last day, first night

A couple of days ago, it got up to the upper-60s. I sit in a corner of my room at my desk with a window in front of me and a window to the side of me. I sat there all day thinking, As soon as I finish this, I'm gonna get out there and enjoy this weather. But I didn't get outside until 4:30.

I didn't want to repeat that "mistake" yesterday, since it was going to be in the mid-70s, and then the temperature was going to drop for a while. So I blew off work in the early part of the day and spent several hours raking the yard. I got warm and took off my shirt and had on shorts. It was very nice.

The rake scooped up the pig and dog and cat poop in the yard (most of which I couldn't see because of all of the leaves). The first day, I raked a small third of the yard, and yesterday another third (a larger third). I thought I would get through the whole yard, but I was already feeling the muscle aches, so I relaxed, left the lines of leaves in the untreed third of the yard where they were. They're probably blown about a bit now because it's kind of windy out there.

I'm working this morning. Still feeling a bit depressed. I can't decide if I want to try to talk myself into going to First Night tonight. I got a request from a friend -- who's kid I'm an Official Uncle JB to -- to meet them downtown and hang out with them. That's at 3:00 p.m. That's a possibility. But she told me to not dare try to drive there, since they did last year and it was insanity. Another friend is DJing tonight, which I would love to go to. But dancing outdoors in the nighttime? It makes me uncomfortable just to think about it!

There are vegetables in the fridge I need to use, bok choy and kale, cauliflower, carrots, beets. S went over everything he was leaving undone (much of it washed and cut, I just have to throw it into a pot or pan or some sort of cooking device). I found a recipe on 101 Cookbooks for Garlicky Greens, which sounds good, but I couldn't inspire myself to cook anything last night. I'm thinking maybe that's what I'll do tonight instead of going to First Night. A soup would also be good and would last a while.

Last night, I ordered some empanadas from the pizzeria/empanada shop down the street. I had a mushroom, a bean, a spinach, and a pear enpanada last night with a Guiness while I watched the movie that came in the mail, Soldier's Girl. S had already seen it, so I don't think he will mind that I watched it without him, even though he said he would watch it again. Dang! I would watch it again, too.

I put it on my Netflix queue because of Lee Pace, who is the male lead in The Fall, my favorite movie from last year, one of my favorites of all time, I think. He plays a transgendered woman in Soldier's Girl who falls in love with a soldier, and vice versa. It's based on a true story; it doesn't turn out well. Another intense movie viewing!

sitting with desire

S left for Indiana Sunday morning and I've been feeling a bit depressed. I hate to put those two things in one sentence because I don't like to be defined by my relationship with S. Or I should say I don't like other people to see how I'm defined by that relationship. We are not a couple. But we are closer than I think I can expect to be with another person in my life. We are not lovers, but we share more about ourselves and know more about each other than anybody else does. Our relationship is hard to define. It's not enough to say he's my housemate or my best friend. Both of those things are true, but sound limited. I've used both of those words when talking about him to new people because I don't want to have to explain our relationship, because the explanation always confuses the truth.

So why am I feeling depressed? It could have to do with S being gone and now I'm all alone (except for a cat, a dog, a pig and a turtle). It is easy to plan my day around something we might do together, like eating meals, watching movies, or just getting high and sitting on the porch rambling or in silence. I got more work done yesterday in his absence than I've been able to do in a while, since we moved to this new address.

But I don't think it all is about S. I feel like my relationship with someone on whom I have a crush (likely straight) has met its end. It's an odd, somewhat icky feeling. I was talking about my attraction to this man to another (straight) man, a friend on whom I once upon a time had a crush. That crush evolved into a good friendship; it feels stronger now than ever. But the other one, the new one, seems to have met with some sort of barrier. He knows I'm gay, but he doesn't know I have a crush on him. At least I don't think so. But maybe he feels uncomfortable with the attention I pay him. Or perhaps his ex-girlfriend with whom he works (and who I know almost as well) has pushed him into a corner about his attraction to me and so he has decided to leave that corner.

I do believe there was some sort of attraction to me on his part. A crush, perhaps. Straight guys seem to do that a lot in my life. It's a weird thing; it's been going on since high school, I would say, long before I even could admit I was gay. I think it might have something to do with the way I was raised, the religious anti-homosexual stuff that is a big part of who I am. I'm a non-threatening homosexual, I guess in part because I was raised to believe that being gay is just about the worst thing one can be (it leads to child molestation, drug use and other illegal activities).

So, back to this straight guy. I have very recently being trying to come to terms with my attraction to straight men, to accept what it is I get from them, what they get from me. Ninety-nine percent of the time it doesn't become a sexual thing. The desire is certainly there on my part, and sometimes I get the sense that it is there in a small and perhaps confused way on their part, but only rarely has it turned into anything, and not because of my pushing. I had a brief fling with a straight guy a couple of summers ago, a man about half my age. He told me up front that he was straight, "always have been," but that there was "something about me." We hung out a few times, eventually gave each other blow-job,s but it ended in the middle of that. I kidded myself that I was just going along with this as experimentally as he was. But the moment he said, "Okay, that's as far as I can go," I realized that I had already gone a lot farther; it broke my heart. I blubbered like so many girls whose hearts he had likely broken. In retrospect I imagined he thought less of me because I was just like all the others.

There have been several instances -- most of them in the last three years, since I've been living in Austin -- in which I have developed very nice relationships with straight men on whom I have originally had an attraction. They transmuted into something better. I've tried to imagine how these men must feel around the women they've been attracted to but with whom they cannot have sex because the women are in a relationship or gay. I have conversations with these men about that, about the difficulty of maintaining a relationship that is different than the initial attraction, and they seem to think their struggle is very similar to mine. Perhaps. But I think there are additional factors that make my struggle more difficult. Particularly the fact that homosexuality is not accepted as normal across the board. And beyond that the fact that I was raised being taught that not only is it an aberration, but one of the worst sins a person can commit. Bring on the drugs, alcohol and minors...

S and I watched a movie called Cat Dancers, a completely surprising film about a three-way relationship. (The link has a schedule of when it is showing on HBO through the early part of January 2009.) The narrator of the film is Ron Holiday, a very beguiling character, very egocentric and odd looking. He wears wigs (different ones for different outfits, curly or straight) and seems to have poorly painted-on eyebrows. He is almost 70 years old and now teaches young people about working with exotic animals. I'm not fond of the idea of people exploiting wild animals, and that is one part of the effectiveness of this film for me; there are so many things about it that I had issues with and alternately with which I could relate.

One of the things I could relate to was how Mr. Holiday sees himself in his late 60s. He was an attractive man when he was a young dancer. He met Joy and they married and seemed to be a perfect couple; their life and their career were intertwined. They were the top adagio dancers in the country, performed at Carnegie Hall in their heyday. But when Ron felt he was too old to do the moves impressively, their performance changed from being just about Joy, and then, when they got their first black panther cub as a gift from a famous person friend, it became about their exotic cat show. They were doing stuff long before Siegfried & Roy (and apparently, if Siegfried had had his way, his show might've been called Siegfried & Ron, but Ron Holiday says Siegfried was not his type at all; "Too fem!").

Ron & Joy Holiday's show grew and expanded with more and more exotic animals, and eventually they needed help and hired a young man who eventually became their lover. The three of them were together 14 years, until tragedy struck. It's pretty jarring. But now all these years later (nine, I believe) Ron is living with the loss of both of his lovers, and he seems pretty content with not having a lover; I got the impression that he felt like he'd already had the best relationship of his life and that he didn't need another. Though he still seems to see himself as attractive.

