Lucius Bod | Rogue Diary

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Man's Tailcoat LACMA M.2007.211.958

Hello. Sometime between last night and this morning, I could not stop packing my trunks. There were so many aged photos, letters and old bills from a decade of living in New York.

I caressed the pigskin trunk, with its protuberances coming to me. Almost all of my clothes will be creased by the time my train arrives to my destination. Even now I face uncertainty about where.

Every face that stared back at me from those pictures and the handwriting of everyone no longer here… I sat down on the old sofa, the aubergine suede nightmare my sister had picked for the new flat. My eyes looked at the voluptuous oak-panelled library with its volumes of delicious sins dormant in skin-bound books with tenderness.

Wow, I think of ten years of life in this city and I smile. After looking at Father’s tailored worsted wool three-piece suit in the closet, I smile even more as I am leaving it behind.

Last night I wrote a note without thinking much about it, only feeling. It said:

Living. I breathe through my nose and exhale through my mouth. Vision is alert and perceives millions of colours, all there for me and for others, too. Scent. Touching my limbs. Walking to the door and resuming the activities in a sequence I call living. Sound fills the evening. My friend, your light brings to me that sweet moment when we speak and I feel as though you and I have never parted physically as we whisper on the phone. Your voice, hearing you…

There was a different moment, when the colours dimmed and the scents were bitter. Touching the sheets caused pain of unspeakable sharpness and profound regret. Lying in the imaginary cube in which I found myself, with my arms around me and music caressing a moment I knew was over, I wept. It was an end to us, to the possibilities.

My eyes closed, and ennui came from impatience at the seconds slowly piling up like dried fallen leaves. When? How much longer? I got up from my cube and walked with fear. The cold was that much more stinging and acrid outside. Snow pricked my skin on contact. The darkness was my friend and longtime acquaintance walking next to me. Resignation came.

I made a promise to myself: to withstand it all, if I could continue giving, loving, crying and laughing. Living. The darkness left, but the sun that came after was paler than I remembered.

Something was left behind as I contemplated walking through the door at the end. Thank you.

Everything is peaceful and more balanced, but innocence is now that old book in my library. It was something I had felt and lived, but is now another part that I collect; treasures that arrive when I summon my past with trembling hands. How cynical of me to remember things this way.

I could not. Something inside me said I should not cease to be. Perhaps it would be over another day, but not at that moment. There was a brief and shiny vision of me walking away and learning how to live all over again, but this time without the sickness, without the ignorance and the fear, always ready to learn and feel everything that came to me, knowing right from wrong and willing to experience it all until it was the right time to go. This was what I thought and felt last night.

What is at the end of this lesson? The incredible happiness of living, of always being hungry and of being eager to walk and breathe. I will dance again and smile like the free man I am. A new beginning in a new city, but without you. If we don’t meet again, just know that I will always love you. I must call my cab now.

Yours truly,

Lucius

© Text: Orlando Barahona
© Image: Ashley Van Haeften/LACMA

This work by Orlando Barahona is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.

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man made of metal, man made of clocks, male metal sculpture

Just as I walked out of your atelier the clocks were set to twelve hours from now, and that is how long I have to live. No last words come to mind, yet I know at the Death of my consciousness my existence will prove me wrong. Have I been wrong?

1:00 A.M. - Prague. Gloria. Lucius. Closed bathroom. Fear! Pounding at the door. Tears. Frustration, frustration, frustration! Police! no more Father tonight... I am only five years old!

2:00 A.M. - Carlotta. Middle sister. So close. My hazel. Her brown. Lucy, the youngest. So poor, yet happy. Two parent's careers and only us this far.

3:00 A.M. - Luce, Lúz; Light. TV Baby. Five of us now. Two careers, several violent incidents tempered by love for proper behaviour.

4:00 A.M. - House, joy, schizophrenia, sadness; separation; rancour and loneliness.

5:00 A.M. - Watching the door. Carlotta, and her loves. Baby sister off to the judge! Mother so crazy! High school bullies and all who thought I was different.

6:00 A.M.- Mexican boy colleague, both of us outcasts. Not for long. Out of the house! You and your kind! Mama knew not where she went wrong. The seas. Worlds.

7:00 A.M.- College. Second lover. Both love and hatred so raw. Third lover. Svizzera. HIV. Neither he nor I knew.

8:00 A.M. - Tattered mentally. First signs of mental disease, then homelessness, kind strangers, mental healthcare,

9:00 A.M. - Adult thoughts. Living forever? Never! Suicide almost complete. Kind strangers and my guilt. I won't die today!

10:00 A.M. - New York. Pearl. The Lady Bunny. Club USA. Jackie Sixty in the Meatpacking District. Neal. Our hotel. Limelight, whilst existing at the church! Fashion. Bergdorf Goodman. Barney's. Saks Fifth Avenue. Two boys understanding American made mass practices to tag merchandise.

