now to get on with it

It wasn't at all like I thought it'd be. I called A's assistant, D, who has been taking care of J's dog Dillon while J was in the hospital, to ask about Dillon; she said Dillon's doing about the same (he's on a lot of pain medicine for his cancer). I also mentioned that if she needed any help, to let me know. She said that LR was going to be at A's house to work on it before A's return home -- this was on Tuesday -- and said if I had any time that I could be utilized. I called LR and she told me she was going to "tornado" through the house. I kind of assumed that meant she was going to clean, but when I got there, she was rearranging stuff. Come to find out, she was going to rearrange the furniture and the artwork and knick-knacks, everything in every room so that it didn't remind A of J, so that she didn't have anything to make her aware of his absence in her home. (This was actually A's idea, I think, which is really kind of brilliant.)

I was put in charge of getting all of J's medicines out of the house; I started in his personal bathroom (which LR made an obvious point of not calling it that anymore -- ditto for his personal closet, it was now being called "the bedroom closet," which seemed a little weird, but okay, that's fine), put every Rx bottle with J's name on it in a garbage bag, along with face masks and latex gloves and dry mouth toothpaste, etc. I also put the portable potty chair in the back of my truck so that it could be dealt with later, donated to a hospice or something, perhaps.

After that, I started cleaning off all that covered J's desk in what would now be called "the sitting room" (actually, every room had a sitting area in it), boxing up CDs and post-it notes, pens, headphones, etc.

Before long, other people started arriving -- mostly people from the Dance group that we all belong or belonged to -- everybody given a job by LR as soon as they walked through the front door (unless they had a specific project in mind, like K, who arrived with white sage and set about "cleansing" every nook and cranny in the house).

At one point, when there were well over a dozen people working on moving furniture, boxing the contents of "the bedroom closet," dusting, vacuuming, I clashed with someone on what I thought would be the next part of the job I would do. It wasn't a major thing, just somebody saying, "Don't do that because I have to do this," even though it was the second part of a job I'd started when I first arrived (and was the only helper involved). I guess what annoyed me a little was that he said, "Why don't you go do this instead." It wasn't so annoying that I lashed out or anything, it just made me want to be done and go home. I had been there a few hours by this time.

From that point on -- while I found myself in charge of organizing the laundry room which is connected to the garage, and having to constantly move boxes from other parts of the house that people put in the place I had cleared away for a zippered closet someone was supposedly going to purchase at some point during the day for J's hanging clothes -- I kept looking for my opportunity to leave. But there was so much to do. And I kept jumping onto other projects, and kept having people "assigned" to help me, and they were usually people I liked hanging out with. So I didn't go and I didn't go, and then it was suddenly seven o'clock and someone said, "A's here," and I looked around, amazed that everything had actually come together, because not thirty minutes before that moment, there were piles of bedding and piles of furniture and stacks of artwork that didn't look like they would find their proper places or hiding places by the time A arrived, but they did.

I was in the garage when she walked into the house. I thought about sneaking out the back gate, not because I didn't want to see or say anything to A, but because it was such a huge group of people; I thought she might be overwhelmed. (I should have known it was exactly the thing A loved; I should have been honest with myself that it was the kind of thing that would more likely overwhelm me!) I decided instead to stick my head into the front room and give a hug. And as soon as I did, A's son M saw me and came over to hug me, bursting out into loud sobs as he came. We hugged for a long time; A came and joined us. I had met M at the hospital (and in Austin) a couple of times around J's illness -- he and his sister L both live in San Francisco now. I guess they had just been talking about me or something; M said, "We were just saying we couldn't wait to throw out all of J's medicines!" I told him I understood and had already taken care of it.

People arrived with food (of course) and a couple of hours later, I was still there, drinking wine, visiting with J's brother P, A's infant grandbaby W, and other people I know from the Dance group and from other places in J's life. It was a pretty spectacular event.

Every day since then -- and ongoing through tomorrow -- they are sitting Shivah at A's with the family (her kids, their partners, J's brother and father). I decided to make some brownies to take today. I always used to take J brownies when I visited, because he loved them, and because he always needed more calories. I found a recipe online for black bean brownies that I wanted to try. I set out to make them yesterday and had to go to the store twice, had to shell pecans for forever, and used almost every mixing bowl in the house -- the process took four hours in all (and then I couldn't even sample them until this morning because they have to set in the refrigerator overnight because they're so moist and crumbly).

But it was worth it. I had half of one this morning -- S had the other half -- and right now I feel like I made a mistake by putting that in my body at 7:30 a.m.! I feel all speedy and hyper (the recipe has instant coffee in it, and lots of black beans). It's surprising that they doesn't taste beany at all. The taste is very similar to flourless chocolate cake; they are quite yummy. Here's a link to the recipe.