I have to admit that I didn't see him as attractive at all. And that was the thought that stuck with me most. I see myself getting older, see my desire for younger, unattainable people, and I wonder why I keep doing this to myself. I've been asking myself for the last couple of days why I keep trying. I feel sexy, but no one else seems to. And that's not sour grapes. I feel like I long for (sometimes desperately) a relationship that is not available. As each day goes by, it becomes less likely that I will have another relationship. And I wish I could just give up on the desire. Where is that cord so I can snip it in two? It seems that I have a lot to offer people, that they are attracted to me, but then my sexual desire gets in the way and that confuses things. I hate that.

I want to find a way to release myself from this suffering, this desire that has no positive outcome. I won't make that my New Year's Resolution because I don't do those, and because, lordy, could you imagine what a set-up that would be?! But I continue to question this part of myself that plagues me. I would like to channel my desire into something more productive, something creative like my book. I planned on sitting down with paper and pencil as soon as S left town and creating a schedule for myself -- work, creativity, exercise, entertainment, socializing -- but I spent yesterday feeling sorry for myself, and finally got outside and raked half of the yard. It's a huge yard. I did this because I've heard that exercise is good for depression, and I can't seem to get myself to yoga class. Besides, I can't really afford yoga right now. I ignored my checking account for a few days and something horrible happened with my finances and I ended up spending something like $175 in overdraft fees. Fuck!

Oh, and that's something I meant to write about with regards to the latest crush that feels like it's coming to an end and isn't really turning into the friendship that it pretended it was going to be. This guy has opened an art gallery with his best friend and his ex-girlfriend. I think, because a friend of mine took me to the restaurant where two of them work, an expensive restaurant, he got the idea that I had a lot of money, that I might be a supporter of his cause. He gave us a flier for his gallery the night we were at the restaurant and then S and I went to the opening. I had some money saved up and liked some of the art and decided I would invest in a couple of pieces. Nothing extravagant, but a lot of money for me.

This guy was very attentive and sweet and really seemed to like me. He invited me to meet the three of them at another gallery opening; I dropped by their gallery with beer a couple of Sunday afternoons. I told him I wanted to hang around him (and them) more because I was inspired by them. He seemed to get it. I went to see a weird movie last night called Wonderwall (released in 1968 with a soundtrack by George Harrison); it was part of the Alamo's "High for the Holidays" series. I don't know that I would recommend it-- maybe if you're really high. I was a little high, and I enjoyed it enough. But while I was sitting with my bad service and my pizza and over-priced beer, I realized that my attraction to this straight guy has a lot to do with the fact that he reminds me of my novel, makes me feel inspired about it. He is similar to a couple of characters in different ways (one in a physical way, another in an artistic way). I thought I should write him a letter and tell him about this, but then realized almost as quickly that I was stoned and there was probably no way to make it come out not just sounding weird!

But speaking of letters, I think I need to write a letter to the Alamo. I'm working on a show with my friend M . Over the years she has written lots of letters to businesses (airlines to landlords to restaurant chain corporate headquarters) about dissatisfaction with service she has received. She is doing a performance of several letters in FronteraFest next month, and she asked me to write a song (which I did a couple of days ago -- depression is often creatively productive for me... hm, maybe that has something to do with why I keep leaning in that direction) and to perform with her in the show. Whee!

But anyway, yesterday when I was deciding on going to see Wonderwall at the Alamo, I read this on their website:

Music Monday Specials: Free large popcorn with purchase of a bucket of beer at all Music Mondays! Free large soda or $2 Alamo Ale w/ purchase of a pizza!

So I was thinking, Mm, a pizza and a beer, how nice?!

I ordered the "Wild at Artichoke Hearts" pizza and an Alamo Ale, and when the waiter came, I checked to make sure that the beer would be $2, instead of the $4.50 on the menu. She said she had never heard about that offer. I told her it was on the website. She said she would check with her manager, but obviously if it was on the website she would honor it. I told her I wanted the beer either way, but appreciated her checking.

She came back and told me that the manager said no. He told her that since that offer is outdated and they haven't offered it in so long that they wouldn't honor it for me. However, he was willing to give me a complimentary soda with my pizza! I think I need to harness my emotions and write the letter right now.

tick-tock

Maybe in the new year I'll get it together to blog more. Other things that I'm not doing are more important. I'm still trying to get a schedule for myself, some sort of routine, for writing, exercise, etc. S is leaving town today for five days; I'll be all alone in the house (with the several animals); I'm thinking this will be the perfect opportunity to get my shit together.

http://www.shelleygrund.com/FineArt/painting-a-day-Dec06.htm

soup's on

We're having a soup party today! Won't you come and join us? S made mushroom barley soup, saag paneer (with kale and spinach and cheese he made himself), and leek & sweet potato soup; I made Annabella's Oatmeal Soup, which is a vegetable soup -- black-eyed peas, zucchini, carrots -- and I also made black bean brownies, which have no flour and are scrumptious. S is gonna make scones, plain ones and chocolate chip/candied orange peels (that he made himself - such a homosexual in the kitchen!).

People are gonna start coming over at about 2:00, and we said the party would last until 8:00, at least the eating part. We don't care if people hang around a little longer, but I for one am gonna start cleaning up. Forty-five people RSVP'd for the party, some of them are children, but still, there's a lotta people coming. A couple more won't hurt; if you just sneak in, we won't even notice you. Well, we might notice, but we won't mind.

I've had fun the last couple of days putting things together for the party; this is such a fun house and property in/on which to have a party. There are lots of chairs around, lots of yard space, two porches, a fenced-in yard and three-plus acres of unfenced area. Our housemate/landlord worked on Spy Kids the movie, and they have a giant cherry from that movie, which I "planted" in the front yard. It looks great; very inviting. They also gave us a big red light-up cross (like the Red Cross cross, not the Jesus cross) back when we lived at the other address from the excellent movie Idiocracy; I have it against the front of the house. It can be seen from half a mile away.

Fun, fun!

Oh, and if you come, could you bring a ladle; we're shy a couple.

cat door turtling squirrel

At the old address, I had bird feeders on the side of the house, one right out the window by my desk, another in what functioned as the living room -- but what we called the middle room -- and we would see lots of birds at the feeders, cardinals, titmice, sparrows. I placed a sign that I pulled out of the trash against the house after moving it around the inside of the apartment awhile and deciding it didn't work, and it made a good hiding place for the neighbor cat Clyde to wait for unsuspecting birds. He killed two -- one killing leaving a lot of blood and feathers on the porch and side yard -- before I figured it out and moved the sign. The messier one was a young cardinal (the other was a turtle dove) and I felt really bad, but grew to love the daily visits from the dead one's sister, whom I watched grow up. She always had one feather sticking straight up from her body, just above the left wing. I don't know if that was because of a near escape from Clyde, but I always called her "The One That Got Away," or Totga, for short. I miss Totga.

We didn't have squirrels at that address; most of the pesky critters were possums, and they didn't (or couldn't) bother with bird feeders. When we moved to this address, I put one feeder outside my temporary bedroom window and the other outside the bathroom window. The birds (mockingbirds, mostly) light on the fence but haven't come to the feeder as far as I can tell. Maybe they're smarter here, or more timid. A squirrel made his way over the roof to the feeder outside my bedroom window and when I spotted him, he was hanging over the eave, lifting the lid of the feeder like a rude party guest, snacking by the pawful. I added a length of wire to the feeder, and that stopped him for the time being. He moved to the one outside the bathroom window, a slender feeder without a removable lid, but with lots of little feeding stations and perching poles next to each. It's a bit more difficult for him to get to those seeds, but he does it, falling into the red berry bushes below (the red berries which the mockingbirds love, by the way) once in awhile; but he makes his way back to the roof, back to the feeder. I don't mind the squirrels; I'm not going to war to keep them out of the feeders, but I'd much rather see birds out my windows than a squirrel.

When I was trying to get Timmy used to the cat door -- which is on the same side of the room as the bird feeder but out other window, the one with the air conditioner unit in it -- I kept it propped open to show him the way. When I started seeing the squirrel turtling his head through the cat door, I stopped leaving it open. I have a friend who had a squirrel sneak into her house while she was out of town for a weekend, and boy, what a mess he made; the chew marks on the window sills have been painted over, but they're still there.

