My journey has been somewhat amazing lately. I keep sharing about it because there was a time when I was so stuck and hopeless. Almost ten years ago I was so depressed, I went to the south of France to sit on the beaches of Nice (even my depression is glamorous - what can I say?) to contemplate life. I once lived in France, and I wanted to return to a spot I used to sit and ponder life there. 

I realized I had lost all goals and dreams.

I hope by sharing my story others can maybe begin to figure out ways to make new dreams, and even fulfill old ones. I have a number of friends who are stuck, just like I was. When that state of inertia sets in, particularly when you are out of work, it is hard to move forward.

I was so bad that at one point I went to a counselor with whom I had to check in once a week because I couldn’t do anything, even pay bills on time. I was staying inside for weeks at a time, only going out for doc's appointments and to take the dog out. I even have had my groceries delivered online.

It’s been a long road since those days.

Because of my experiences and the people I know, I want to write about what’s going on for me. My hope is that if others can see me taking risks, they can too. There is no “secret” to it.

It all starts by taking baby steps. Sometimes there are set backs, but I’ve always had to pick myself up and keep moving. I was overwhelmed by grand plans and goals. I had to do it bit by bit.

Having goals is important. I needed something to work towards, even though I’ve always worked in a very exploratory fashion. I’d say to myself, “I’d like to try this and see what happens.” I think the most important thing is to take risks.  I took a make-up course and ended up being a make-up artist and corporate trainer for a well-known make-up company.  I had no idea if I had any talent at it.

What interests you? Who cares if you think you might suck at it! Just try. Sample it and give it a try and see what happens. We don’t need to be perfect the first time. I remember feeling like I was the worst make-up artist ever when I was first hired. What I did was ask other make-up artists if I could watch and ask questions. Eventually I picked it up. My former experience in public speaking got me into the trainer role. I was shocked at the time.

I won’t get into the more colourful parts of my past other than to say that even when I did those, I applied myself and did well.  Those experiences left me with very fertile comedic material for later in life.

Often when I am in the moment I fail to know that I am sowing seeds for later on. How will those seeds germinate? Who knows? I believe the universe is working in the background like life’s spyware, weaving and stitching our actions and experiences together for the future. The key is to be open-minded and seize the opportunity.

Fear has been my number one blockage. There have been many things I’ve wanted to do but have simply been scared of failure. Doing stand-up was one of those life-long dreams that I never thought I’d actually get to realize.

It’s not by accident that I became friends with two comics. Doing stand-up and being successful at it is a dream come true. Never in a million years did I think that I’d get invited to do another show.

It’s about finding out about what you’d really like to do, and figuring out how to get past the fear. It took me a good year and a half hanging out with comics for me to do stand-up. And even then it was because of the Stephen Lewis Foundation fundraising opportunity coming along that I did it. It felt like the universe was bringing all the elements together.

I just really wish that more people who feel stuck could find a way to move forward just a little bit. Being proactive even in the smallest ways has the power to change your future. It's opposite to “The Secret” method, which says you need to set out big goals, write them down in a book (which doesn’t hurt) and that says all that "law of attraction" will somehow tune into your energy and make it happen.

We all need ideas of where we'd like to go. However, simply being in a state of vibrational harmony with your desires will suddenly bring everything you've wanted. One action takes us out of a state of inertia and creates movement. These changes don't happen overnight. 

Time is an illusion. We can’t see what the effects of our actions are until sometime way into the future.  We need to turn ourselves around from being the effect (feeling hopeless, no goals) to being the cause. Being the cause in my life takes me out of being a victim. It brings in so much light where there used to be the dark

Bring a sense of adventure into your life, no matter what the outcome may be. 

How are you the effect in your life, and how are you the cause? How can that change?

My challenge is to write down 15 goals, interests, passions, dreams. A bucket list. Whatever you’d like to call it. Things that you’ve always wanted to take a stab at but didn’t know how to do or are afraid of trying.

I will write mine and share them next post.

