little disappointments

I woke up early enough to get to the Shambhala Center to meditate a while before the Harvest of Peace Pot Luck where I thought I would give best wishes to the Center's new young leader.

When there's a bigger event going on in the Main Shrine Room, the Public Meditation is held in the Smith House next door. I meditated for about 20 or 30 minutes, then walked the back way to the Main Shrine building and was greeted in the lobby by a couple of men in suits standing around tables of food. The Shrine Room doors were closed and dozens of people were inside sitting around long tables which were draped in white. All of the people were bobbing and swiftly chanting through a prayer which I guess has something to do with the Harvest of Peace. I'm not so into the chanting part; it feels a little too "Organized." And that wasn't what I was expecting at all; I thought there would be milling about. In my mind I figured I would just give a quick congrats to A1*, maybe say hi to C1 and be on my way. One of the suited men introduced himself, asked if I wanted to join the group, I bowed out (not literally, though that would've been appropriate).

Next I went to L1's house a couple of blocks away. She had a part to the truck wheels that I needed to get the special locking bolts back on; we've been missing each other for a couple of months. I had emailed to tell her I would be in the neighborhood a couple of days earlier and she'd written back last night saying she would love to see me, that they might be asleep, that the "wheel thingie" would be on the desk, to just come on in if they didn't answer, but that she would love to see me.

Two other women were arriving when I got there. One mentioned as I passed her that she was waiting for all of us to be ready so we could knock on the door together. L1 answered the door with messy bed hair wearing a robe. "I'm totally not ready, guys," she said to the gals, then to me: "I don't have time to see you at all." It wasn't rude, just a little abrupt and unexpected (I guess, though she's always been a bit scattered, and more so since the baby). She handed me the wheel thingie and her copy of the Life in a Box S1 had burned for me to give her. In the sleeve of the DVD was a little slice of pink paper with www.ask-lola.com printed and JAY written on one side and "Relationship Healing" written on the other side. I'll go there later.

Since I didn't spend any time at the Center and since I didn't visit with L1, I was early to pick up G1 for the film festival, so I stopped at Wheatsville and got some trail mix then stopped at a drive-through car wash. I paid $4, the green sign at the far side of the bay flashed ENTER. I pulled slowly in and the "Prewash" drizzle wet my truck with soapiness, then stopped, and that was it. I backed out, called the number on the "IF MACHINE TROUBLE" sign on the front wall and left a message about what had happened.

G1 & I saw a documentary called Born Again, by and about a lesbian raised Evangelical trying not to lose total contact with her family. It was very well-done. G1 grilled me a little about my upbringing before we went to the next film, Shelter Me, an Italian narrative film about two lesbians (one the heir of a shoe factory the other one of the workers there) and the Moroccan boy/man who stows away in their car when their on their way back from holiday. It was very well done. I wasn't sure if G1 liked it -- she's very opinionated and made little comments throughout the film as to her feelings -- but afterward she said, "I really liked it after I stopped hating it." (She's a mystery!)

I had a slight headache, which I fed with a thin hand-rolled cigarette when I got home. And shortly after that, S1 said the white bean chili he'd made was ready, which we ate with a salad he also made; all was yummy. The romaine salad had roasted pecans, sliced pears, blue cheese and a homemade balsamic vinaigrette. I'm lucky to live with such a good cook, for whom meals like this are pretty simple (I would have spent a whole day toiling over a cookbook to do the same, and it likely wouldn't have included the gay salad). He's lucky I enjoy dish-washing.

vanaja

G1* and I have been spending a lot of time together lately. She had hernia surgery the day her girlfriend went overseas and sent out an email asking friends to bring her food, visit her, help her out. I went over last Monday with some buffet items from Whole Foods.

G1 spends summers away from Austin, August at the Michigan Women's Music Festival, time in New York City, etc. She always visits a particular record store known for it's religious LPs while she's in Michigan. She won't spend more than 50c for a record, and often chooses them based on their cover art. She played some stuff for me. Definitely the best find in the bunch was Those Singing Rambos with their wanna-be 70s rock-n-roll Christian stuff, including one song I remembered from church camp and now can't get it out of my head, "I Wish We'd All Been Ready":

There's no time
To change your mind,
The Son is gone
And you've been left behind...
(It's about the Rapture.)

The GLBT film festival (aGLIFF) is back again. G1 has a short film in it -- actually, I'm in a couple of scenes as well... Since her girlfriend would still be out of town when the festival started, G1 asked me if I wanted to go see some movies with her (she has two passes). Of course I said yes. I offered to pick up her festival passes at the Arbor because S1 and I were going out there on Thursday night to see a movie. It was the first night aGLIFF had a booth set up at the theater.

The movie S1 and I went to see wasn't part of the festival, but it was a special screening presented by the Austin Film Society (which I get notices about because I am a member). The movie is called Vanaja, and it is about a 14-year-old Indian girl. It is an absolutely amazing film. Sweet, sad, beautifully directed and filmed. This is Domalapalli Rajnesh's first film; I guess he just graduated from Columbia University because it was produced by the film school there (S1 and I didn't even know Columbia has a film school). It is heartbreaking and just so good. It seems a little long -- 111 minutes -- but I can't think of anything I'd want to be cut out. The dance sequences made me alternately beam and weep. I can't recommend it highly enough.

left-right-left

As I was going to sleep last night -- my right shoulder aching as it always does, my right forearm sore as per usual, my right thumb numb and buzzing as it is on and off -- I started thinking about writing with my left hand. I've been reading Beautiful Shadow, a biography of Patricia Highsmith (Stranger on a Train, The Talented Mr. Ripley, etc., none of which I've read...yet), and I feel a strange kinship with her; the events of her life, her relationships, her quirks seem to parallel some of the things about me and my life.

