My name is Billy. From 1983 to 1998 I believed that my life was over. In order to function by only the most rudimentary standards, I willed myself to grow numb to everything that had been important to me. More often than not, if I was awake, I was begging for a permanent resolution to my interminable, anesthetized waiting. As long as I've been alive, I have been a great, big button waiting to be pushed. Now the button is pushing back (insert finger snap here).
In my final semester before graduation from East Carolina University in 1984, I started to panic. I couldn't conceptualize new compositions anymore. Some paintings remained unfinished. Other assignments that I submitted as complete were obviously thrown together the night before. My grades plummeted and I barely escaped clutching a meaningless degree in my fist. The career that I needed to leave the South disappeared.
I took a menial job with a small printing company in Charlotte assuming that at any moment my inspiration would come back. Eventually too many years in a town full of God-fearin' bankers took its toll. Daily exposure to a homophobic gym (is there any other kind?), a dead-end job, and a passive, closeted gay community contributed to the toxicity of my environment. By the time I noticed that nearly all of the beautiful and talented people had escaped to maximize their lives, I was already too weak from the cumulative effect of ubiquitous stupidity. Fifteen dark, evil years later, I'm still at the same job and have completed only one major work during the period.
Something about Charlotte drains away your energy for action against injustice. Something in the air or drinking water makes you numb to the violation of civil rights. Pathological discretion bleaches passion out of every conversation. Everyone here simultaneously dreads and desires a spanking across Daddy's knee (although, to be fair, so does most of America). Charlotteans seem excessively conflicted. You can be as bad as you want, just keep it out of sight and don't get caught. And make sure you take an hour break from your perpetual sinning to go to one of the 18-billion metro-area churches built no more than thirty feet apart like Subways.
I had convinced myself that "survival of the fittest" meant that I couldn't live beyond 25. If I was not at work or the gym I was in bed sleeping life away as quickly as possible. Later I nudged the fatal age up to 30, followed by 35. How long do I need to survive before I see myself as one of the fittest?
I figure that if I'm going to stick around I'll need a new tack. I believe I'm overdue for a new identity to replace "failed artist." I have to learn to care about something, regardless of what it is. Constructing this web site is a solid beginning. I have discovered that I have no trouble accessing my sense of humor whenever I e-mail my friends. Writing with a positive perspective to a world of anonymous strangers, however, is more difficult for me than you could possibly imagine. I intend to try.
I am looking for a courageous community somewhere (outside of insanely overpriced cities like San Francisco, New York, and Chicago) that shares my interest for unconventional Contemporary Art, independent film, and defiant theatre. I hope that the Internet will help me find that community.
To those of you for whom this kind of thing matters: I am 37, 6' 4", 176 lbs., left-handed, and HIV-. I'm in good shape for an ectomorph. My zodiac sign is Scorpio (look out!); let's just say that an affair with me leaves an indelible impression. I'm not particularly fond of cantaloupe or the telephone, but I demand intelligent dinner conversation. Although I generally exercise tact like a good Southern boy, I am pathologically honest, even when honesty is not necessarily appropriate. Unforgivable sins in my book include lying, public humiliation, condescension, and recreational drug use. An ideal potential partner would be out and intelligent, outgoing and intense. Tall would be nice.
My personal philosophy: "When will this nightmare end?"(-;
My junk food weakness: How do I pick just one? Lately I have rediscovered Nacho Cheese Doritos. How could I resist? They're nacho-cheesier. The package says so right on the front.
Please send correspondence to aorangi@earthlink.net
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