I attended a funeral recently. I am of an age where I have had the luxury of not needing to attend a great many funerals in my short life – this is deemed a good thing, but I am still intrigued by these mysterious occasions and they continue to fascinate me. Catholic, Protestant, Jewish or non-denominational – whatever the faith (or not) I don’t discriminate, they all follow traditions which are socially understood within their respective communities and there is no instruction manual of what is acceptable and what is not, it is just known to those on the inside. Maybe I’m just weird or have a fetish for pomp and ceremony.

This particular recent event (and I call it such in the truest sense of the word) was an occasion to mark the life of an old friend of my Father’s. No occasion is better marked by an Irish immigrant community, of the “old faith”, than the loss of one of their own – first, second, third and even fourth generation all gathering alike in epic displays of grief.

There is one tradition, however, within this community for which I have a membership card somewhere that still utterly fascinates me. It is not the drink (for it flows freely with little excuse), it is not the music (always rousing and uplifting with a dash of tear jerking for good measure), its not the fighting (a game of fisticuffs is likely a mourning event chaser) – it’s the damn clothes. The oldest traditions die hardest. I imagine somewhere like Italy is similar, only with better cut garments.

As a gay man, I pride myself on my understated classical elegance – that’s my description anyway. Look – it’s just easier for me to buy basic colours in decent cuts, everything matches and therefore I do not have to think about it. I don’t tend to do “trendy” and I regularly wonder at times if I am actually a gay man. My own get-up, inspired by Bond, was as simple as highly polished brogues, suit with light pin stripe (NOT banker style), crisp white shirt previously unworn (decent sized collar), wool tie (looks better than it sounds) and Trench coat.

However, nothing raises an eyebrow faster and with a higher arch at these type of funerals (by those on the outside) than a widow in her wedding dress (say nothing); a congregation containing a pair of leather thigh high boots, of the Louboutin variety, ideally worn by immediate family; faux fur, fox fur, mink fur; hair extensions as long as three quarter length coats, with the coats never being removed until after the first drink and certainly never during the service; tote bags, clutch bags, under shoulder bags; high heels, Cuban hells, no heels and on and on and on.

There is only one rule. It’s as simple as this – it has to be new and it has to out-do everyone else. The pressure rises the closer you are to the deceased. If you can’t afford new, get a loan. If you can’t get a loan, sell something. If you can’t finance it, don’t turn up. Never borrow it. This is the unspoken tradition and of course this is what the deceased “would have wanted”. I’m not sure, in my case, whether my septuagenarian Father would know or care what is in vogue at any time of his life, but this is “what they want”. Wedding parties are regularly less well dressed. Woe betide anyone who dares to enter a wake in anything less than finery as nothing is scorned more than a mourning party infiltrated by bargain basement chic.

Therefore, I write this article with a mind to add a codicil to my own last will and testament – a bit like a rider to ensure I maintain the old style; it is to state as follows:

Some Minimum Requirements for Funeral Service: 

- A minimum of three sets of false eyelashes. Must be present and worn on one set of eyes, preferably on someone over 50.

- Non-waterproof mascara. Nothing demonstrates your grief harder.

- Dental implants (look better the darker you glasses are). Veneers are permitted on non-family. Gold is gauche – everyone has their standards.

- A street drunk in a suit bought from a charity shop clearly donated by a man significantly larger than the wearer (just to keep everything “real”).

- A donation plate with a special clip for paper money. Coinage not accepted.

- Gloved hands.

- More wild flowers than a summer meadow.

- Gritted smiles. Suspicion, envy and jealousy.

- Experimental hairdos. Colour may be used.

- Fainting.

- And last but not least, someone must be trotting down the aisle behind my box in a pair of those god damn Louboutin leather thigh-highs. I do wonder whether my Mother has the legs……..

I must also remember to copy this list and pass it to the health professional who advised me to place me affairs in order when I was diagnosed with HIV. She works with us gays daily – this is what she meant, of that I am certain.

NotDownNotOut is a late twenties (sigh, not for much longer) Brit who was found by HIV in 2010. He currently works in the corporate sector by day and is starting to write by night. An HIV diagnosis swiftly followed by an adult Aspergers diagnosis, made his head spin but determined to make sense of it all; he decided to try and make the room around him spin as well.