11:00 A.M - Robert, Richard and my most loved, Jimmy. Misunderstanding, alcohol, nude beach, deep inside, a monster - or two. Love and Hate are equals on the way to Hell. Time forgives nothing.

12:00 noon

Sarah and Susan. Susan's name was derived from the Egyptian Seshen=Lotus. No babies, please! Loss cannot be gauged by eyes and hands. Find the stone in your heart and throw it far away.

( This is a work in progress, so stay tuned for updates!)

Text: © Orlando Barahona
Image: © Duncan Rawlinson/Flickr

This work by Orlando Barahona is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.

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1989 and a summer that scorched New York City were on my mind, making me sweat profusely as a newly arrived student from Barcelona. I knew Julio, an old friend from childhood whom I had kept in touch with via correspondence, and he offered me the spare room in his flat, if I ever came to visit.

After leaving my family’s home in Toledo, Spain, I travelled to take a break and re-focus on what career I wanted, on what I should do to become independent from my family.

My friend Julio was once a vicious bully at school but took a liking to me for reasons he never shared. Perhaps I was distracted by the familial problems I had witnessed and never bothered to ask about. Well, I was content with having someone to talk to after class for a change. We took long walks outside the city to smoke together and to have a great time as often as we could. As with many school outcasts, he taught me his ways, and I shared my toys with him in this new companionship. Ah, childhood…

He left Spain to live in New York in his late teens with relatives from his Father’s side, many of whom he detested, but the possibility of a new life got the best of him. He opened his own automotive body repair shop in the Bronx, and I would help him on my available days to perform accounting tasks. No work was beneath me whilst looking for a great college and a new career. He had a whole new life, which was something I wanted to earn for myself.

After he picked me up from LaGuardia airport we arrived at a very shabby-looking building, where he showed me his new home in the city, located in the East Village in what he told me was called “Alphabet City” for its avenues named by letters. This is where I stayed. After unpacking, I laid back on my new bed, listened to the sounds of the metropolis coming from the open window and smiled with anticipation.

One night, after working at Julio’s auto body shop I left a little early to recover from some greasy food he and I ate for lunch. I tried my best to purchase items at a deli or to buy fresh vegetables, but this time I was not up to cooking and paid the price.

I took the train home and walked a short distance to the apartment building. I walked up the flight of stairs and came face-to-face with a young couple walking downstairs. Both looked great, in what looked like a re-styled 60’s bohemian printed cotton chemise on her, and a collarless orange batik print rayon shirt on him.

My mother was a client of Loris Azzaro and Nina Ricci in the ’70s, where she took me on days when she had had enough of my sloppy cleaning habits. She taught me so much about quality and style. Her guidance led me to take better care of my garments and to appreciate good taste in clothing on other people. I remember her L’Air du Temps perfume in the iconic Lalique flacon.

For much of my childhood with her I used to read a lot of Jules Verne books, Agatha Christie novels and Robert Heinlein’s stunning visions of the future in science fiction. Before and after her divorce to Father she would come home after parties in what I would describe as a heroine’s wardrobe. It was an unforgettable life that seemed like a great novel come to life…

The couple did not just take a casual glance at me, they stopped to smile and stare brazenly. I felt uncomfortable. Were they looking at my dirty appearance? No, there was something aggressively inviting about how they engaged me. Both introduced themselves as Nikolai and Polina, the newlywed visiting neighbours from Moscow occupying the sublet flat across the hallway from my friend and me. They asked me, “Would you like to come over for a drink with us in an hour?” I hesitated for one full second, but said yes. I walked briskly to the door and let myself in to hear my fast breathing.

I purged the contents of my stomach, and immediately felt better. Because I had admired the couple as a stylish duo earlier, I wore slim chocolate pinstriped summer-weight wool trousers, caramel brogues and an easy crewneck short-sleeved cobalt blue silk knit t-shirt for the friendly drink meeting. After a short trip to the local wine store I found out they had nice Chiantis in stock, and I picked one out as a gift for them.

After one knock at the door, Nikolai opened it and invited me in. He showed a mischievous grin when he saw the Chianti, he thanked me and took it to the kitchen. Nena’s 99 Luftballons was playing on their stereo, and it brought back good memories of 1984. Where was Polina? I would know in a moment, but just then, Nikolai offered me a tall glass of good straight-up Russian vodka. The effect was felt quickly and thoroughly since I had not consumed any spirits for months. Some light conversation took place between us and he kept serving me this - by now - great vodka.

Nothing prepared me for what happened next: Polina opened the door of the bedroom completely naked except for black satin high-heeled pumps. She walked over to where her husband and I were chatting and gave me a lusty kiss. The look on my face must have made both of them laugh, but I was close to being completely drunk, so my bewilderment gave way to excitement.