I figured out that Timmy won't use the cat door on his own because he doesn't have enough of a ledge on the inside, so he has to dive through from below with me holding it open. Last night, exhausted, I lay in bed dozing but being constantly awakened by him tapping the door with his paw, trying to get it to the open position (I assume). I found a couple of boxes that I stacked up on my bedside table; they give him a surface big enough to hang out on and casually, comfortably make his way out and in, which he did all night long.

motivation...

...or lack thereof.

I'm struggling to find routine in my life. Not that I don't like living in this new place; I love it. But there are more chores to do here -- taking care of animals, which includes cleaning up messes, doing laundry, cleaning the kitchen. Maybe it feels a little too much like vacation here, possibly because our friends -- our current housemates and future landlords -- are in Panama, on vacation, and it feels a little bit like I am, too, or should be. I don't know.

I need routine to work on my book. I finished the first draft in November, which I'm proud of, but I'm not ready to show it to anybody outside of S, and not really even ready to show it to him, because I've got some work to do on it as I'm going through it "one last time" before I give it up.

I only worked 20 hours the past two weeks (I usually work at least 30 a week), so my paycheck tomorrow is going to be small. Fortunately, this is a three pay period month. I've worked close to 25 hours already this week, but am currently transcribing a call by a Swedish ESL guy, which just makes me want to take a nap. I just did.

Also, S just finished his last finals yesterday, so now he's around all the time (though he was away for most of the morning), and that tends to make me want to just hang out, get stoned, watch movies, eat. We're going to movies at the Alamo tonight and tomorrow night. Tonight, we're going to the one on South Lamar to see an Argentinian film called The Swamp (La Ciénega), and tomorrow we'll go to the Ritz on Sixth Street to see In A Dream, which I saw at SXSW and really want S to see. It's a documentary about the man who has done mosaics all over Philadelphia. It's a beautiful movie, and my treat to S for finishing his semester (any excuse...!).

Speaking of the animals, we were having some problems with Tinkerbell the potbellied pig. She was seeming a bit aggressive, butting our legs when we were in the kitchen, chasing us around, making kind of scary grunting noises, etc. She got into a six-pack of root beers (likely with the help of Bones the boxer), chewed off the lids, and made a mess of the main room! They drank up most of three bottles of root beer, but there was still a mess, and it was easy enough to clean up, but I was frustrated by all of Tinkerbell's cries for attention. I wasn't sure we were feeding her enough, so I sent my friends in Panama an email asking "Is Tinkerbell starving?" I got an email yesterday letting me know that once a month, Tinkerbell gets "what we call FRISKY." Oh... I was a little more understanding of her last night and today, let her chase me around the yard, and didn't yank my foot back so fast when she went to bite my Crocs, and it really doesn't hurt. I don't know if it's her form of affection or frustration, but she's pretty harmless. I spent some time combing her, which she sometimes likes, and rubbing her belly last night, which she always loves.

We're also doing a lot of entertaining, which S and I both love to do, and since we have this great house to ourselves we're upping the occurrence. This coming Saturday, we're having a Solstice Soup Party (with 45 expected); on Christmas Day, we're having a Orphans' Xmas Brunch (with eight people, more or less); and then on January 11th, we're having dinner for the three people who run biRDHOUSE Gallery, from whom I recently bought some art and endeared myself to them. One of the two guys gave us a postcard for the opening of the gallery when we were at one of my birthday dinners, S and I went, and we hit it off; I like them a lot, have stopped by the gallery for a beer and have gone out to another opening they invited me to The woman who completes their staff (who is more the administrator, I think, while they are the actual curator/owners) as it turns out, is having a birthday on January 12th, so I'm going to make a cake and we're going to kick off her birthday season. That'll be fun.

I'd much rather think about these things than work, but work I must.

life on the ranch

So, we live with a potbelly pig named Tinkerbell who spends most of her time sleeping in her human parent's (my friends) closet; my friend saw her at the feed store, I think, in a little cage, and felt sorry for her and brought her home. She was cute and squiggly back then; it's been six months, I guess, and they had to enlarge the dog door to the outside because she was having a hard time squeezing out and in, and they're out of the country for a month and they figured she might grow too big for the opening by the time they get back.

There's also a boxer named Bones living here which my friend found in a field near her work. He was literally skin and bones -- they've got some pretty disturbing pictures of when they found him -- and the vet, whom my friend took him to thinking they would have to put him down, originally thought he was seven or eight years old. But the vet said it wasn't necessary to put him down, and now he's a very healthy three or four year old.

And then my extraordinary house cat, Timmy, who has made himself quite at home here. He likes this address so much more than the last place we lived, where I adopted him because his roommates picked on him and he peed on his human parent's things and they put him in an ill-devised screened-in room on the front porch in very cold weather (I can't remember now if it was last winter or the winter before that). Here, Timmy has a cat door to go in and out of, and once he gets out there, 3.5 acres of wandering room. I was a little nervous about him getting lost or wandering into the road at first, but I followed him around and watched his patterns, and I'm pretty confident his habits are healthy.

I put up a dog gate at the end of the hall so that Bones could see Timmy and so that Timmy could explore the rest of the house, which he has done the past couple of days in Bones' absence because a family friend has taken Bones to his friend's house to play with her dog. Yesterday he brought Bones and the other dog, Sam, back here to play in the fenced-in yard, which wore Bones out pretty good. He was in bed before we humans were.

There's also a rescued turtle named Chewy in an aquarium in the kitchen, but they're not warm and snuggly animals, so I don't think much about him. I would love to get a goat or two, for the milk, and their freaky cuteness. I have this idea to get two baby girls and name them after my grandmothers, Nana and Mamaw. It would be nice if there was some situation where I could rescue them instead of buying goats from a breeder, but I don't wish that there are goats out there in need of rescuing, and getting them from a breeder is kind of rescuing them (though buying from a breeder keeps that practice alive, and I'm not sure how good I feel about that) -- I guess it remains to be seen if and when I meet the breeder). S & I were talking about goats last night around the chiminea. I said, "I'm pretty sure they would be outdoor animals," to which S said, "I certainly hope so!" Not that he has any problem with a boxer and a potbelly pig at his feet in the kitchen while he's cooking, but it could get a little crazy if we had goats and chickens, etc., running around indoors!

I bought a chiminea and put it on the front porch, and last night S & I christened it with some wood from the oak trees here, a piece of cedar from the stack I bought for $4 when I bought the chiminea, and a piece of root from the big pecan tree which fell in the yard during a storm last year at the old address. It was semi-ritualistic, burning the old and the new wood, the old memories and the new ones to come. We had a chiminea on that porch which broke, but while we had it, we used it a lot, and turned the porch ceiling a sooty black color. So to avoid that, I got some galvanized aluminum pipe from the hardware store and the friend of the family who's staying in the Airstream on the property (and who took Bones on a playdate again this morning) helped me wire it up, so the smoke goes out past the roof ledge, mostly; some of it comes out of the front of the chiminea, but it only makes us smell all toasty-roasty like we've been sitting around a campfire and doesn't soot up the porch. The pecan wood burned nice and slow, and I remembered a stack of little logs I stacked there at the old address that I think I better go get for the front porch.

Ah! Life is good.