Regularly blogging on his experiences of HIV care in the UK, NotDownNotOut looks forward to the day when he has no more questions for the world or himself and can stop trying to take it all apart only to put it back together again just to find out how it works.

Secretly he knows this day will never come but we can all dream.

Yesterday we went out to celebrate my birthday with friends in Toronto.  Lovely food – no, amazing food. A trendy place too in that part of King Street West that has been taken over by clubs and expensive-looking restaurants.  We seemed to have landed, like aliens, amongst the beautiful people. That’s OK: I can handle that, I was beautiful once. But the music was way too loud.  So loud I couldn’t hear my friends across the table. So loud we couldn’t hear the waiter, so I have no idea what the specials were. So loud I was glad to get out of there.

The day before thaI I had absently swallowed  - I stress swallowed , not chewed - handfuls of jellybeans.  Distracted by what I was doing at the computer at the time, I thought they were my pills.

I can't remember names to save my life.

This is a very BIG birthday, so big I don’t want to talk about that number. Let’s just say it’s one that has a lot of significance if one goes to the moves a lot, and is sick of paying high prices.

As we speak, I am going through the process of dealing with all those boring financial things that, unless we are a very boring person, we tend to put off.  Niceties like financial planning, for instance.  Not that my situation is a disaster as a result of it. By luck rather than judgement, I’m OK.  Once I had a good – or at least well paying (there’s quite a difference) - job.  But I haven’t been near that place for years. I’ve been on long term disability since 1994 which means an income much reduced from what I previously enjoyed before I got sick, but an income nevertheless.

Yes, I was well paid once. I often wonder whether it was worth the misery. I’d come around to thinking no, one should do what makes you happy before anything – but now I’m not so sure. There is a lot to be said for not having to worry about money too much in your senior years.

In any event, now I’m transitioning from long-term disability on to pension.  In many ways that’s a relief.  For years, particularly the early ones, I worried constantly that my disability benefits would be withdrawn, or worse, that I would somehow miraculously be cured and that I would have to return to my much-hated workplace. (That workplace, by the way, was the source of much stress  back in the early days following diagnosis, which stress saw my CD4 spiral downwards before I bailed out.)  In any event, my doctors were as convinced of my inability to work as I was. And when an insurance compan –appointed rehabilitation expert and a psychiatrist came to check me out, they were too. Ever since, my employability has never really been an issue, but oh, how I worried about it anyway. Until now. At this age I will not mention, I am no longer an employee.

So my worries, as I’ved approach this birthday I am almost too scared to name – OK I am too scared to name – are all about forms, about dealing with bureaucracy, about how to actually understand what I’m entitled to.  It isn’t easy. If English was my second language I’d be sunk.. But I am struggling though it and the end is in sight.  So are cheap movie tickets, free drugs (this is a relief; long story) and people offering up their seats on the bus to me.

As it happens, I will be OK.  By a strange quirk, my pension, when it starts next month, will be actually be more than I was receiving on disability.  But it’s really struck me, working through the paperwork, how difficult I would be in a situation if I didn’t have a pension, didn't have insurance, and would have to rely on what the state provides.  I am lucky, I have support, I’m privileged, and it’s important to me to keep that in focus.

Perhaps that comfort though is why I used to turn off those messages we are numbed with about retirement planning – they sound so uncool, don’t they? But now I see where they were coming from.  So I guess my message is, if you are at all in position to plan - not everybody is - do so.

But what about the non financial implications of getting older, the ones folks write a lot about here on PositivelIte.com a lot?  Well I can report from the front lines, they are real  My main problem now is steadily worsening peripheral neuropathy, the result of long term oppose to HAART and these pesky “’d” drugs in particular.  I stopped taking them a decade ago but my feet have gradually got worse. Walking had become problematic a few months ago, until my doctors found the right dose of Gabapentin.  It’s a med that doesn’t reduce the hot, stingy, numbness associated with neuropathy in the extremities, but does cut down on the hurt. That's been instrumental in keeping me walking reasonable distances at least.

