Friday
December 02, 2005
SGN.org
Volume 33
Issue 48
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Saturday, Nov 21, 2009
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Tour De Life by Beau Burriola |
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| TIME | ||
| "It didn't work out," Sean started to say with a shaky voice. "He told me..."
I waited. Knowing Sean, I expected it would be something small and insignificant, like the time a guy didn't want to see him anymore because of his shoes, or his too-gay voice, or some other ridiculous, unimportant thing that very young gay men latch onto as a definitive reason to stop seeing someone. I braced myself. "He said I'm too old," he said, looking up at me with a serious look. In the five years I've known Sean, I've never seen a serious look on his face. At twenty-three years old, Sean is just moving out of his chicken days. Not so long ago, he was a super skinny, eighteen-year-old tiny t-shirt-wearing, Lester party-attending, Grade A Prime Seattle twinkie. It's amazing how quickly five years goes by. "Too old," he repeated without anger, as if realizing it for the first time as he said it. We stood leaning on the third floor rail of Pacific Place, watching the Christmas crowds coming and going around us while fake snow shot up and then flipped, floated and fell onto grinning people below. I wonder if he thought of time passing, as I did, when he saw the Seafair signs go up every year or flyers for the Seattle International Film Festival, or his sister's birthday. Maybe very young people never notice the markers of time ticking by until its well into it's cadence. "Okay, grandpa," I tried to say with a toothy smile; but I timed it wrong, he wasn't watching and it didn't seem to fit. I remember when I first realized how young I wasn't anymore and how people used to mock me for talking about it. It didn't make me feel younger, just petty. "What happened?" Sean asked in a way that didn't need an answer. "He's eighteen" I reminded. "Maybe you aren't too old. Maybe he's too young." "Maybe," he mumbled with his eyes fixed on the lady in the dancing snowflake costume below. Maybe he'll think of time passing by every time he sees a dancing snowflake. In the years since I've known him, Sean's problems have always been laughably small. They've been mostly self-inflicted dilemmas that might be avoided with a little common sense; like not spending all of your rent on drinks, or not dating someone who has a boyfriend. It's always been entertaining and reminded me of a different time in my own life. Hanging out with him has always been Flighty Hour with Sean. Whatever we've discussed, our conversations have always left my mind swirling with questions of why anyone would put themselves into some of the things he has. Not today. Today something changed. "Maybe I just haven't really been enjoying myself," he said when a few seconds of silence had passed, though partying was all he seemed to do. When we left Pacific Place, I could tell something had ended, or maybe just started. The mood was mellower than I knew him to be. As we were walking back up the hill, the conversation took a turn for the deeper: life, purpose, direction, substance. We talked about dreams, hopes, the future - things I never thought I'd talk about with him. After a goodbye hug, I watched him go into his apartment building and I bundled up for the walk home. I found myself adding another marker to the time I notice passing: the aging of those around me who I never considered could be older. As gay men, maybe we age more quickly. Maybe hearing we're too old at 23 is what makes us afraid to turn thirty, or maybe our self image is forever tied to the youth and beauty we spend our adult lives trying to preserve, regain, or freeze in time. Maybe the only way we ever come to terms with the passing of time is when we realize that we can't stop it. I guess there will be no more Flighty Hour with Sean for me. Even if it's a small price to pay for someone else's enlightenment, in a small way I'm going to miss always having the answer to Sean's problems and dilemmas. I'm going to miss always being the wise one. Time keeps on going, snowflakes keep dancing, Seafair keeps passing, Christmas keeps coming& and before you know it, you wake up five years down the line. (Beau Burriola is a local writer scribbling it all down as it goes by. E-mail him at: beaubrent@gmail.com) |
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International Readers |
 
It's new!A blog created by the SGN staff so you can be heard |
"Putting on the Ritz |
The Beauty of Freedom artist's reception |
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copyright Seattle Gay News - DigitalTeamWorks 2005