I am having a little bit of trouble getting on a schedule. I haven't touched the novel since before my out of town guest came and went, and then the move. But I'm confident the time will come. First I have to get my work schedule going. (I only worked 20 hours over the past two weeks!) Regardless, I am feeling quite comfy here, even though this living situation is temporary. The next move will only be across the property to our shipping containers house, when it is complete, which our friends say they will be focusing on once they get back in the country at the beginning of next year.

movement

It has been 18 days since my last confession-- er, blog. The morning sun is sitting on my right shoulder and that constant hum of the interstate two blocks away has been replaced by the occasional swishing of cars on the two roads outside my window. But they're not close by, these two roads; I'm sitting in the middle of a 3.5 acre piece of land in Austin's "Upper East Side" (as the tongue-cheeked like to call it). We've moved out of our dilapidated apartment near downtown to a three bedroom ranch house owned by my oldest friend in the world. I don't mean that she's like 107 or anything; I mean she's my longest relationship in the world. We met when I was working as a barback in an R&B club in Houston. I was 19 years old, she and her friends were 17 at the time, sneaking in with fake IDs (which I had no say over one way or the other). She and I hit it off and have remained in contact these 26 years, with her traveling the world and then settling back in Houston and now Austin with her husband and their six-year-old, and me moving to NYC (where I met S) then Nashville (with him), then onto the road (with him and a third), then to Florida (without either), where I lived with my oldest friend in the world at the time. I met that friend just a few months before I met this one, and that relationship fell apart when I moved in with her and her husband and their two kids on the Atlantic coast. Therefore I had a lot of fears about moving in with this friend (since I don't talk to that friend anymore). But I'm a lot closer to this husband, and we faced my fears at the get-go (I sent out a group email outlining my fears), and it looks like things are gonna work out.

They offered to build S & me a shipping container house on their property (for minimal rent) and we were excited by the prospect, particularly since our apartment near the Capitol -- groovy as it was -- was falling apart. They were hoping to finish the construction and have us move in before they left for Panama for a month, which they did last night. But life got in the way and they weren't able to complete our new digs, so they asked us to move into a third of their house (they would take another third, and we would all share the third third), because they needed somebody to take care of their boxer and potbelly pig in their absence. So here we are, almost fully moved in. Our bedrooms and bathroom-and-a-half are set up, as is the front porch, which they let us use; there's a bunch of boxes in and around the kitchen that need to be dealt with, but that'll happen eventually.

Besides my relationship with my dearest oldest friend in the world, I was most concerned about my cat's comfort in the new space. But he LOVES it here, I am happy to report, and we're all confident that someday he will be snuggling with the boxer who stands at the gated hallway door drooling and whining and wagging his tail at the sight of the cat (who is not as freaked out by this as I thought he would be).

The only thing that has suffered since my last blog is my timesheet. I had a good friend visit for six days and took the whole time off while she was here -- she helped me bring a couple of loads over; and then after she was gone, I spent another half week-plus finishing the move, straining my back, taking time off. So I'll stop blogging now and get to work and hopefully update more frequently in the coming days, weeks and month.

mum

I don't know if it's related, but since I masturbated two days ago, I've met four very nice men and one not very nice one! I feel somewhat stunted in writing about these meetings because of my intention to not offend anyone via my blog. Or it's not even about offending them, just not writing about anybody.

S gets written about because we live together and I do most of the things that I don't do alone with him. He doesn't seem to mind. But I don't complain about him too much. If I have a complaint (which really isn't often), I'll go directly to him. To air that out on my blog after the fact seems to me unnecessary since I don't blog to tell the world what I've done (necessarily) but rather to work things out, in my own mind. Or if they don't need working out, I guess it's more about writing it out just to see how it looks. It's more for me. But I'm happy to let you look at what I've written.

But I'm rambling all around the subject of these men.

Three of the five men I'm sure were gay; the other (more recent) two, I'm not so sure. I almost kissed one of them (one of the gay ones). --Well, that's not exactly right. I was leaning toward him and he cocked his head a little, the way a person does when they're gonna get kissed, but I wasn't leaning in for a kiss; seriously, I was looking at something over his shoulder.

In fact, it took me walking home and crawling into bed before it struck me (quite suddently) that he was thinking I was coming in for a kiss. I called him the next day and said something silly pick-up-liney like, "I think I missed an opportunity last night." He said, "What opportunity was that?" And I said, "The opportunity to kiss you!" Come to find out, he has a boyfriend, but he didn't say he wasn't cocking his head in anticipation of a kiss and I didn't push him on it. I didn't really care. The bf word pushed me away. Not in a bad way. In a good way. I was thinking the night before as I lay in bed that I really missed an opportunity, and I was kicking myself for being so socially inept. But if I did miss an opportunity, it was to have possibly done something that this guy was less than likely to have done had he not been kind of drunk. And I don't want that kind of thing in my life, that behind-the-boyfriend's back thing.

I really wish I could report on how I met those three men, and what the not very nice one said (because it's funny, and likely that he wasn't being mean just for meanness sake but rather to be funny, which is okay, and it really wasn't all that mean, and was really rather funny, but I can't write about it-- argh!).

I wish I could report on where I met the other two guys, more recently, whose proclivities I'm not sure of. One of the two I think is quite cute, and I got the feeling he was shooting some interested vibes my direction. But the fact that I can't say anything about it, about him, about the type of person he appears to be, the way he was with me, et ceter,a makes this whole entry a waste of space.

ask mr. owl

I well remember the commercial of the little boy going to the turtle to ask how many licks it takes to get to the Tootsie Roll center of a Tootsie Pop, and the turtle sends the boy to the owl, who discovers that it takes one, ta-hoo, three, crunch.

In my case, it took 23 days to get to the Tootsie Roll center of my... well, whatever.

I'm not saying I failed my s'experiment, just that I have to start counting again.

A year's a long time.

the jury's still out

Last week, I biked over to the LBJ Library to meet up with S for a movie I had seen listed in the Chronicle called The Gift. It's about "bug-chasers," or people who actively seek out HIV. I don't know if it's a doc or a narrative, but that doesn't matter right now.

There was a lot of construction going on around the library, so it took me longer than I thought it would to find my way to S, and he was in a disappointed state of mind already because he had planned to wait for me on the deck overlooking the beautiful fountain below, but couldn't because of the construction.

When I arrived in the lobby, he was on the courtesy phone and I thought to myself, "I'm not that late, am I?" He was calling UT's information line, trying to find out where the movie was showing. Everyone was puzzled. The problem was the room number I had: 3-14.1

That's a crazy room number, isn't it? We tried our luck at the communications building, or whatever that building is called that's actually in front of the LBJ Library (I always thought it was the LBJ Library). We took the elevator to the third floor, but there was a printed out sign on the bulletin board just off the elevator: THIRD FLOOR CLOSED

So we went to the ground floor; I went into a student planning office or some such place and asked the woman at the desk and the other woman standing next to it about the room number, and then about a possible movie showing in that building or anywhere on campus. But I didn't know exactly what program the movie was part of, so I said, "HIV Awareness Week, or something like that," instead of, "I don't know."

A third woman in an office with glass walls put her hand over her phone receiver and started making suggestions. She had somebody pull out the building directory. We went through it sort of together and found rooms like 311.1, but the dash apparently is important. There was no Room 3-14.1 in that building either.

Long story short: we missed the movie. I came home and put it at the top of the Netflix queue, not because either of us is dying to see it (no pun intended), but just to get it out of the way, you know?

I looked for the listing in my Gmail All Mail box, searched Trash, but the only reference to the movie that I could find was the email I sent to S with the date, time, and room number, 3-14.1. (I had forgotten I saw the listing in a newspaper and not on some movie listserv I'm on, such as from the Austin Film Society, to which I am a dues-paying member.)

Okay, long story not-so-short, but I'm getting there. I dug the old Chronicle out of the recycling crate and found the listing for the movie at the LBJ something-or-other Center on the UT campus in San Marcos, Texas, which is 31.7 miles from Austin!

Anyway, The Gift arrived today and we're gonna watch it.

