Nostalgia

I woke up today uncertain why I failed to meditate, as was my usual habit—unless I had worked on my blog. But no, I believe the first thing I did this morning was to step out into my backyard to check on my plants. I sat there quietly on a calm Sunday morning, savoring whatever breeze the day brought.

I spent several hours watering the plants, digging out the thick roots of stubborn snake plants, and breathing in the earthy scent of damp soil and mold. I probably went outside around seven and returned near ten, not only from fatigue but also because of a light dizziness—perhaps vertigo, congestion, or maybe the mold.

Lately, I’ve been spending more time outdoors. Despite reports of clean air and minimal allergens, I continue to suffer from a nonstop postnasal drip that never seems to end. Again, perhaps the mold.

When I came back inside, I used my Flonase inhaler, which cleared my sinuses almost instantly. For the rest of the afternoon, I felt better, especially since I didn’t move around much. I took my regular nap. Earlier, Jeff had stopped by, but I was too tired to talk. I knew he probably just wanted a soda and a few dollars for a meal.

Later, I received the plant nettings I had ordered and immediately used them to protect my new seedlings. I also made a vow to reduce my posting on Facebook; I’ve grown tired of flooding my page with repetitive updates. Even I am weary of seeing my own routines. There’s no reason to post daily just to assure my family that I’m fine—two or three times a week will do.

That vow applies only to Facebook, though. I can still share my mundane posts on Instagram, YouTube, and TikTok to satisfy that lingering hunger to share. But deep down, my true desire is to return to writing—the reason I began spending time online in the first place. I feel the Holy Spirit guiding me back to it. All those other distractions—scrolling, editing, surfing—are nothing but noise. If I am to fulfill God’s plan for me, it has something to do with writing.

Remembering Alan and Robert

Yesterday, I learned about the death of Alan Ilio back in 2020. He was one of the first people I reached out to for guidance when I started writing online, as early as 1996. He died at the same age I am now—sixty-three. Apparently, he was found at his computer desk.

In his later years, Alan taught high school biology. He was known in Chicago’s LGBTQ+ community as the partner of Robert Dorfman, one of the pioneering couples who married before same-sex marriage was officially legalized, due to Robert’s failing heart. Robert died a few months after their wedding.

Alan lived a few more years, though he had been on dialysis and was probably ill for some time. Despite his accomplishments—academic, artistic, and digital—it took me five years to learn of his passing.

I met them once, during a visit they made to South Beach. The memory is hazy, but I still recall Robert’s gentle, fatherly face. Alan, from what I remember, was vibrant and youthful then, quite different from the photo I later saw after his death—older, heavier, and marked by time. I often wonder how he lived after Robert’s passing. Did he find another companion? Did he move on? Perhaps not. Illness and practicality may have kept him in the U.S., where he could access the medical care he needed.

I realize my speculations reveal more about me than about him. I’m certain the same will happen when I’m gone—some will never hear of my passing until years later.

Faces from the Past

I remember learning, years late, that my old friend Philip Gilapo had died of liver cancer. I saw his emaciated photo only after searching for him online. He had been the last person to visit me in my Fort Lauderdale condo in 2003, before I moved to West Palm Beach. He came with his partner, but I hardly paid attention—I was distraught at the time because a stranger I had trusted had taken off with my new truck. Later, I learned it wasn’t intentional; the man, Nelson, had been found asleep beside the truck, high on drugs, far from where I lived.

Back then, I was consumed by my love for David, who thankfully handled my emotions with grace. Still, he never offered comfort when I needed it most. Neither did my so-called best friend, Mark, who practically lived in my condo but vanished when I needed him. My sister was the one who came to comfort me.

I never heard from Mark again. David later fell ill with several medical conditions, and my little dog Rocky passed away from cancer.

When I look back at all the people I’ve met, loved, and fought with, I realize that what I once admired in them was often an illusion. Their seemingly carefree and secure lives were fragile—smoke and mirrors. In time, we all fall through the illusion of stability.

Fort Lauderdale Years

Though I often describe myself as solitary, I once welcomed people easily into my life. I wasn’t exactly social—just open, perhaps too open. I didn’t filter anyone who wanted to get close, and that carelessness led to many mistakes, especially in Fort Lauderdale.

After leaving my difficult life in Tennessee and North Carolina, I moved to Oakland Park, hoping to break free from years of deprivation. Living close to downtown, I wanted to enjoy the lust and youthful passion common to men—gay or otherwise—driven by their hormones. That was where I met people like Eric, Mark, and BJ.

