February 1, 1988
Jon,
When you were five, you used to worship me, “Jacob, Jacob!” you used to yell, “I love you, love you.”
You used to follow me around the house if I wouldn’t play with you and you’d yell my name until I couldn’t stand it anymore and played with you.
I used to carry you. When you were a baby, I used to like to hold you. Mom would take you away from me because she said I’d drop you. But I was always careful with you—more careful than her. Sometimes I would just put you on my shoulders and give you rides all through the house, and then we’d go outside and I’d toss you in the air. You were so little. You used to sit on the lawn sometimes and play with bugs. You could play with insects forever and you would never kill them. You were as careful with bugs as I was with you. You were good with bugs and animals and people.
I taught you to swim, do you remember?
I wonder what kind of man you are.
Are you still careful? Are you still good with people? Did he damage you so deeply that you live somewhere alone and far away from everybody around you? I hope you’re not like me. I push people away all the time, always have. Even Joaquin—even him I pushed away. Except now that he’s dying.
Do you ever wonder where desire comes from? I never desired clothes or houses or property. I desired men. I wanted all of them. Where did I get that?
I keep going back to the house where we lived. I keep going back. I keep going back to that house to find you. Funny thing about that house we lived in, I keep finding things.
Today I remembered the first time I ever had sex. I don’t remember the event being very thrilling. Maybe a little. I was nervous. Uptight. I was scared. Hell, I was terrified. I was sixteen and it was with another guy. My best friend. We couldn’t look at each other afterward. We never talked to each other again after that. We were ashamed. I was. He was. Maybe he’s gay. Maybe he isn’t. Don’t know. Don’t think it matters. Now, I’d like to go back and tell him everything is OK, tell him it doesn’t matter. Why is everything always such a big deal? I was just a kid. And I felt bad for months. I was so ashamed. Isn’t it stupid, the things we suffer over? And where the hell does shame come from? Joaquin says that a conscience is not possible without shame …
I found out today I was HIV positive.
J is beginning to come down with symptoms. I want him close, now. And now he’ll be getting farther and farther away.
I’m scared, just like when I was a kid. And I’m so fucking angry. I can’t even tell you. I’d like to break the earth in half. Maybe not the earth. Maybe just the people.
Today. I hate anybody who’s healthy. Joaquin doesn’t hate. But I hate, and it’s so real, so fucking real. When I found out Dad had bothered you—I hated. That’s how I hate now. When I punched Mom out, I hated, and really it felt so goddamned good to hate—I mean really hate her and hit her. I could have hit her until my arms fell off their sockets. I hate so much sometimes that I think I’ll just explode. But it’s like food, sometimes. It’s what you’re used to eating—and you have to eat something. Joaquin always wanted to make me into a calmer man. I think he feels that if he had loved me more, then alt that rage could have been converted into something more positive. He is more than I ever deserved.