(That picture is so beautiful; the HIV virus would make a beautifully tragic holiday ornament.)

add this to your queue

The Bicycle Thief, directed by Vittoro De Sica (1948)

The IMDb summary describes it only "A man and his son search for a stolen bicycle vital for his job." But, oh my god, it is about so much more than that. The attention the director pays to every little detail is striking throughout, from the lighting choices to the way music works its way into the film. There are extended laugh-out-loud moments and jaw-dropping moments of devastation. This movie rocked my world from the first frame to the FINE in the last one. Enzo Staiola, who plays the nine-year-old son, was a naturally amazing actor; his power onscreen reminded me of Cantica Untaru, who starred in one of my favorite movies of all times, 2006's The Fall. This was Enzo's first film, and apparently he was pulled off the street for the role because of his walk. But whoever made that choice got a lot more than they bargained for because he is the emotional power of The Bicycle Thief. Not that the man who plays his father and mother aren't equally good, but he seemed to push the emotions of the story to the forefront.

I don't want to say more about it because I don't want to give anything away, and because I couldn't really do it justice. I don't speak Italian, but Ladri Di Biciclette is sometimes translated as "The Bicycle Thieves," but I much prefer the singular translation, The Bicycle Thief. Once you see it, I think you'll see what I mean.

chapter three: black lake (put to rest)

I've finished the rough first draft of the novel and am now going back through the chapters chronologically and giving them one last look, and then I'm putting them into a three-ring binder that doesn't open very easily and that's that until I make my way to "The End."

Chapter three is the first chapter of the story, and I just stuck it in the three-hole punch last night. I'll probably read it at the next soup salon, but I'm forcing myself to not look at it anymore, not fix it, change it, fuck it up anymore.

Just for fun, here's the first and last sentences of the chapter. First:

The trailerpark I grew up in used to be nothing but old people and one Cuban guy named Marco Valdés who escaped from Communism when he was seventeen years old on a raft he made out of milk jugs and yarn.

And the last:

Mama ranted on at least until I was asleep; Brenda cried and so did I. Lot number four was a trailerhome full of people feeling sorry for themselves that night and for many nights to come.

(painting: "Black Lake," Milton Avery, 1893-1965)

s'experiment: day 13

I stopped the daily lavender self-massages because I was getting a little carried away...

I read on the web that physical exercise is a good idea for celibates, so I'm going back to yoga starting tonight. We'll see how that goes, since I have a crush on the yoga instructor!

I also read that after some time of abstaining a certain "sweet smell" permeates the celibate, which I guess is the unexpelled testosterone finding other places in the body. I don't know really, and I don't think I've been abstinent for long enough for that to be the case.

I do know that on day 10 I went to a theater show and a man was giving me quite a number of sideways and otherwise interested looks from across the room. And last night I went to see a friend perform and several people said how handsome I looked. I did like my outfit -- brown corduroys, a slender Banana Republic sweater and my cool "birthday" hat -- but I'm wondering if I wasn't putting off some kind of energy that wasn't my usual energy, sort of a calm and sensual energy, perhaps.

Also, I have a new friend I've been hanging out with, getting to know a bit, a lesbian who is kind of a tomboy. I was thinking that we're a perfect couple to pal around because our interests in the romantic department are so opposite each other that there's no competition and no connection on that level, although I have had a crush on her for some time. Then again, I have crushes on all sorts of people, so I don't see why that should change.

(photo: copyright © 2005-2008 Joseph Hoyt. All rights reserved.)

a letter to the new man

Have you read the letter Alice Walker wrote to President-Elect Barack Obama? It's good...

Nov. 5, 2008
Dear Brother Obama,

You have no idea, really, of how profound this moment is for us. Us being the black people of the Southern United States. You think you know, because you are thoughtful, and you have studied our history. But seeing you deliver the torch so many others before you carried, year after year, decade after decade, century after century, only to be struck down before igniting the flame of justice and of law, is almost more than the heart can bear. And yet, this observation is not intended to burden you, for you are of a different time, and, indeed, because of all the relay runners before you, North America is a different place. It is really only to say: Well done. We knew, through all the generations, that you were with us, in us, the best of the spirit of Africa and of the Americas. Knowing this, that you would actually appear, someday, was part of our strength. Seeing you take your rightful place, based solely on your wisdom, stamina and character, is a balm for the weary warriors of hope, previously only sung about.

I would advise you to remember that you did not create the disaster that the world is experiencing, and you alone are not responsible for bringing the world back to balance. A primary responsibility that you do have, however, is to cultivate happiness in your own life. To make a schedule that permits sufficient time of rest and play with your gorgeous wife and lovely daughters. And so on. One gathers that your family is large. We are used to seeing men in the White House soon become juiceless and as white-haired as the building; we notice their wives and children looking strained and stressed. They soon have smiles so lacking in joy that they remind us of scissors. This is no way to lead. Nor does your family deserve this fate. One way of thinking about all this is: It is so bad now that there is no excuse not to relax. From your happy, relaxed state, you can model real success, which is all that so many people in the world really want. They may buy endless cars and houses and furs and gobble up all the attention and space they can manage, or barely manage, but this is because it is not yet clear to them that success is truly an inside job. That it is within the reach of almost everyone.

I would further advise you not to take on other people's enemies. Most damage that others do to us is out of fear, humiliation and pain. Those feelings occur in all of us, not just in those of us who profess a certain religious or racial devotion. We must learn actually not to have enemies, but only confused adversaries who are ourselves in disguise. It is understood by all that you are commander in chief of the United States and are sworn to protect our beloved country; this we understand, completely. However, as my mother used to say, quoting a Bible with which I often fought, "hate the sin, but love the sinner." There must be no more crushing of whole communities, no more torture, no more dehumanizing as a means of ruling a people's spirit. This has already happened to people of color, poor people, women, children. We see where this leads, where it has led.

A good model of how to "work with the enemy" internally is presented by the Dalai Lama, in his endless caretaking of his soul as he confronts the Chinese government that invaded Tibet. Because, finally, it is the soul that must be preserved, if one is to remain a credible leader. All else might be lost; but when the soul dies, the connection to earth, to peoples, to animals, to rivers, to mountain ranges, purple and majestic, also dies. And your smile, with which we watch you do gracious battle with unjust characterizations, distortions and lies, is that expression of healthy self-worth, spirit and soul, that, kept happy and free and relaxed, can find an answering smile in all of us, lighting our way, and brightening the world.

We are the ones we have been waiting for.
In Peace and Joy,
Alice Walker

the final curtain

I rewrote the epilogue to august chagrin yesterday, and I'm pleased with it. It achieved exactly what I'd hoped for, and I know this because I read it to S and he had exactly the reaction I wanted.

It starts out as a true-life account of how I ended up in Austin -- on my way to the West Coast, stopped in Texas while my grandmother died, decided not to go to the West Coast because of the cost of living, came to Austin for a meditation retreat -- and then shifts slightly into fiction shortly after my grandmother passes away and I move to Austin.

I meet a woman at the Buddhist center here; she is Amitodana Metta Sutta, and she doesn't really exist, she is a character in the book. She is the person who connects me to all of the other characters in the book, the entire story, by giving me a box of writings she has been holding onto for ten or more years. In the box are some letters she wrote as well as journals, plays and stories by the person who became Randy Reardon in my "retelling" of the story, as well as ideas for performance art pieces by the title character.

Supposedly. It's all fiction, really, and it has an exciting effect I think, taking the reader out of the fiction of the bulk of the novel to the possibility of it having been non-fiction by using non-fiction from my own life, then fictionalizing part of that as well. It works, I think, and manages to stir up the story enough to keep it cloudy in the reader's mind, not in a "Huh?" way, but more of as an opening for possibilities. Did this really happen? Are these people real?

Here's the last paragraph:
So I present this as a work of fiction with nothing to back up the facts otherwise. Ami (not her real name) was pleased with the outcome, and truly that was my only goal as I got involved n working on it. The fact that you're reading this right now means that her dream was realized, and the life of this special person lives on.

s'experiment: day 9

A friend of mine asked me recently if by being celibate I meant not masturbating either, which I thought was an odd thing to ask, because if masturbation is allowed, I've been celibate for the better part of the past two years (with only occasional "slips"). She had heard about some group -- I don't remember if they were monks or what -- who had to be celibate for their living situation, but who were also encouraged to masturbate. I guess to keep them from getting too frisky.