Sunday is J's memorial. It's an all-day affair. I'm sure there will be a special Dance in his honor, but I doubt I'll go to that (I've been enjoying going to Austin Dharma Punx lately). From 2:00-4:00 the service is at the alumni building on the UT campus (J was a professor). After that, from 5:30 on, there will be BBQ at a place called the Salt-Lick Pavilion (in a town thirty miles from here called Driftwood, Texas), with LZ Love providing musical entertainment. There will be an open mike there as well.

goodbye to a dear friend

I got the email yesterday: Medicines pulled, John will pass soon, his soul will live on.

It was difficult to focus on my writing, so I did organizational stuff . I walked to yoga at four, got back at six, talked to P awhile on the phone. I had thought about going to the Dance (where I met J) but couldn't muster up the desire after S and I got home from 2-for-1 veggie burgers at Hut's; I just wasn't sure I wanted to be in the energy that I thought I might find at the Dance. I had transcription work to do, so I did that for a few hours. At eleven o'clock, I got an email from M -- who was going to cat sit this weekend while S and I went to Houston to visit J & A, and then go to my grandfather's 94th the next day: You may already know ~ John died tonight. That was the first I'd heard, but it wasn't a surprise. The night before, I'd had a dream. I saw J in a hospital hallway, he was wearing a blond wig and was smiling and looking around (he was blind). I said to him, "You look like you came back from the dead -- if I can say that...!" He said, "You can say whatever you want!" (That was the night after Easter.)

J was a sweet man, gentle, compassionate, brave (S said he was the bravest person he'd ever seen go through such a thing); but my relationship to J was more about his humor. We shared a sort of twisted humor, which did both of us a lot of good. You have to find a way to laugh when you're spending all that time in a hospital. We spent many hours together in different rooms, me ushering him around while he got blood drawn and spinal taps and checks for this and checks for that and waiting for prescriptions, etc. This was a year to a year-and-a-half ago. He made funny faces which cracked me up, and since he couldn't see me, I felt the need to vocalize my funny faces back to him. Sometimes A would just ignore us -- we were grown men acting like junior high schoolers -- other times, I think she just didn't get it.

That's the thing about having a humor connection with somebody. Sometimes it's obvious to others what funny thing is going on, other times it is just for the two people who share it. Good ol' J; I'll miss that goofy smile and those upward gazing eyes.

And he liked brownies. I love somebody who has a well developed sweet tooth. When the hospital portion of his treatment was over, when he was back in Austin and I would go to their house to organize prescriptions into baggies, I often stopped and bought him a brownie. I got them from different places; I tried to get them from a different place each time. He usually liked them. I usually knew what they tasted like, though, because I usually got one for myself as well!

He also liked animals. Well, I should rephrase that. He had a strong connection to one animal in particular, Dillon, his guide dog. I started crying last night when I realized that J wouldn't be coming home to Dillon, and what will Dillon do? Dillon has been battling cancer of his own for the past six months or so. It's interesting how connected those two are.

I don't know what else to say. I'm sad.

I was able to get some writing done last night after all. I couldn't just sit here and think about the sadness, so I wrote. And I seemed to have a burst of inspiration. I won't say it was J inspiring me from beyond, but he was certainly on my mind. When I got into bed, I had to keep turning on the light because little ideas kept popping into my head, great little ideas that I had to write down, that I would be kicking myself over this morning if I had thought I would remember them because I probably wouldn't have.

This morning, when I awoke, I got the next email: John passed away peacefully at 10pm Mon, March 24. I have a feeling his memorial service is going to be quite the celebration.

sugar for the soul

I was a little worried about turning on my computer today. I got an email from A regarding my friend, her husband J's condition (he had a bone marrow transplant for leukemia about a year ago and has had recent complications), which P, who is a social worker, said sounds like he's in the last stages. I was afraid I would open up my gmail to a message I'm not looking forward to reading.

I don't feel the same kind of sadness about death and dying as I do about life and love. I think I'm pretty square on the end of life thing. I don't want people to suffer -- I don't want to suffer -- but it seems like, after death, there's not a lot to worry about, not for the dead anyway.

But J's health has brought up some issues for me that go back twenty-eight years, back to when my father went into the hospital (the same hospital in Houston that John is in) for surgery on a brain condition -- an intusion, I think it was called -- after which he died in recovery a couple of weeks later. It is further complicated by the fact that we were a very religious family (Asssembly of God), and I prayed that he would die... because I was 16 and because our connection was tenuous at best.

I'm not wishing for anything but recovery (or at the very least comfort) for J. I was there during the BMT process, spent three days a week in Houston going back and forth, to help out J & A during the whole episode. He came back to Austin and was doing pretty well for a while, but then mold-like spots started appearing on the EEGs and he was put on medications to try to get rid of that, and now he's got pneumonia, and more recently, he's stopped talking, can't walk or even sit up on his own...