Otherwise I’m not doing too bad.  True, my eyes aren’t what they were and I’ve somehow developed double-vision, corrected now with a new prescription in my glasses. And I’m achy more often than not. And my doctors say my kidney function is a bit out of whack and so is my liver, but what person my age with sixteen years exposure to HAART and a succession of salvage therapies isn’t. I think I’m actually doing quite well, and able to function, albeit way too sedentary for my own good.  Blame PositiveLite.com for that. .

I don’t really eat right – never have been all that good at that – but it hasn’t seem to have had too many consequences.  The body is a very forgiving thing, I’ve found.

Anyway this story is getting old.  So am I.

Even in darkness, in the bitter cold of northern Pennsylvania on a January night, the town of Milford can’t help displaying its charm. I’m walking through Main Street and the shops splash warm light in my path as strolling shoppers offer smiles and salutations.

This isn’t a night for shopping, however. It’s Bingo Night, and I am making my way down a side street for the local church. I follow the sounds of a boisterous crowd that lead me to the fellowship hall.

The tables in the small hall are stuffed with people and the elevated sounds of good cheer reverberates throughout. Many in the crowd turn to me, the bundled up stranger, and they call out welcomes, whoever I am. Tables are littered with bowls of chili and chips and salsa.

I give a woman in an apron my ten dollars, which affords me chili, all the brownies I can eat, and a bingo card.

A chorus of cheers suddenly rings out, and there in the doorway is my host Sean Strub. But the crowd isn’t celebrating the AIDS activist of queer history, but rather the civic pioneer who has done so much for the restoration of Milford in the fifteen years he has lived here. The cheers give way to a round of friendly applause, and Sean makes his way to me as chili and brownies and soda are enthusiastically offered him from every direction.

If these townspeople are living a Frank Capra fantasy, then Sean is their George Bailey, popular and humble, a friend to all. I keep waiting for someone to raise a toast “to the richest person I know.”

It’s impressive and sincere. The entire scene is imbued with the kind of openheartedness that a jaded gay man like myself hardly recognizes anymore. I’m a bit dumbstruck.

“Really, Sean?” I ask him as he finally arrives at my table. “I mean, really. Applause?”

Sean blushes and beams in equal measure, both convincingly. He steps to the head of the room to take his position calling the numbers, naturally.

For a week I’ve been in Milford, Sean‘s idyllic town a short drive from New York City, to stay with him and work on the issue of HIV criminalization. There has been a startling rash of new prosecutions of people with HIV who did not disclose their status to sex partners. It is a topic Sean has been passionate about for years now, but only recently have people like myself paid much attention. It’s an uphill battle, not simply convincing lawmakers that these prosecutions are bad for public health because they discourage HIV testing, but, surprisingly, because a majority of people, even gay men, support the laws.

As HIV as an issue has aged, stigma has risen. Younger gay men who find themselves infected are judged far more than were men of my generation. The shame of becoming infected “when you should know better” and the certain rejection they will face from their peers (“I’m drug and disease free, you be too”) make them more likely to want to hold someone else responsible for their infection.

It’s a sad blame game, fueled by vengeance and humiliation. With lawyers and jail sentences involved.

A ten year old girl, all curls and colorful hair clips, cries “bingo!” and the crowd responds enthusiastically. She approaches the prize table to select her reward with the careful discernment of a grocer choosing the most perfectly ripened fruit.

Beside me, a gay couple, one of many who split their time between careers in New York and a home in Milford, are bringing me up to speed on gay life in the bucolic town.

“There’s gay dances about once a month in a hotel basement up the street,” one is saying. “We even had a drag show last year.” I’m skeptical of the local drag talent pool, but the couple assures me that corporate attorneys and physicians aren’t the only highly skilled professionals that make weekend escapes to the serenity of Milford. “It was an all-star lineup,” he continues. “Matter of fact, there’s a birthday party tonight at a lounge on main street for one of the drag queens. Should be lots of fun. You should check it out! It‘s probably already started.”

The incongruity of church bingo and a drag queen birthday is too much to resist. I surrender my bingo card to one of the kids and give a wave to Sean.