I was thinking very seriously the other day about the masturbation question, wondering if I was actually making things worse for myself by keeping it "bottled up," so to speak. When I went to the polls on election day to see the long lines (that didn't exist) and spent some time talking to the election official at the door of the library -- whose job it seemed was to point people in the right direction and thank them for voting when they exited -- I was seeing some mighty good looking young people, formerly-angry black men, tattooed and pierced punk rockers, upscale homosexuals; I was feeling some strong attractions, looking for the lumps, feeling the love. On my bike ride home I wondered if maybe I was doing myself (and the world at large) a disservice by not masturbating, if it was gonna cause me to leer even more so than before I took this goal of celibacy upon myself.

And for a year?! WTF!?

I Googled "celibacy - masturbation" and the first link that came up was a medical professional writing "A surprisingly large number of people wonder if masturbation is permitted if one is 'celibate.'" The second link was by a Catholic priest writing about how to overcome the masturbation sin; the one after that a man's blog on his journey of "transitional celibacy" (I suppose to a state of "regular sexuality") and his 12-step take on it.

I don't think of masturbation as a sin or an addiction. Well, maybe it's addictive, but I don't think I have a "problem," certainly not one that would require a 12-step program, since I'm generally opposed to 12-step programs, period. For me, it's more about changing my constant view of the world through sex-colored glasses (I was about to write "semen-smeared glasses," but that's gross).

The man in the blog was excited that he had had 20 days of celibacy, but the entry was written nearly a year-and-a-half ago, and there are no follow-up entries. I picture the poor guy face down in a gutter in the seedy part of town right now, woody in hand.

I have found something that helps me overcome my cravings to "have a wank on the knob," as the Brits say. I don't know if it would be considered masturbation, but I spend a timed five minutes touching myself, massaging my dick and balls with lavender oil. Lavender is known for its calming qualities, so I thought it might be useful in this instance.

Surprisingly, it has been. I get a warm sensation, but it's not like a turned-on heat, it's more of a hot bath kind of effect. It feels real nice. During the process, I don't find myself thinking about sex, or boys, I'm just paying attention to myself. There's always a spot in the middle front of my balls that feels cool, almost cold to the touch, so I rub the flesh between fingers and thumb to warm it up.

Of course, I want more of this good feeling, but I don't feel like I can't help myself, can't stop myself. When the five minutes is up, I put myself away and get back to work or whatever I was doing previously, the warm feeling remains for a few minutes, and I feel a sense of satisfaction, as much because I've given myself attention as because I haven't ended my experiment by spilling my seed.

Yet.

We'll see how it's going 20 days in. Perhaps I'll blow off this experiment like the other blogger did. But maybe not. Already I don't feel nearly as crotch-focused as I was when I was masturbating daily.

me too, di

this is the day that the lord has made

Are you working? Or are you looking at blogs, watching the media, keeping an eye on what is happening on this historic day, like I am?

S told me he woke up at 3 a.m., anxious about today, about something going horribly wrong and Obama not getting elected.

I cut the end of my finger off last night, just a little slice with a pair of scissors while I was happily chopping up a credit card, thinking as I did it, "The future will be better with Obama!" and then chunk-- a sliver of finger came off and lay there in the pile of tiny credit card shards. The wound eventually started bleeding, so I picked up the flap of flesh and stuck it back onto where it came off from and bandaged it into place.

I tried to write for awhile -- earlier I had finished the longhand version of chapter three and wanted to type it up, and saw that it was only 10 o'clock when I started. But that was with Daylight Savings Time ending, so it was really 11, and by the time I got to the point of cutting off my fingertip it was more like 11/12, and typing was like trying to drive on a floppy flat tire, so I went to bed.

I was a little weary, a little anxious about what today would bring, about where I would be when the final announcement was made, who I would be with. A friend recently said that she didn't want to sit at home with a glass of wine nervously chewing her nails and watching the TV with her partner because that's what she did in the last several elections. She said this time she wants to be out in the world, with lots of people, watching the returns on a big TV, in a celebratory mode.That's how I feel about it, too.

Tuesday is normally S's long day at school, so I was afraid he would be absent, that I would be riding my bicycle around the streets of Austin, lonely and happy...but lonely, making out with curious lesbians in the middle of the street when the announcement was made. (That's not really a fear, there are several lesbians I might be drawn to make out with, even though I'm observing celibacy, particularly on an occasion such as this promises to be!)

But then S told me his class has been canceled for the night because it's Election Day, so I offered to buy him dinner at a Mexican restaurant called Jovita's down on South First Street where my tattoo artist told me a queer-friendly Obama Watch Party was happening. And then we'll meet up with others, perhaps, at the Driskill Hotel on Congress, if the election drags on.

I'm thinking it's likely our future will be sealed early and I can go to bed by 10 -- if not for the excitement of the world keeping me awake (which will probably also keep me from being able to write), so I might have to drink myself to sleep.

But then I think "Am I being too optimistic?" I've been cruising my regular web stations this morning -- The Dish, Huffington Post and The Daily Show -- looking for signs that the other shoe has fallen, or that the half-glass of water tipped over and spilled while nobody was watching and now it's not half-empty or half-full.

Then I read that John McCain and Sarah Palin have a 1.9% chance of winning the election and my optimism returned.

This is not just about politics. This is about changing the world. Or rather, this seems to be more about changing the world than about politics. I already feel woozy; how am I possibly going to get any work done today?

Tomorrow I expect to have the sweetest hangover that, like Diana Ross, I don't wanna get over...!

s'experiment

I meditated for five minutes with my erect penis in my hands. I was feeling very distracted trying to work, and wanting to masturbate (because that sometimes temporarily dissipates the distraction). But really not wanting to masturbate.

So I tried something. I got the kitchen timer and my meditation cushion, plopped it in the middle of the living room floor, dropped my pants and pushed START on the timer and held onto myself. It wasn't masturbation; it wasn't even really much movement, I just wrapped both hands around my dick and balls.

Of course I got an erection. But I just held it, just let the heat of my hands go into it, and the throbbing of blood pulse back against the palms of my hands.

Five minutes is a long time when you haven't meditated in awhile! And of course my thoughts wandered. I thought about my yoga teacher on whom I distracting crush, I thought of the young straight guy who was experimenting and with whom I had a momentary sexual exchange a couple of summers ago.

When the beeper went off, I released myself, stood up still erect for the moment, pulled up my pants, put the timer away and came back to my desk to work, and then decided to blog. I think the urge to masturbate really has passed. For now.

soup salon number one

On Saturday, S and I hosted our first of hopefully many monthly salons, we're calling them Soup Salons, because no better name has emerged, and because really that's what they are. S made two soups, as well as baba ghanoush; I made cupcakes from my Aunt Melba's Dream Chocolate Cake recipe and my mother's fudge icing recipe, using the black onyx cocoa we order from the spice shop in Boulder, Colorado. It really is black, and it's a little unruly as an icing. In the cake pan, I just pour it in and it settles, thicker in the corners and thinner (but still thick) in the center, and it hardens like a candy almost. It's delicious, but it doesn't spread once it has cooled in the slightest, so some of the cupcakes just had a poo pile of chocolate in the middle, so dark, they made the Ghiradelli's dark chocolate cake underneath look like bran! But no, it was all chocolate!

There were eleven of us in attendance. I told prose readers to bring something not more than twenty minutes in length, singers, poets and others to bring a couple of things. equally about fifteen to twenty minutes. The idea was that we would go around the room, and then back around for the singers and poets to do a second set. But we got a late start, so we didn't get back around to the poets and singers, it felt right length-wise.

