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By Brent Dorian Carpenter
Ah, spring is in the air in Michigan! Lovely as that sentiment may seem on its surface, I remind you it’s early August, summer temperatures have been about fifty degrees below normal, and boy, am I pissed. Nevertheless, love abounds and, alas, has captured me in its hypnotic… blah blah blah! Sorry, I’m listening to Tchaikovsky, so please excuse any untenable mushiness spilling forth in the course of this fanciful exercise.
However, the simple fact remains that I am head-over-heels, heels-over-head in love with my partner Mark! I’ve got all the classic signs. I cannot take my eyes off him whenever he falls within my field of vision. I suffer tremendous anxiety when we are apart, extreme relief when we come together. I carried a picture of the two of us with me on my Adodi Retreat so all my sisters could see how beautiful he is and how lucky I am. I love regaling anyone who will listen with exciting tales of our scurrilous exploits. So where does Tchaikovsky fit into all this? Glad ya asked.
By now, everyone who knows me knows I harbor a deep abiding passion for classical music. They also know I am bipolar and experience the occasional epiphany, in which the fundamental, obvious nature of some reality crystallizes in my mind in a eureka moment of startling clarity. So let’s run with these facts and sprinkle in a few ingredients to spice up the mix.
Peter Iljitch Tchaikovsky was a brilliant Russian composer who lived from 1840 until 1893. His renowned signature work, the Nutcracker, at the time of its original debut, was widely panned by audiences and critics alike, and bombed, as we say in today’s terms, at the box office. Of course, we know that ol’ Pete got the final laugh, as his work survived the merciless harangue of his small-minded detractors and lives on to this very day as one of the finest examples of classical arrangement. Did I mention that Tchaikovsky was a homosexual? Oh, my. The flour has been added and thusly, the plot thickens.
So one day, years ago, while suspended in one of my bipolar whirligigs of madness, I had the occasion to be listening to my favorite selection on the Nutcracker when something very profound struck me. It is this astonishingly exhilarating masterpiece with uplifting strings, flutes and a choir rich with sweet, angelic voices, a movement that sounds like the chorus one would expect to hear upon entering the gates of Heaven. (Notice I said “one,” not “me”Ñthat jury’s still out!) There was so much overwhelming joy in that musical release, I realizedÑthis is the part where it inevitably gets perverseÑthat some great big giant Russian bear of a man must have banged Miss Peter’s lights out the night before, and sent her scurrying for her music sheets and quill. In other, more polite terms, only someone stupidly, hopelessly in love could have penned such a thing of timeless, exquisite beauty.
“If only I could find someone to pound my kitty into red paste like that one day, who knows where my writing career might go?” I muttered enviously to myself. Be careful what you ass for. I think I finally have an inkling of an answer. I call Mark my “epiphany maker”Ña stunning, sensuous, remarkable man who has unleashed within me the Tchaikovsky Effect, that mental state of pure creativity and joyous energy. Which brings me to the night of my 40th (gaspÑI said it without wincing!) birthday in April.
It had been chronicled far and wide that I was not looking forward to seeing that particular number roll around, and the event was made all the more horrifying to contemplate because of the catastrophic bipolar episode five weeks earlier that nearly left me in a catatonic depressive state. Over the course of three daysÑthe day before, the day of and the day after my birthday, my magnificent partner scooped me up in his arms and cast us onto a nonstop escapade. Turns out to be the best birthday ever (and you long-term readers of this column know how I ranted and raved about last year’s, so that’s saying something!).
He showered me with so many breathtakingly thoughtful, appropriate gifts in those three carefree days, some practical, some funny, some poignant, some wickedly perverseÑbut picking out my favorite one is easy. That glorious epiphany machine laid a whammy on my black ass that literally blew the lid off my dome. But wait, what’s this? It’s not the lay I was referring to? Absolutely not! What kind of twisted gal do you take me for? Let me clarify. Yes, it was, I think I can honestly say, the single best night of sex in my life, because I was so totally consumed with love for the man. However, it was the contents of the lid-blowing epiphanyÑan unplanned, unintended giftÑthat was the best gift of them all.
That night, my baby inspired me to write a new book. And not one with just any plotline. It’s a Brent doozyÑa love story about the two of us and our very hot, unconventional, outrageous relationship, but fictionalized to a global level. Truth is stranger than fiction. I’m on Chapter 7 and hope to be finished by the end of the year. How about thatÑthe gift of divine inspiration! For an inspiring novelist, what could be mo’ better?
On the auspicious occasion of our nine-month anniversary, I would like to take this moment to pay tribute to my spectacularly delicious, hot black lover Mark. I have needed you many times, on big occasions and small, and you have always been there for me. You were front and center for me that historic night of the Town Hall, you kept me grounded when my bipolar disorder went on steroids, and you’ve eased so many little financial burdens for me. And most importantly, when my father passed in July, you were right there by my side. I couldn’t have made it without you. Thank you.
Mark, like most people with elevated intellect, I can be extremely idiotic when I put my best effort forward. I hope the day never arrives when I am too stupid to remember to tell you each and every day how much I cherish and adore you. And those big f–king Fred Flintstone toes, too! I love you, my barbarian king!
P.S. Go Maurice Greene!