House Fires

Connor Franta

• Publisher: Atria Books
• Year: 2021
• Print ISBN: 9781982177713
• eBook ISBN: 9781982177737
• Topic: Sozialwissenschaften
• Subtopic: Sozialwissenschaftliche Biographien

The New York Times bestselling author of A Work in Progress and Note to Self moves fully into adulthood with his illuminating, soulful, bleeding collection of narrative, poetry, and original film photography. Humanitarian, entrepreneur, and content creator Connor Franta first captivated readers with A Work In Progress, ruminating on his Midwestern roots to his early start as a visionary and online thought-leader. He continued his soul-searching-through-a-broken-heart with Note to Self, challenging readers—and himself—to ponder the spectrum of humanity and their place within it.Now as Franta approaches thirty, life is no less confusing, but he finds this journey endlessly fascinating. Writing about confusion and clarity, loneliness and whirlwind romances, despair and elation—and everything in between—Franta invites readers back into the intimacy of his mind. House Fires magnifies a young man's emotional warfare with his past, the daze of wandering through modern times in search of purpose, and the electricity flying from tomorrow's potential.

Chapter One A Room Full of Mirrors

It’s an odd time to be queer because a future is no longer a luxury.

The other day I realized how the fog surrounding the years in front of me formed there in the first place. It was an early morning amidst a California autumn (much warmer than you may think, and honestly, warmer than I’d like it to be). After putting away last night’s clean dishes, warming up a kettle of water, and downing the tart coffee that followed, I pulled on my running apparel and was off to the streets for an unwinding sixty minutes of energy-induced endorphins. Bliss. Usually during my daily sunrise escapes, I entertain my mind by allowing it to wander, ponder, and get lost freely in a thought train. Today’s staggeringly prolific topic (for me, at least) dawned on me while moving through one of America’s queer arteries, the aorta if you will: West Hollywood, known for its rainbow sidewalks, thunderous drag queens, overpriced vodka sodas, relocated assemblage of twink clones, and the most visible male midriffs you’ll ever spot in a single metropolitan area.

Rounding the corner somewhere between Sunset and Santa Monica, speeding past several versions of the humans just described, I began to wonder out of seemingly nowhere: Have I ever properly seen what lies in the future? And does it simmer down to the fact that millions of LGBTQIA+ people just like me never made it to a destination much farther than where I’m at now, for a multitude of reasons? Before the twenty-first century, queer people were never given the chance to properly eat the fruits of their days due to violence, persecution, disease, bigotry, hatred, and general careless abandonment pouring in from all directions. Not a single chance. At the time, most were set up to be let down as soon as they spoke their truth, and for those who did voice their opinions, many were blatantly ignored and left unaided by higher governmental powers during the AIDS crisis in the eighties and nineties. Many, of course, evaded the horrors and survived the unimaginable pain of those decades, but they are few and far between when compared to their heterosexual coupled counterparts who exist without question.

It wasn’t until very recently that LGBTQIA+ people have even been given the chance to live a “normal” life. If you were privileged enough to come out as a teenager in the recent years of the twenty-first century, fall into the open arms of familial acceptance, and live in a geographical location where you didn’t face persecution, you must realize: This has never happened. EVER. In all of human history. You are trailblazing an era of hope and freedom. And, because I fall into most of those unparalleled categories of pure fortune, I now know why it’s been nearly impossible for me to picture my future: It’s almost never been done before. Or, at the very least, it’s incredibly scarce, and that uniqueness must be acknowledged.