The lounge resides in the parlor of one of the town’s handsome, renovated hotels, but the crowd isn’t what I had hoped. A pair of men are playing pool, dividing their attentions between the table and college football skirmishes on the overhead monitors. They are clearly unaware of any drag festivities afoot, and I wasn’t about to be the one to inform them.

And then, sitting at the bar with his hands folded neatly in his lap, I find evidence of another party attendee. He is a gay man of a certain age, with frosted hair and a small, sparkling package on the bar before him. It is bejeweled from the efforts of a hot glue gun and a dozen or so rhinestones.

He is sitting patiently with his offering, and I wonder of his relationship with the drag queen in question, deciding that he is a devoted fan ready to pay his respects. He appears unfazed by the nonexistent party turnout and sips from his white wine glass without care.

The gay couple from the bingo game appear, and their apologies are written across their faces. “It’s okay, it’s probably too early for a party anyway,” I say. I’m sure the drag queen will eventually make an entrance, but something about an outrageous wig, sequins and enormous eyelashes on the scene feels as if it will spoil the natural environment. It’s time to head out. I don’t want to break the spell of Milford.

That spell is one of belonging, of community, of home. After a couple of months living a nomadic existence, visiting family and now Sean after the breakup of my relationship and exit from Ft Lauderdale, my spirits have been lifted just as my longing for my own sense of community has heightened. I see the settled, peaceful faces of the residents here and want that for myself. I know that my work with the criminalization issue is valuable, and yet I wonder if Sean knew that he was also giving me safe haven and a chance to be valued beyond our project, all in the warmth of new friends and domestic tranquility after a few difficult months.

The more my spirits are raised, the more I know I must move on, to Atlanta, where friends and an anxious realtor await me, where my belongings are boxed and stored and ready to find their place.

I want to know that place, too. It’s time to find home again.

You can read Mark S. King’s regular blog, My Fabulous Disease, here.

Have you ever heard the phrase, "one hand doesn't know what the other hand is doing"? No, this isn't going to be another masturbation blog. It isn't based on the real meaning of the phrase either, instead, my one hand had to learn how to do what the other hand normally did.

A week ago I had gone out with a friend for breakfast. As I got in the car he asked where my camera was. I am rarely seen without my backpack and cameras but lately, it’s been so wet or cold, for some reason this year I haven't had the same need to be out there. It’s winter here but there hasn't been much snow this year, just a lot of rain and it isn't good to be wet when the weather is this cold.

However, this particular day, it felt almost like spring. The sun came out so when I was dropped off, I got the camera and headed out. Well, I was walking along the river downtown and thought I'd go down this embankment to the edge of the water. Wrong decision. The trail was a little muddy and I didn't have much tread on the shoes I was wearing, I fell. I landed on my right shoulder and I could hear the crunching as I landed. Slowly it got sore and then got unbearable, I couldn't move it much without a lot of pain.

I pulled out my phone and called a family member to come and get me and take me to the hospital. I could sense the feeling of, "what did you do now"? Ummm, this isn't a common thing, I don't have many accidents.

It turned out it wasn't as serious as I had thought, just a slight separation of the collarbone and nothing broken. It sure is taking its time getting better. I have broken the left side collarbone twice and had the rotator cuff repaired before. I am right handed so this has been quite the opposite experience. Most things, I now had to do with my left hand, I won't list them all here but you can probably guess what the list would include. Raising my arm isn't that easy still, so I haven't been doing much typing on the computer, just clicking and reading things. Luckily for me, this isn't a world where you do much writing anymore.

I was explaining to Bob, my editor here on PositiveLite.com, that I may not get anything in to him for a while, I was on the injury list. He just told me to take it easy and send something when I could. He asked if I had taken anything interesting lately so I thought of doing this as a new blog posting, another one with some of my photos. These have been taken during the fall and some were taken in December and January. The one of the concrete carving of the head with a smoke in it, its the most viewed one on my flickr.com page. I put it out on twitter and it really drew attention, The last count I saw was 256 views, Most of my pics only get 20 or 30. It could be because I named the picture "Stoned". Hmmm!