We had the salon at A's house; she has a big dining room table that comfortably sat eleven (thirteen were invited but two couldn't come, and I think ten or eleven is ideal, for that situation anyway). S set out the baba ghanoush, pickled okra and roasted and spiced squash seeds that he made with the crackers and flat breads that people brought. I had put down Sun magazines as place mats; A added flowers and we set each place with napkins, silverware, plates and glasses.

To start the evening, we went around the room and most of us spoke an epigraph after picking a rune out of a bag that I had painted numbers on so we knew what order to go in. Then we started in with the creative expression. We watched a documentary about drag kings, a YouTube video of one attendee doing contact improv at Barton Springs; we saw a PowerPoint presentation that went along with an academic book-in-progress about depression and crafting; we heard poems by attendees and by a famous poet; a chapter from a completed novel was read as well a chapter from a novel that is barely a finished first draft; we got a sneak preview of text from an upcoming story/song performance piece; we heard a couple of singers sing a couple of songs as well as a recording of a song on a CD from a rock opera that is soon to be produced in New York City. It was quite a salon!

Somewhere in the middle, when the timing seemed just right, we took breaks to deliver first a creamy, spicy squash soup to everyone's place setting, and later a potato and kale soup. There was wine, there was Perrier, there was beer. And later than that, I swiftly moved the bowls and delivered platters of cupcakes. It went as smoothly as it coud possible have gone. Had we started a half hour earlier (as we were supposed to), we might have got back around the room for another couple of songs and/or poems, but nobody seemed to mind.

Many were nervous. There was some overlapping acquaintances (all from my personal collection) but several of these people had never met each other before. Some were nervous about singing in front of others, some were nervous about doing something that they feared might not be "creative" enough, some were reading work they hadn't thought about for many years, some felt completely unprepared and were nervous that the thing they did have to share was darker than what they hoped would be the first expression shared with this new community.

That last one was me. I didn't read the chapter I had intended to read A few days earlier, I felt done with the rough first draft of august chagrin and was going back through and revisiting each chapter in chronological order (chapter three is first). That was whatI wanted to read at the first salon. But when I reworked the chapter I someone mistakenly labeled it "(1976)" instead of "(1972)" which was what it was, and that changed things considerably. In a good way. Randy catches an idle train car full of timber on fire with a roman candle; it works because in the Summer of '76, the sky was "more full of fireworks than ever before." I read what I thought was the newly completed chapter to S Saturday morning, and he gave me a big note for a change making me realize it wasn't ready to be read that night, not along with the last minute shopping I had to do, making the cupcakes and getting to A's early to help set up for the salon.

I ran around anxiously for awhile, and finally decided to find something else to read. I read chapter nine, "road signs," which went well. I was actually pleased to hear it again myself; it made me remember that not everything I've written has to be completely reworked, which is a relief three years into the process!

I stayed up until two a.m. Saturday night. S and I sat on the porch chatting about the success of the salon for awhile, and then I did some writing. And then last night I was was up until three a.m. (the clock said two but with the time change early in the morning it really was three). I think I'm getting very close to a happy completed not-so-rough first draft of chapter three.

Starting a salon has been my dream for some time. I decided to start it now because it was my Birthday Season, and it was just about the best present ever, second only to the one I'll be receiving in just a little more than forty-eight hours from now. And then my celebrating will morph from being about my birth forty-five years ago to the bright future for the whole country and the world. I can't wait!

s'experiment

The bottom half of my body is alive!

I had to shave a stripe down my left leg to get a tattoo on it, but the place where I shaved my forearm for a previous tattoo had not grown back evenly, so I shaved my whole leg to avoid the annoying tuft of hair I had on my arm.

I rather liked the way my naked and tattooed left leg looked, all smooth and shiny from the lotion I keep on it to help the tattoo heal and to moisturize my whole leg, so the other day, I decided to shave my right leg. And while I was at it -- because I didn't know where to stop -- I shaved all the hair off of my body, all of it, including my torso, arms and pits. All of it that I could reach comfortably with the electric shaver. I didn't use the Mach III Turbo and shaving cream because that would be a lot more annoying when it started growing back in.

I'm not so crazy about the way my torso and arms look, but that's okay, it'll grow back, and I'm not trying to impress anybody with my prepubescent look. But I do like the look of my shiny stubbled legs!

It struck me during the process that I was doing some kind of an alteration to my body to coincide with my year of celibacy. Like wearing a hair suit or flogging myself the way a devout religious person might be drawn to do.

My sexual thoughts have not subsided so far, and who knows if they will at all, or if they will completely. It's not like I've had a very active sex life over the past couple of years. Other than masturbation. I am attempting to give even that part of my sexual expression a break during this experiment. Masturbation isn't always so much of a sexual expression; sometimes it has served merely as a release, a relaxant. I wouldn't hesitate before taking a few moments to jerk off and cum if I felt tense, or bored, pretty much daily. But most of that time it was accompanied by looking at porn on the web. That obsessive part of my sexuality is something I'm trying to get past.

I imagine I could probably look at porn without masturbating, but I think that would defeat my greater purpose. I'm not trying to push myself to the limits to see what I can overcome, I'm just trying to move beyond the constant need for something that never really satisfies completely. So I deleted the bookmark folder labeled "Entertainment" and I am aiming to move past the urges to satisfy myself in this way.

And now I'm aware of my body like never before, the pendulous swinging between my legs, the busy testicles heavy with semen ready for the next blast. Will this subside? Will I get over it? If I make it through this year ahead of me, will I be ready to get off, or will I not even care anymore?

I'm curious to discover what kind of shift(s) will take place in my body and mind. Will my brain feel as alive as my crotch does right now?

s'experiment

When I hang out with that guy for very long, I always want to kiss him. He's got nice lips, soft features. I told him I'm experimenting with a year of celibacy. I told several people. I want to get it out there, because I think it will help me in my goal. But still, I can't help thinking about how kissable he is, and I can't help but imagining saying so to him, and fantasize that he would say, "Cool."

first blush

I got an email from someone who shall remain nameless. This person read something I wrote about them in my blog and was upset by what I wrote. I didn't use this person's name, but was voicing fears about what exactly our relationship was. This person was understandly upset, and I sent an apology email and hope it will in some way make things a little clearer. I looked back over the entry I wrote and in it (I believe) I had clearly stated that these feelings I was writing about were my inner fears. It was really a blog about my insecurities more than it was about this person. For the most part, that's all this blog is. Of course, the fact that a friend of this person "stumbled upon" my blog and reported it had an effect on the email I was sent. I'm more used to an "open book" kind of life than most people, I guess, but that doesn't excuse me.

This has happened before. I have found out after the fact that somebody I've been writing about has been reading my blog. It seems to get to a point -- or it did for this other person I'm now thinking of -- that they had to bring up the fact that they knew that I was writing about them before it got too late. Whatever that means, "too late." This second person I'm thinking of and I still have a close and ongoing relationship, so I guess it doesn't always turn out bad. Still, I don't write a lot about this person anymore, except in the most loving of ways. Not that I'm hiding anything. I have a great affection for both of these people.

I had an inkling of a feeling that one of my family members was reading my blog for awhile. Maybe they still are. I don't always say kind things about my family. I guess perhaps that falls under the heading of I can talk about them but you can't because they're mine. But my feelings are mine, too. My confusion is mine. The work I'm doing on the relationships I have is mine. But the job I do on unsuspecting victims, well, maybe that's not all mine.

