Looking back, religion has cost me more loves in my life than anything else. So it goes.

He looked good. Handsome. Healthy. His eyes are still blue. Really blue. Trustworthy blue. The best goddamn blue eyes God ever created.

I'm starting to forget the color of your eyes. I mean, yeah, I know they're brown. But what kind of brown? Coffee brown? Dark Chocolate brown? Mischievous brown? Sinister brown? I don't remember what I felt when I looked at them. I always felt safe when I was with you. Was that because of your eyes? I don't remember. I desperately want to but I can't.

I ended up going home with a guy who wasn't Gus. We'll call him Jack. I've gone home with him before. He's in the military. He keeps everyone at a distance nearly all the time, even me for the most part. He has let me in a bit but only when we're alone in bed.

Jack believes in God. He believes in God and in prayer and that God listens and answers prayers. Of all the people on this planet who have a good reason to not believe in God, Jack is right at the top. Yet he believes in Him. Fervently. He and I talked about God before we went to his apartment. I told him I do believe in a God, in a divine creator of everything but I don't think he gives a shit about any of us. We can pray all we want, he's not going to do anything. He's deistic. The only way anything changes in this world is if we go and do something about it ourselves. But Jack just laughs at my cynicism. He doesn't try to change my mind. He just believes and doesn't question.

My editor/friend, Andy, referred to Cedar City as my Mecca. I like the association, though Mecca isn't exactly the right word. Mecca is a holy place, a center of religious pilgrimage. Cedar City is more like my asylum, a place offering shelter & support to the mentally ill. That's me and that's Cedar City. It's my refuge, my sanctuary, my home.

There I go using that word again. Home. You're probably laughing at me, thinking I'm silly for calling Cedar City my home. You and I know I've spent 80% of my life in Provo. But that's not home for me anymore.

Home is Cedar City, Utah in a shitty three bedroom house rented by my Numero Uno. I had friends & lovers and no reason to be anything but myself. And I can never get that back.

I miss you.
I hope you're doing well.
Thanks for listening.

Love you.
Mean it.