Eric, from what I’ve heard, has suffered from mental health issues and hasn’t practiced nursing since 2018. Mark, as I’ve mentioned, was a friend until friendship became inconvenient for him. He, like David, was only around for the good times.

I was often the host; my condo became the group’s default meeting place. I even gave Mark a set of keys. He never offered the same to me—but that was fine; I never wanted to visit him in Miami anyway. I let people do whatever they wished with my space and privacy, thinking it might cure my loneliness.

Eventually, I introduced Mark to some friends from New York, including an old classmate, John. Mark quickly claimed them as his best friends and dropped me, except when he wanted access to my condo. I was a friend in good times—but easily discarded when things grew difficult.

All of this is past now, buried in memory, but sometimes I revisit it to find meaning in my existence, to remind myself how far I’ve come.

People and Lessons

Through those social years, I met many others—some kind, some deceitful. A few pretended to be friends, only to use me as a point of comparison or validation. Others respected me at first, then treated me poorly later, as if their goal all along was to feel superior.

I see now that I used them, too—to prove I wasn’t antisocial, that I could fit in when necessary. But once I sensed insincerity, I distanced myself. I could never tolerate hypocrisy for long.

I remember how Mark would parade his sociability whenever we went to Miami. I often watched him from a corner as he mingled, sometimes belittling me to feel bigger. During one trip to New York, a Puerto Rican man showed interest in me, and I could see Mark’s discomfort. Another time, he tried to humiliate me in front of David by “teaching” me how to act socially. David simply squeezed my hand under the table, silently telling me to ignore him.

Today, they are all far from my world. Occasionally I recall their faces, but I’ve stopped searching for them online. My life is open enough on social media; if they wish, they can still see me there. But I no longer care to see them.

Writing, Solitude, and Faith

This is why I now turn to writing as my form of expression. Social media captures moments, but writing captures meaning. Even if I fail to recall every detail, I find greater satisfaction in expressing myself through words.

I remember visiting Alan and Robert at their hotel in South Beach. The night was dark; I recall the silhouette of a church and the old building’s wooden railings as I climbed the stairs. Alan unpacked while Robert stood beside him, quiet and fatherly. Their story reminded me of a magazine piece I once read about their meeting in Chicago—a May-December love story that defied time.

When I think of all the people who passed through my life, I see now that I was never meant to be extroverted. I thought moving to Lauderdale would change me, but the Lord guided me back to solitude.

Aging Gracefully

It has taken decades, much prayer, and countless mistakes to find this peace. At sixty-three, with diabetes, hypertension, high cholesterol, and the lingering effects of all these, I’m still here—still writing, still grateful.

Last year, my oldest brother and younger sister both passed away within weeks of each other. Yet I feel the Lord’s steady hand guiding me.

For years, I lived with my sister and her husband. I worked tirelessly, supporting the family through illness, education, and hardship. When I sold my townhouse to them and moved to a condo in Lake Worth, I thought I’d start anew. I even went to night school for an IT degree.

That period became my last attempt to build a social life—this time under the guise of charity. I opened my doors to men displaced by addiction and homelessness, convincing myself I was helping them. But it was really a way to fill my loneliness. Most took advantage; only one, Tom, eventually straightened his life and now lives with me as a tenant and friend.

It took a pandemic to end that cycle—to release me from the chaos I had enabled.

Now, looking back, I understand myself more clearly—my weaknesses, strengths, and the meaning behind my solitude. I am, for better or worse, built to live alone. Yet I am never truly alone. The Lord stands beside me.

Legacy and Grace

When I reflect on my life—the decades of work, the friendships that faded, the family I supported—I see persistence. I was never extraordinary, but I was faithful.

I helped my parents and siblings. I offered kindness to strangers, even when it cost me. I gave love freely, even when it wasn’t returned. I kept my promise to God to write, to bear witness to the life He gave me.

I don’t care if no one reads what I write. I write as the psalmist wrote his songs—for God to read.

There were countless obstacles along the way: temptation, hardship, loneliness. Yet God always lifted me from the pit, allowing me to fulfill my duty—to help, to survive, to tell my story.

Now, in these quieter years, I find greater joy in writing than in scrolling through social media. Writing brings meaning, a sense of peace, and communion with the Holy Spirit. It is, I think, my true calling—my way of thanking God for every fall and every rise that brought me here.
2025-10-14 10:34:36
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