I always feel torn between whether I should shut my blog down and stop writing out in the open. What right do I have to insinuate other people in my neuroses? I don't know, I don't know. What else is there to blog about?

epilogue

I have pieced together the preceding story from a box of papers, letters and diaries handed to me by a woman I met at a Buddhist sangha shortly after I arrived in Austin, Texas. We were at the same weekend meditation retreat, during which I mentioned that I was a writer struggling to complete a memoir about my depression which came on after my performance career and primary relationship ended. The woman had been holding onto the box of writing for ten years and didn't know what to do with it, and hoped that the memory of her deceased friend could somehow live on. She gave me permission to do whatever I felt inspired to do with the writings. I spent several months reading and rereading the contents of the box, then spent some time trying to track down August Collins, but with no success. The letters written to him by the woman who gave me the box had all been returned, bound together and marked "NO SUCH ADDRESSEE," so it isn't clear if there really was a performance artist named august chagrin, or if he was a creation of Randy Reardon's imagination.

birthday season update #4.5

I heard the usual clanking of the blender this morning, which didn't wake me, usually doesn't, but even if it does, I can usually go back to sleep if I want to. S was making his smoothie for school. I could smell the toaster oven, which sometimes puts off interesting smells (once, not long ago, after my toast was done, a small fire erupted to burn away a crumb that was sitting on the heating element). The smell of toast always means it's morning. For now. I guess as I get even older I'll have to start worrying that that smell might be signaling a stroke.

I had awakened several minutes early to my cat kneading the covers. I think the fuzzy covers are his favorite part about the cool weather. He seems to like it when I lie on my side while he's kneading; he also often manages to get a little cone worked up in the covers and sucks it like a teat, gets it pretty wet, which is mildly disturbing. A little more disturbing than that is the fact that he sees me as his mother and this ritual as his morning meal. I guess he imagines himself the size he was as a newborn, and I'm probably about the size his mother would be in that scenario, though I doubt I even vaguely resemble her, even with the covers pulled up to my neck. But, ah, there's the nature of neuroses.

I walked through the kitchen to pee and S was washing out the blender. He gave me a cheery "Happy Birthday," which was a little out of character for him so early in the morning, but he'd already been up for a couple of hours, so I didn't give it much thought. When I passed back through the room, he said, "Are you hungry?" As a matter of fact I was. He had made biscuits and TVP "sausage" gravy, which he stuck a candle in when he served it to me. We also had poached eggs and coffee. What a delightful way to start my big day.

And it has been a big day. So big, in fact, that I felt the need to report on it right now before much more happens, otherwise I might never get it all in. I considered doing a "wake-and-bake," but remembered I was planning on voting first thing, and figured I should do that sober. (Could you imagine the horror of somehow mis-voting? Yikes!)

I did it right. And I felt a flood of joy when I got back to my truck after my noble act. I know what I was doing, I have studied for this test like never before; I know the consequences otherwise, and I know I made the best choice for everyone.

I had worn my COMPASSION FOR A CHANGE T-shirt and my zip-up hoodie over it because I didn't want to get sent away for "campaigning" too close to the voting site. But I still got called on it. The lady behind the desk asked me to zip my hoodie up a little more because "K OBAM" was showing through the V at my neck. She was a black lady so I don't think she was just yanking my chain for the joy of it; I think people are being very careful. There's a lot of crazy shit going on out there; I read somewhere that bogus fliers have being passed out in Virginia reminding people to "Vote On November 5th."

Next stop on my list of joyful things to do today was Blue Dahlia Bistro, where I'm continuing my birthday season celebration on Thursday night with about a dozen people, friends from the Dance (those kooky new-agey hippie folks who love me and I can't help but love back). I stopped in to make a reservation.

Stop #3 was the Gas Pipe. That's when the real fun began. I recently broke a metal cleaning rod off in my brass bat, and couldn't get it out, so I put that on my list of things to get for myself today. But I wanted a glass pipe, and found a beautiful one. I got a replacement bat as well, a smaller one, only about an inch-and-a-half long, so cute that I had to try it out as soon as I got back to the truck. But before I got back to the truck, I had to pay. Next to the cash register was a black plastic Halloween caldron with different colored starlight mints in it (as well as a few packing peanuts, which seems kind of weird). The cashier said, "We're giving away prizes; would you like to pick a piece of candy and play the game?"

I picked a purple starlight mint (even though I really wanted an orange one). He said, "Oh, you win a pint glass or an ashtray!" I took the pint glass and asked him, "Is that the best prize?" He said, "I think so." (I didn't think to ask him what the people who picked the foam peanuts won, if anything.) I said, "That's cool, because it's my birthday." And he said, "Oh, in that case, you get a lighter, too!" I walked out with my arms overflowing with goodies. I felt like I was leaving the state fair a winner, and I didn't even have a stomach ache because I hadn't had too much cotton candy, caramel apples, turkey legs, sodas and such.

I tried out the cute little bat then made my way to Thrift Town just for the hell of it, because it's my favorite thrift store, and because my VIP card was full, so I was promised $10 off any purchase over $20, and I can always spend 20 bucks at Thrift Town.

I was a little buzzed, so I had a nice leisurely shopping experience, being very thoughtful about each item I might want. The yellow tag items were 50% off. I found a nice Ralph Lauren shirt and a pair of slacks with yellow tags, and another pair of slacks that were still only $3.99. I came across a beautiful sage comforter with gold trim and an orange stripe down the middle. The tag on it was white, but oddly it had "YELLOW" printed on it. I found the floor manager and asked her if the tag was white or if it was actually yellow since it said "yellow" on it. I wasn't trying to get away with anything; I checked the other tags and the rest of them had the corresponding proper color printed on them.

She said it was white, and I said no problem. The cashier standing next to the manager said, "That's curzy! I ain't never seen nothing like that." The manager agreed that it was strange. I was okay with not buying it. Not at $69.99.

Later, I was still shopping; I found a coffee thermos with a glass interior -- made in Japan; they're hard to find in good shape, and keep coffee hot a lot longer. It was marked $2.99 on a YELLOW STICKER! So, what the hell, I threw it in the basket. And I found a pink horse with a long blonde mane and tail marked 99 cents on a blue sticker. I know my friend little P loves horses and loves pink, so how could I refuse that, even at full price!

The manager tracked me down and said, "Where's the comforter?" I told her I put it back. She said, "You know what? I'm gonna give that to you at the half price. We have to honor the tag." After I got home, I realized it might have had something to do with my Obama shirt and the "I Voted" sticker on my chest.

At another point in my shopping experience a black lady shopper asked me where I got the shirt and how much it cost. She said, "'Compassion For a Change,' I like that." I said, "Hey, that's what it's all about." She said, "I heard that," and high-fived me! Joy to my world!

From there I dropped by the mall to exchange a recalled charger plug for my iPhone, then took MoPac to 35th and drove east to the Relax the Back Store to get myself a neck-saving pillow. I also stopped in the In-Step store to look at house slippers (my feet are always cold). I didn't like the choices/prices at the shoe store; had the shoes fit wonderfully, the price would have been justified. Crocs now make wool-lined shoes, but they're Made in China, which is very annoying. Maybe I'll go to the Crocs website and see if they sell just the wool liners because I would put that in my old Crocs which I rarely wear anymore (certainly not out because they're way too trendy). Of the three styles they had at In-Step, the Crocs were the most comfortable and the least expensive.

Next I spent the big bucks on the pillow. $140. But after lying down on the sample bed and putting my head on the sample pillow, the price was completely justified; I had to have that pillow. I've been dreaming about it for awhile, and naturally I'll be dreaming about it a lot more. The fact that I didn't buy $60 slippers made the purchase a little easier to swallow.

After all of that, I still had cotton socks on my list, so I went a few blocks out of the way on my drive home to Whole Earth Provisions for socks and slippers, neither of which I got. I did leave the store with a fantastic hat, a Raiders of the Lost Ark or old reporter style, whatever that's called, but made of wool. Oh, well... I'm pleased.

In about an hour, I'm having birthday (proper) dinner with another of my favorite people in the world, P (not little P, but this one isn't really all that big either!). We're going to Blue Star Cafeteria, going kind of late so that we can pick S up after he gets out of school (9 p.m.) and take him with us for dessert, which I think will be at Woodlands. But we'll see.

It seems like I've only just begun!