I realized when the need for brain surgery came about, I pulled away from J & A physically and emotionally. I didn't stop going to their house on a weekly basis to organize his myriad of pills (something like fifty to seventy-five a day) into baggies -- BREAKFAST/ LUNCH/ DINNER/ BEDTIME -- because J is also blind and A is overwhelmed as it is, but I did feel a real disconnect when the brain thing came about (even though the leukemia was in his brain, it didn't seem like the same thing as the words "brain surgery"). I realized I have some residual difficult emotions around my father and his death and my guilt for years (not anymore) over my possible hand in his death.

S and I are going to Bigtown (my hometown) next weekend for my grandfather's ninety-fourth birthday. (At first I was thinking Why not wait until his ninety-fifth birthday, wouldn't that make more sense? But then I realized that when you get to be as old as he is, each birthday is worthy of celebration.) We're going to stay the Saturday night before the party in Houston, visiting with J & A, taking her out to dinner -- like she's done for me/us so many times before. That'll be nice. I just pray I don't get a sad email before then.

This weekend -- tomorrow -- is S's birthday. I'm gonna make my Aunt Melba's "Dream Chocolate Cake with Fudge Icing" (as written out for me by my dearly departed Nana, her younger sister):

I

• 1 stick Oleo
• 1 C. Water
• 1/2 C. shorting
• 1/4 C. Coco

: Bring to a boil

II

• 2 C. flour
• 2 C. sugar

: start mixing.


III

• 1/2 C. butter milk
• 1 t soda
• 2 eggs
• 1 t vanilla

Pour #1 over #2 mix well mix in #3 mix well Bake 1 hr 300 º Grease & flour loaf Cake pan This will not work in tube pan.

Fudge icing

• 1 stick oleo
• 1/2 C. coco
• 1/3 C. milk
  

:bring to a boil and pour over powdered sugar

• 1 box powdered sugar
• 1 T. vanilla

if its too thin add a little more sugar etc.

I invited some people over -- neighbors and friends -- and we're gonna have cake and ice cream! Tonight, I'm taking S out for dinner at a restaurant of his choosing: an Indian vegetarian buffet called Madras Pavilion. Sounds good to me.

phyllis diller killed by horse cock

I get frustrated with internet searches because I'm too curious. The other night S and I were talking about my interest in doing a Phyllis Diller karaoke-style performance piece called "Phyllis Diller's Comedy Record." I came to my computer to look for Phyllis Diller videos on YouTube, and finally stopped myself before I went to the link to see the man who died after getting fucked by a horse. Here's the path I took to get there:

1. Phyllis Diller's Sink (posted by CraigSD)
2. Phyllis Diller's farewell stand-up performance (from the DVD Goodnight, We Love You) (posted by jimgor)
3. TV SHOW PHYLLIS DILLER 1960 RARE ? (posted by TVNETWORKS)
4. JIM BAILEY AS PHYLLIS DILLER (posted by CAMPBELLMAN 222)
5. JIM BAILEY Barbara Streisand and Judy Garland Compilation 1 (posted by CAMPBELLMAN 222)
6. JIM BAILEY as Judy Garland on award show 1970s (posted by CAMPBELLMAN 222)
7. JIM BAILEY: Madonna, Marilyn Monroe and Talullah Bankhead (posted by CAMPBELLMAN 222)
8. JIM BAILEY Classic TV (a game show in which he answers in a funny voice yes or no to questions posed to him by Lucie Arnaz, Soupy Sales and two more celebrities in blindfolds while they try to figure out his identity) (posted by CAMPBELLMAN 222)
9. JIM BAILEY Judy Garland 'Get Happy 1979' (posted by CAMPBELLMAN 222)
10. lucy - get happy (a montage of photographs of Lucille Ball set to the song "Get Happy" which isn't by Judy Garland, I don't think, but I'm not sure if it's Lucille Ball singing) (posted by rljl219)
11. Rufus Wainwright - Get Happy (semi-Judy drag from his Carnegie Hall tribute to Garland) (posted by MarcFlare)
12. David Cassidy Come on get happy (posted by TorvilleDeanFan)
13. David Cassidy - C'mon Get Happy (posted by n1c0le22)
14. The Partridge Family I woke up in love this morning (posted by star618)
15. The Partridge Family - I think I love you, original version (posted by andreklau, a videotape of his TV screen)
16. American Music - Violent Femmes (music video) (posted by mrmojorisin1)
17. Violent Femmes AMERICAN MUSIC an acoustic punk documentary (posted by American Music Film)
18. Erica Loves Cock (on the YouTube "American Music Film" channel)
    
19. death by horse cock reaction (posted by maegan 1987)
20. death by Horsecock (reaction, which includes the html for the actual video, which I didn't go to) (posted by Hjernespreng)

sxsw film pass day nine

I made it. All nine days. It's over now, and I'm weary but happy for the experience. I considered taking it easy on the last day of the festival, since I'd already made my $70 pass pay for itself and then some, but there were some films available to see that I really wanted to see, and since the music portion of the festival was going strong, I figured I would have an easier time getting into them. I was right about that.