There are barely any living examples existing in my personal life’s blueprint to show me the way to tomorrow; no gentleman to invite me over to his home, introduce me to his husband, dog, adopted children, tell me about his twenty-year professorship at the nearby university, babble on about just having paid off his heavy student loans, cook an impressive meal he’s too modest to fully boast about, whisper about current celebrity gossip, etc. A person to offer me an impressive array of beverages, snacks, and life’s little luxuries along the way to their den or sitting room (oh wow, imagine a gay sitting room… chic as fuck), thus sharing with me a little something otherwise known as Gay Adulthood. I’m obviously stretching across many stereotypes here, but this is a heavy topic and I don’t want to bring you down into a dark basement already, all right? There are plenty of opportunities to do that with my own life’s musings let alone a fictional burgundy-cashmere-cardigan-wearing man with a well-mannered silver-haired companion who goes exclusively by Christoph. Not Chris. Not Christian. Not Christopher. CHRISTOPH! Behind every lined jacket is sewn a golden thread of the truth—guys, gals, and nonbinary pals. Or, at the very least, in modern, urban, queer North America, the potential for validity is strong in this one. Champagne? Purified lemon-mint water? Gah, God love you. Okay, I’ll stop with the clichéd lunacy. Let’s proceed.

Now I’ve officially gone off the rails and onto the laughably fictitious gravel road. I’m kidding. Don’t mindfully roast me. Anyways, I do know that older queer people obviously exist in today’s timeline (I’ve met them in all their beautiful shapes and sizes), but there aren’t as many of them as there could be. They don’t exist in the quantity that should have been. Millions of potential futures were lost during a gruesome and downright shameful period in global history. It’s not like HIV/AIDS had an easy cure to be swiftly developed, but absolutely NOTHING was done for a struggling community and that’s unspeakably insidious. For the ones who did live through this tragedy, they continued on through an unimaginably heavy period of persecution. My struggles with being out, loud, and proud are a sliver amongst their forest. Only years ago, it was universally dangerous, and like in countless countries around the world today, even, completely illegal. Regardless, I’m coming from a good, curious, yet confused place here, so allow me to work through this with you knowing that I may make a few mistakes.

It’s become increasingly more difficult to picture me in a life like that of my parents—a married couple of thirty-five years with four children living peacefully in a small Midwestern town. Now, this could be a sign of the times, a direct result of my unprecedented career path, this gay conundrum I’ve proposed, or countless other impossible factors that will no doubt send me into a panicky spiral. WE DON’T NEEED TO GO THERE, yet. Do you remember the origami paper fortune-telling contraptions you used to make as kids? You’d take a sheet of 11- by 8.5-inch computer paper, fold it into various triangles, while writing various vague life questions on each flap, then you’d proceed to add numbers, colors, a new fold, another question, etc. The end resulted in an intriguing little toy laced with potential personal tidbits demanding innocent honesty of you. I don’t remember much about that game or the specific time I played it, but I do often think about the point in the game where the “How many children will you have?” question would present itself like a rare Pokémon. I’d choose a number, the game host would open and close the paper toy the designated amount of times, and my fate was sealed.

I always chose four because I come from a family of six, so it seemed fitting to desire the outcome I myself got. Also, odd numbers freak me out, but that’s something I’ll leave for my therapist to dissect. The reason this question is particularly poignant (there were many others, of course) is because, even then, I couldn’t picture myself with a wife, thus how could I imagine an adult life with kids in it? Even if by some biblical miracle I ever came out (surprise bitch! haHA), my destiny seemed to undoubtedly be different than any journey I’d ever come in contact with. It was scarce that I met anyone who was adopted and even more rare to find someone with two gay parents. The latter never happened, by the way. Well, it did, but it took two whole decades to do so. I met a boy who told me he had two moms while we were on a first date together. He was too cool and I attribute that fully to his lesbian upbringing.

The predetermined future presented to me on a single-item dinner menu at an extremely overrated restaurant was quickly deemed impossible in my young mind—impossible to plan, impossible to actualize, impossible to ever have for myself. And, that unsettledness made my prepubescent soul radiate six shades of queasy.