I really want this shoulder to heal:  I want to get out and get back to my hobby.

More of my photos can be found here.

Ever notice how most New Yorkers (and yes, I consider myself one even though I have only been a resident in this great city for less than two years), do their best to avoid Times Square? If we must be in the area, we concoct a plan to stay far away from the roaming masses of tourists, even if it means we take the most circuitous route to our destination. This avoidance of Times Square becomes even more evident on December 31st.  Last year I even fled the country to be far, far away from the ball and its infamous dropping.

This year I was invited to a party on the fourth floor of an office building overlooking the center of Times Square. Initially, my instinct was to politely decline the invitation and  keep clear of the  crowds. But alas, Brian (one of my best friends) was coming up from Philly for the weekend and once I mentioned the party, it became the one thing he wanted to do. Being the good friend that I am, I acquiesced and we prepared to descend upon the eye of the storm.

On New Year's Eve, Brian, Brice and our mutual friend Jake, met up at my place. We pre-gamed with some cocktails, Chinese food and, of course, some gossip. Then we all hopped the R train to take us to Times Square. We were smart and got off the train five blocks away. Even at that distance, the streets were incredibly packed and the policeman on horseback guiding the people was akin to cattle being herded. Albeit, well dressed cattle, but cattle nonetheless!

When we got to our street, we were frisked, fondled and finally we were let past the barricade. We found the entrance to the building and stood in yet another line to get our IDs checked and made sure we were on a list. To say security was tight, would be a bit of a understatement.

Eventually, we all passed inspection and made our way up to the party. There we were greeted by two girls, both very pretty and both very blonde. I am sure they were both smart but the one had such a cartoonishly high voice that it was hard for me to take anything she said seriously. Apparently the two girls were co-hosting this party with our friend. Upon introduction to all the other guests, it was hard not to miss that, beside the two very blonde girls, it was a room full of gay men. While there were a couple of attractive men there, I decided it would be best to keep my distance as it was only a couple of weeks ago that Brice told me that he had feelings for me and I thought that seeing me flirt would be a little too cruel. I was determined just to have fun with my friends, eat some junk food, get a little tipsy, and try not to be so obvious when that girl's voice made me giggle.

The party was very chill. Not too many people but it was the location that was unbelievable! We were on the fourth floor looking down on all that madness. An entire office wall made of huge windows faced Times Square. And there was a stage right in front of us but unfortunately it was not the stage with all the musical guests. We did get to see all the news casters and best of all, we had an incredible view of the ball drop! It is funny that ever since I was a kid I dreamed to be a part of this crowd, but as I aged I deemed that I would never even try and now I find myself finally here.

As midnight approached, Brice was getting more and more intoxicated. I have noticed it becoming  harder and harder to ward off a hangover, so I tend to be wary about how much I drink. After the ball dropped and we had our celebratory toast, it was clear to us, the more sober people in the room, that it was time for Brice to go home. He was stumbling and slurring. Now, the slurring was a little more difficult to detect since he’s deaf and his pronunciation falters on good day. But Jake decided to take him home leaving Brian and I at the party.

We stayed for a couple more hours soaking in the atmosphere. Right before we decided to leave, Brian and I were talking to this extremely tall guy, John. Ironically, he also lived in Astoria. So we decided to try our luck at catching a cab. We figured this would prove to be a bad idea, but I had hope.

Within ten minutes of standing on the street corner we were able to hop into a cab that was just letting out some party-goers. Tall John and I started talking on our journey back to Queens, marveling at our luck in catching a cab.  Nothing too deep and  I didn't make too much of it. He is definitely attractive, smart, and yes, very tall, but I wasn't really in that sort of head space.

I paid as we got out of the cab and we all stood on the corner saying our goodbyes. I gave Tall John my information so we can friend each other on FaceBook.  The next day I got an email from him,

"Hey, It was really great to meet you last night. Can I take you out to a movie to repay you for that cab ride"

Wait, did he just ask me out on a date? Hmmmm. It is a New Year.  I guess it's about time for something new!!