Page 51 of Down My Chimney

And what do I do, if I ever find the answer?

I don’t know why I’m telling you this. I mean, I’m not really telling you this, because you’re not actually here, but in my head you are, and I guess maybe I’m saying it to you because I can’t imagine talking to anyone else about this stuff.

You’re the only person I’ve ever felt like I could just be myself with. Like I didn’t have to try to please you. Like you liked me just as I was.

I wish I’d told you that more, back when we were still talking.

I miss you.

Love,

Henry

* * *

The second part of our program focused on opera, and we stayed in an old palace in Milan that had been converted into student apartments in the 1970s. It was only a few blocks from La Scala, and I found myself walking the streets of the old city center in my free time.

I was shocked by the number of people who stopped me and asked for directions. Not just in English, but in French, German, and even Italian. I didn’t think of myself as particularly Italian-looking. Maybe they just figured that no tourist would look so sad on their vacation. That only a local could be so depressed.

“You never heard that old joke?” Vernon asked when I mentioned it to him. “Gay or European?”

I shook my head, and he laughed.

“Suffice it to say, it can be hard to tell sometimes. Take it as a compliment, though. It means you’re not an awful American stereotype.”

I didn’t think I looked particularly gayorEuropean, though. The more I thought about it, the more convinced I became that it was much simpler.

People thought I was a local because I was always alone.

I still wasn’t writing bad poetry in cemeteries, but I was bringing my journal with me more and more, and towards the end of October, I sat down in a tiny cafe with an espresso and a stale piece of rock candy, and wrote to Blake again.

I’ve been thinking a lot about opera.

It gets a bad rap. Cheesy, over-the-top, unrealistic. But if you actually go see an opera, it does something to you. Helps you access emotions you wouldn’t experience if you weren’t in that room, the music swelling around you.

People tell stories to make meaning from the world. To make sense of it. Whether they leave you depressed or uplifted, stories help you process emotions.

But in live theater, the connection between the writer and reader is magnified and shared. Because it’s not just the person who wrote the script, or the music. It’s the director, the lighting techs, the costume and set designers, the actors, the orchestra, and every single person whose work has helped bring that story to life. All their energy is pouring out onto the audience, who takes it in together and gives their energy back, all while the music transports everyone to a different plane of existence.

There’s something about it being live, about real people sharing the experience together, that makes it all hit harder.

I think that’s what drew me to theater. It was a safe place to process emotions. It didn’t hurt that it was also a haven for queer kids and weirdos, but I think what I really fed on was the storytelling.

I never wanted to be an actor. Always wanted to be a writer or a director instead. And I keep thinking about those fairy wings. How I wore them even when I didn’t want to.

I think that maybe, I already felt like an actor in someone else’s story. Like I was playing a role for my parents, and my teachers, and the other kids at school. For once, I wanted to be the one telling the story. I wanted to be in control.

I paused, watching a flock of pigeons swirl and mutter outside, then take flight into the overcast sky.

Blake, I can’t stop thinking that’s what I tried to do to you. That I was trying to control your story. Trying to fit you into a role in my life, one you didn’t ask for.

If I want to be in charge of my own story, that means I have to let you be in charge of yours. I just wish I’d seen that earlier.

I know I fucked things up with you, but if you were here, I would tell you how sorry I am. How much I wish I could take it back.

And how much I still love you.

* * *

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