There were approximately 62,000,000 married heterosexual couples in all of the US in 2019. There were approximately 568,000 married homosexual couples in the US. That means 0.009 percent of all the couples you know are same-sex couples. I’m a numbers person, so researching those simple statistics blew my mind to smithereens. NO WONDER I FEEL SO ALONE AND CONFUSED… IT’S BECAUSE I KINDA AM. Not even kinda! If I’m lucky, I’m a 1/100? That’s fucked! There aren’t a lot of pathways to watch, study, and one day decide to wander down. Do you genuinely think I even know one hundred couples? Huh? Do you??? Gun to my head, I’m not even sure I can name the first and last names of one hundred individuals in my life. ALONE. All signs point to ALONE. I need to set out for a moment to gather myself before I lose the rest of this moldy muffin I call a mind. If there were a time to take up chain-smoking slim French Gauloises (don’t look at me like that), now would be the optimal time.

Let’s add some technicolor to the dooming statistics above. The past can eat shit in comparison to the promise the future holds for LGBTQIA+ people. It’s nowhere but up from here. And, luckily, since many things have yet to be done by us (be elected president of the United States, be an astronaut who stands on the moon, win an Olympic gold medal in Solo Synchronized Swimming… well, just kidding, we all know ONLY gays have won that… I digress) the world is our oyster! If we flip the trope on its head, the act of never being here before means this experience really should be something exhilarating! There’s unbound, infinite potential bubbling behind living the modern-day privileged LGBTQIA+ lifestyle. In a way, we all have been gifted a little of it purely by existing in these modern times. By growing up in the twenty-first century, with marriage equality, common workplace protection laws, and copious amounts of media representation, we’re on our way toward the typical melancholic existence our straight peers currently have, and that our valiant elders have fought tirelessly for decades to obtain for us all. So, now that we’re on the cusp of total equality, with it currently sliding across our calorically deprived taste buds… now what? Sis, we’re basically here, what do we do now? You don’t work for months to stop a few miles before a marathon’s finish line. You cross it at all costs. No looking back. Defeat isn’t even an option.

Don’t get me wrong: The fight for equality across the board is never out of sight, and we have so much work to do, but things are better than ever. It’s undeniable. And that progress breeds potential. And potential emits hope. So, I can’t help but ponder what it’s actually like to live a full gay life (coming to a theater near you!). Let’s not entertain the mere concept of equality, but let’s see it performed live in-person at its sold-out stadium tour.

As I wrapped up the final steps of my lengthy run, I approached the final hurtle in the form of a crosswalk hidden among blazing Los Angeles traffic. Every morning I approach this specific path, I wonder if the timing will be right. Will I land on this street in between red lights and engine silence or will it be during peak rush hour with horns blaring and rubber burning? Truth is, no matter the outcome, I know I can take the right-of-way. It’s my virtue to pass over this hurdle, onto the parched concrete, and through these blurry, white lines. It may be dangerous. I may lock eyes with chaos. I could just as easily avoid this stress by pausing for a more relaxed moment. Or, on the contrary, I could assert myself, thrust forward, and speed onward toward my home nestled in the distance. A dangerous game is rarely won without taking a little risk.

Chapter Two Tulip

Coming to curled up tightly on the edge of my couch; lit only by the remaining glow of the day’s sun barely visible behind the February gloom. Shrunken so small into myself like a piece of arugula moments after resting on a scolding cast-iron pan, my eyes lift examining the room around me. I don’t remember what got me here exactly, but I do know this feeling far better than I’d like to admit. Although it’s not an uncommon feeling, and I very well know I’ve felt a similar shade of it way before, it does surprise me how unfamiliar a regular acquaintance can remain. This, however, feels worse than usual. Much worse, actually. Also, as if I’m paralyzed, immobilized in a stage of deep nothingness. I can’t connect any of my thoughts; scatterbrained by my own mental state. My phone lies on the plush, white rug just below me (I haven’t cleaned it in forever and being face-to-face with it would typically irritate me, but now I can’t fathom caring). It must have fallen out of my hand as I drifted in and out of sleep. That tends to happen when I get this way. The day, or days if I’m particularly unlucky, meander by while I open and close my eyes. No hunger, no thirst, no desire to fix this messy state… a void.

