“Standing in the shower thinking
About what makes a man
An outlaw or a leader
I’m thinking about power…
The ways a man could use it
Or be destroyed by it
The water hits my neck
And I’m pissing on myself…”

And so begins the epic tale of my morning, with an allusion to the album that I once considered to be the existential roadmap of my life. When the song occurred to me I was, predictably, standing in the shower. And I was thinking about you.

Do you know the song? It appears right smack in the middle of Jane’s Addiction’s major label debut: Nothing’s Shocking. The album cover featured a photo of Perry Farrell’s sculpture–two naked women joined at the shoulder and hip with flaming hair and sitting upon a floating bench. Other lyrical subject matter dealt with mass media’s morbid fascinations, seasonal love and intimacy, and the Nietzschean concept of God’s demise. And drugs, of course.

This, to me, was the pinnacle of popular culture. The soundtrack to my coming-of-age. The reason I once tried urinating in the shower and later pierced my nose. (The reason I removed the nose piercing: over-zealous kissing of boys and my OCD’s inability to stop playing with the hoop. Unrelated anecdote, sorry.)

The posturing of rockstars (to be taken as general term for any famed music-maker in any current popular genre) is attractive. Their hyper-identities seem more sincere than those of other celebraties, yet are so contrived and stylized that they allow us to wear them as our own. And we do. From clothing to philosophy to narcissistic self-examination.

And validation: Perry and the boys of Jane’s toyed with ambiguous sexual identities in their clothing and onstage antics. Besides Michael Stipe, Perry offered some of the only explicit validation I could find for my personal expressions and desires. In fact, he once discussed gay men in his film “the Gift,” saying that he was jealous of their secret desire and intimacy, describing a scene at a restaurant where two men stare intently at one another but only dare to touch feet under the table. It was a sweet image, sustaining me through my junior year of high school. Gave me hope.

Today, in the shower, I realized that I shouldn’t need that hope anymore. Nor do I need Tony (my own posturing) as an excuse to write. I have you. And there are some things I would like you to know.

While you were sleeping I peeked through the door to revel in your beauty. Spread out on the bed, an arm tucked behind your head, eyes resting under their lids to the soundtrack of relaxed breath. Blankets covering you from below while your chest stood out in proud glory. How my desire longed to lie down upon that well-formed stage. A graceful, grand, and handsome place for love.

This is not the point but it could be. My emotions are distracting.

Looking in at you I felt again the power of my love’s conviction. For all the minor days of doubt, denial, and fear I suffer there are these epiphanic times to remind me of why I feel the way that I do about you. Like our first night out along the canal when we argued about the existence of fact and you revealed your attraction for men. We hugged and for days I couldn’t quit my enjoyment or fascination with you and our potential energy.

Then there was the night you found me stumbling drunk and upset and took me back to my home and tucked me in and…. Oh those broken rose petals and our total inability to slow down! Your poetry, plays and my realization of your curious depth. Our first sweaty weekend reunion after moving to the East coast. My birthday calendar. Chocolate syrup and honey surprises. And last week at the club how playfully you danced with the beaded necklace! All of this speaks volumes to quiet any questioning of compatibility or commitment.

What remains is insecurity’s echo. The reverberation of being abandoned. The gnawing need to be re-affirmed of your feelings. The whole reason I still sometimes feel like I am in a cage. This morning I thought about your power. “The ways a man could use it / or be destroyed by it…” I want to be spied on while I am sleeping. To be read about on-line. To be listened to on a mix tape. I want to be discovered and understood for who I want to be.

Rockstars do things to get noticed. To be purchased and put on posters on walls. To be quoted and sung along with by large crowds. To be loved. Boy, you’re gonna to carry that weight a long time.

However, I am aware that this sometimes has more to do with me than you or you and me. I’m realizing lately that the empty places inside may need attention from me and not just you. But still from you, too. I also realize that I need to focus on all the attention that I do receive from you and not take it for granted or diminish it by wanting more. And, most importantly, I know that one song cannot sustain an entire blog. So, here’s the other one I was thinking about and singing this morning (and even now as I write):

“Black is the color of my true love’s hair
His face so soft and wondrous fair
The purest eyes
and the strongest hands
I love the ground on where he stands

Black is the color of my true love’s hair

Oh I love my lover
and where he goes
yes, I love the ground on where he goes
And still I hope
that the time will come
when he and I will be as one

So black is the color of my true love’s hair”