Both took me by the hand, and together we walked into the bedroom. Polina undressed me and seduced me with her lips and eyes. At first, Nikolai removed his clothes, walked to the edge of the bed and watched me devour his wife. He slowly guided the pace at which I was breathing and having sex with her. She looked at me with what was now full ecstasy, and suddenly, I felt Nikolai’s hand on my shoulder. I thought he would join me in the ravishment of Polina, but instead, he made me stop and embraced me from behind. I felt his hot breath on my ear, and he ran his hands up and down my torso slowly. Perhaps it was the vodka and this complete surprise, but I did not object to his touch.

After she and I were satisfied I got up and put my clothes back on. Nikolai’s behaviour puzzled me a bit, but I accepted his invitation to return the next night. I saw myself out of their home, walked quietly back to the flat and greeted Julio with a brotherly hug. He smelled the vodka on me and asked if I had had a good time. I do not know why I hesitated then to tell him about my encounter. Instead, I lied and said I had been out for some drinks at a bar. I knew what had happened was not a dream, but it left me with some disquieting new thoughts about my sexuality, which I decided were best left unshared. "Na zdraví!"

I went back to them every night of that summer. Polina and I made love while Nikolai slowly seduced me, and one afternoon I accepted the sensuality of his homoeroticism so we made love to each other. If this was a battle, aggression became the relentless exploration of our bodies. Every surrender and thrust was transformed by touch and breath into a dance. At first I could not stand my insistent desire to release tension and feel the insane moment of the conquest, but I slowly learned to enjoy our dance and listen to the music we offered each other. I made love to her as he guided me, and then he and I loved each other. Polina’s expression of jealousy and lust was the call for a new dance between the three of us.

My happiness with them ended when they returned to Moscow in August of that year. We went out for a farewell drink together in SoHo. I wrote letters to both for many months. They wrote back and promised to love me again when they returned the following summer. They told me they missed me as I missed them. I could move in with both if I wished to do so, and it would be just the three of us. I looked forward to it.

This work by Orlando Barahona is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.

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My girlfriends and my parents thought I was insane to marry Lucius. The statement “He’s my husband” carried weight and safety, but I was well aware that being with him was an unbounded territory for me. Every day with him was different in every way: lovemaking, cooking, going out to trendy bars on occasion, impulsive shopping for clothes or accessories, and his quirks only added mystique to his mercurial character. He made me laugh, and he also made me think.

“Karlie,” he said, “there are things I must tell you, so you know me as your friend, and you can decide what to do.” I can’t say I was surprised when he told me he enjoyed sex with men and women. He told me about his past, between bites of his grilled chicken breasts with a mango-infused sauce on a bed of white rice and an amazing gazpacho. I swooned, although I had to confess the meaning of what he was telling me would come into my mind slowly. He cooked modestly, but with great sauces and I admired his resolve to make his home a welcoming place for our dates.

At first, a feeling of dread came over me when he asked if I was a jealous person. I dated several men before Lucius with mostly disappointing results, yet I felt there was a possibility to have a long-term relationship with him, much like what my parents had. He said: “I won’t ask you to be superhuman, my love, I just want you to accept me.” I asked him if he preferred one gender to the other. He went on to say: “I can be with a man or a woman.” My silence fell like lead. Was he implying that I would have to share him? I looked away for a moment, and when my eyes met his again my sadness was on the surface for him to see. He poured some Pinot Grigio for both of us and looked at me with tenderness. His “I am with you now” felt like Heaven; I was so blindly in love with him.

I’ve had relationships with women off and on throughout my life, starting with a girl crush I had on Amelia, a popular girl during my junior year in High School. What I did not enjoy were the moments when we would both become hysterical and catty, just utterly vicious with each other at random times. The boys seemed to be mostly push-button creatures, but I appreciated their consistent programming. My preference for the male stereotypes both charmed and annoyed me at times.

Lucius and I felt more and more empathy with each other as the conversation continued because he forced me to examine my past and see the real me. He was challenging me to go on this wild adventure with him into a sexual and intellectual realm I had never foreseen with another being. His honesty helped me to express many things I kept hidden, even from myself. Nothing made me doubt his love, as his actions showed. This new reality where I could have the freedom to indulge in my fantasies and he would be free to philander with my approval was both terrifying and alluring to my ego.

When the light of dawn came through the windows I was in his arms and he said softly: “White walls of rented flats and many jobs, but no career. Blank faces with secret identities surround us and somehow, we found each other.” I listened to his heartbeats. “Let’s have a life together.” I kissed him and nodded, knowing this was a demented troubadour’s dream. Sometime during the night it also became mine.

The morning sun found us walking to a bakery for some croissants and coffee. We said nothing else to each other and he held my hand. Lewis Carroll’s Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland came to my mind in waves.