She was ambidextrous. I thought, as I lay trying to go to sleep, that I could probably write left-handed. I feel like I might lose the use of my right arm at some point in my life, and maybe by starting now, I'll be used to using my left hand by the time that happens, and it won't be as frustrating a process. In the dark I wrote "What would it be like to write with my left hand?" on the covers with my left hand several times. No problem. I believe I could even write backwards!

more mona

The common critique on chapter two among the people at the writer's group was that the first three pages were confusing. It is a whirlwind of information: Randy is born while his mother is masturbating, his 13-year-old half-sister is next door giving the neighbor guy (whose "old lady" is Randy and Rona's mother Mona's best friend) a hand job, etc. Most everybody seemed to agree that the story settled in at the top of page four.

The most useful thought in the group came from M1,* who said that perhaps the first three pages are a chapter that needs to be fleshed out, and that page four onward is a complete chapter on its own.

I woke up this morning with Mona on my mind, with a laundry list of descriptions of her trailerhome, of events that got the trailerhome in its current state, of the ice house she hangs out in, the ugly Irish military guy who intrigues her with his foreign accent. That would be Randy's father.

I think it would be easy (and fun) to give a little more time to Mona.

sister spam

Is it unethical to flag your sister's emails to go directly into the Spam folder? R1* has gotten into the habit of sending me stupid inspirational (read "Christian") emails, sometimes forwarded from other family members -- most notably my mother's younger sister, a real Jesus fanatic and proud of it -- or the results of her own internet "research."

They used to be more intermittent, but not too long ago, she sent me one about a 9-year-old boy who wet his pants in class and prayed to God for help because he was about to get called on by the teacher and would have to stand up, and if the boys saw him they would pick on him and the girls would never talk to him again (in other words, he'd be called a fag and/or never get laid).

Well, PTL (Praise The Lord), because just as the teacher called on him, little Susie, who wass walking across the room with a fishbowl, tripped and spilled her fish-water on the boy and everyone laughed at her instead. ("Thanks a lot, God," says the boy, and, I imagined Susie saying the same thing, but with emphasis on different words.)

The question on my mind is this: Does my sister really believe this shit? That "God" would trip a little girl to save a little boy because he prayed in the middle of English class instead of paying attention, and instead of going to the bathroom between classes. (Seems like God might've seen that coming and reminded him, or maybe just magically dried up the urine-- Now there's a miracle worth sending out in a zillion emails!)

The answer, I believe, is yes.

I was in a playful mood the day I received her email, so I responded with: "But what happened to the goldfish?!"

She wrote back, with matching "playfulness": YOU WOULD! ...HILARIOUS!!!

And now I get at least one of these stupid things just about every day (a couple of days ago FOUR arrived in my email inbox at once). I don't usually read them, just hit DELETE, and that's probably the best thing to do.

Today, I was bored enough to open the email I got (which S1 called "Christianity for 3-year-olds") about a man who prayed for a flower and a butterfly, and instead got a cactus and a caterpillar. The man was sad but said, "Oh, well, I guess God has too many people to take care of, I'll just be happy with what I got." A couple of days go by and the cactus has bloomed and the caterpillar has...well, you're ahead of me.

GOD ALWAYS HAS THE RIGHT ANSWER!!
(the message reminded me)
ONE DAY'S THORN IS THE NEXT DAY'S BLESSING.

If that's these people's idea of Heaven, I'm glad I won't be going there...

this sucks.

I had a dream that I went to back to live with J1*. Her house was the house I lived in from eighth to twelfth grade, my mother's house. (It doesn't escape me now -- nor did it then, when I was 24 and my wife was 41 -- how Sophoclean it was). I'm unsure of my age in the dream, only that I was younger than I am now. J1 was busying herself around the house, being nonchalantly passive-aggressive, as per usual. I decided I would vacuum the house, be useful, avoid the Wrath of J1.

I knew where the vacuum cleaner was but couldn't find the attachments, and J1 was no help. It was frustrating and, quite frankly, scary, because my thoughts kept going to the fact that she was probably expecting me to have sex with her.

Next, I was in the kitchen trying to catch a bug to put out of the house, out of harm's way. J1 came into the room in a flowing muumuu and she was annoyed by the fact that I was messing with the bug and not cleaning. I thought to myself, "This was a big mistake."

Freud, anyone?

yer mama is a hillbilly.

I just came across a list of words I wrote down that my mother mispronounces. Sure to be fodder for something down the road:

• Threft Store
• Murial
• Srimps
• Obeest
• Sheramic

In case you're unclear on any of those, here they all are in a sentence S1* and I constructed...

"I found a great sheramic ocean life murial of obeest srimps at the threft store."

chapter two

I had a critique of chapter two tonight. There were six people at the Borders coffeeshop besides myself. Only three of the people had fully read my chapter, which was annoying. D1* seemed a little uncomfortable about the subject matter. Overall, people liked my writing, and seemed to have a common issue with the first three pages being too condensed.

M1* suggested that the first three pages could be a chapter that needs to be fleshed out and the remaining pages are a complete chapter on their own. That seemed to me the most interesting suggestion.