I manage to pick up my phone and am immediately reminded I let someone know this was probably going to happen, by messages of:

“Oh no… Con, I’m sorry.”

“Can I come over?”

“You’re not responding…”

“I’m coming over.”

Shit. I hate when I let other people know I’ve hit another depressive spiral. It’s embarrassing. Even though I know it shouldn’t be and my therapist reminds me otherwise every god damn appointment, it is. It makes me feel weak, helpless, a waste of everyone’s worries. I have a habit of letting people know when it’s gotten bad, but then swiftly refuse any help or rational words they provide, which always manages to make things even worse. It’s like I’ve figured out how to reach out for help, but I still haven’t quite figured out how to receive the help I asked for. This closed emotional circle fucking blows, and I hate bringing others into its dark, hopeless warp… ugh. I come out of my vacuum for a moment and am reminded my friend is on her way over. Seeing as both the gate and front door are locked, and I currently don’t remember how to move my legs… it’s safe to say I can’t deal with this right now! Again, I’m going to say, this.fuck.ing.blows… and I’m… fuck.ing.use.less.

My iris shifts toward the clock. 3:30. Shit. How long have I been here?? What triggered me this time? I know it’s hard to believe, but I honestly can’t remember. Depression does that; fogs and even erases memories. Scientifically speaking. I’m sure it’s some type of defense mechanism the body’s resorted to, because for all intents and purposes, I’m not in any imminent danger on this couch, but the way I’m responding to my environment definitely personifies imminent peril. These thoughts may be metaphorical dangers, but technically speaking, they can’t actually draw any blood, so I’m sure my body is fucking confused as to why this is happening. My own stupid brain hurting my own stupid body. WE’RE SUPPOSED TO BE A TEAM GUYS, DAMNIT… Oh yeah, she’s on her way. Shit shit shit.

I’m not sure I can even communicate when she gets here. Is she going to try to talk to me? I hope she doesn’t try to talk to me. I have nothing to say, and the things I could say have been said over and over before. New day, same story. I fade into sleep again and come to minutes later to the doorbell aggressively ringing. Uh-oh. She’s here. Maybe my messages were more concerning than I realized. Hopefully I didn’t scare her into thinking something bad was going to happen if she didn’t come over. Fuck. I hope not. Fuck me. I hate myself. Why does this always happen?

Eventually, by nothing short of a biblical miracle and after far too many minutes, I crawl over to the door, unlock it, and make my way out to the gate to do the same. As it swings open, I’m greeted with a hug and no words. She’s calm and warm—gentle with intention. All I can think is how disgusting I must look because god knows how long I’ve been in this mess of a mental prison. I want to apologize immediately, and I can feel the words at my lips, but again, I’m not sure I can speak, and if...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Title Page
• Dedication
• Introduction
• Chapter 1: A Room Full of Mirrors
• Chapter 2: Tulip
• Chapter 3: An Attempt to Explain the Unexplainable
• Chapter 4: Saturated
• Chapter 5: Small Puncture Wounds
• Chapter 6: Low-Hanging Fruit
• Chapter 7: Punchlines
• Chapter 8: Everything or Absolutely Nothing at All
• Chapter 9: Super Nostalgia
• Chapter 10: Longing
• Chapter 11: The Anatomy of a Flower
• Chapter 12: Claude Monet
• Chapter 13: Buzzkill
• Chapter 14: Floating, Feeling, Fading, Falling
• Chapter 15: Driveway
• Chapter 16: Act Natural
• Chapter 17: Moments After a Fiery Combustion
• Chapter 18: Pearls
• Chapter 19: Easy As It Goes
• Chapter 20: Lucky Stars
• Chapter 21: Loud Sounds and Where They Come From
• Chapter 22: Hidden in Plain Sight
• Chapter 23: A Higher Power
• Chapter 24: Pushing Up Daisies
• Acknowledgments
• About the Author
• Copyright