All three films were showing at the Alamo Ritz, which is in the heart of the headache that is SXSW. Sixth Street, I mean. The thumping music coming from bars all around me added up to a bunch of loud noise, but it was fun gawking at the young and old going up and down the parade route. The sun bore down like an evil eye from above; thank goodness I'd remembered to wear a hat. But then when I thought I could take it no more, the light from the sky suddenly turned shimmery and shady. The sun had just gone down behind the crest of the owl head-looking top of the Frost Bank building, Austin's most iconic building. I love that building (more so now because of the favor it did for me at SXSW 2008).

Film #16 was Registered Sex Offender.

There may be one thing worse than being a sex offender sent to prison: Being a sex offender released from prison. RSO tells the story of one offender's unlikely rehabilitation.

Another vague synopsis which led me to believe this could be a documentary. But I was onto them by this point and saw that the film was scheduled in the "Narrative Features" department, so I kinda knew what I was in for. Kinda. The picture (above) led me to believe something different about the film as well; that scene did not appear anywhere in the film. Hm, interesting.

But I'm interested in the subject matter, so I would have wanted to see it whether it was a documentary or a narrative or a slide show. Seriously. So off I went.

It's a comedy; I think it's all right to say that. That doesn't give anything away. It was also filmed in Austin, which was cool to see. I recognized a couple of locations and I recognized a good number of the extras, mostly because of the fact that I've seen them around town, not that I know them (because I really don't know anybody, you know!).

The movie was filmed documentary style, a big thing this year (though it doesn't really seem like any of them are attempting to be mockumentaries, so I'm not really sure what's going on. I guess it's probably a lot cheaper to film movies in this style -- it doesn't matter if microphones or cameras are seen on the screen. I really don't have any problem with it; it's just an observation. The main guy I was a little worried about at first because he was so hateful; he was being interviewed at prison and was saying things that made me squirm in my seat. I don't mind that either, but I was a little worried that there was no purpose to it. But I was wrong, I'm happy to say.

Oh, and the opening credit sequence -- an animation bit with fun music -- was brilliant; I would recommend the movie just so people could see that.

Film #17 was Joy Division.

In 1976 four young men from ruined, post-industrial Manchester went to see the Sex Pistols. They formed a band, Joy Division. Three years later the lead singer, Ian Curtis committed suicide just as they were on the brink of worldwide success. Together Gee and Savage investigate why Joy Division's collective musical genius and singular vision enjoys a larger audience and influence thirty years on. Featuring the unprecedented participation of the surviving band members of Joy Division, now known as New Order, the film chronicles a time of great social and political change in England of the mid-70's and tells the untold story of these four men who transcended economic and cultural barriers to produce an enduring and profound legacy, one that resonates fiercely in today's heavily careerist music industry and over mediated pop culture.The band's remarkable story is depicted through atmospheric never-before-seen live performance footage, photographs both iconic and personal, period films and newly unearthed audio tapes; taking us through the band's early years as individuals finding their voices and then later as a band, building their ideas and ideals. The documentary situates the band not just in the musical context of punk and post-punk but in the culturally starved, claustrophobic landscape of post-industrial Manchester that surrounded them and suffuses every note of their music.This unparalleled visual account of a time and place is coupled with heartfelt and animated, present tense accounts from the surviving members of the band Bernard Sumner, Peter Hook and Stephen Morris, plus other key characters in the story, including friend and similarly isolated musician Genesis P. Orridge, the late legendary Factory Records owner Tony Wilson, iconic graphic artist Peter Saville, photographer/filmmaker Anton Corbijn, Annik Honore and others. A documentary film about Joy Division, produced by Hudson Productions partners Tom Astor and Tom Atencio and Brown Owl Films' Jacqui Edenbrow, is directed by Grant Gee (Radiohead's 'Meeting People Is Easy') and co-written by acclaimed journalist/writer Jon Savage (England's Dreaming: Anarchy, Sex Pistols, Punk Rock, and Beyond).

I was one of those people who discovered New Order before Joy Division. The synopsis says it all. It's a good film; it'll be fine to see on VH1 or some other cable channel.

Film #18 was Love Songs.

I had this movie on my big list, but then it got taken off because of scheduling conflicts, but then things shuffled around again, and there was an opportunity to see it as my last film experience of the festival, which meant I would have to leave the previous movie and get right back in line and stand there in the noise and now the unnatural lightness beneath the dark Austin sky.

When I got into the theater, I had told myself I wouldn't eat anything -- I had a pizza and a root beer at Registered Sex Offender, french fries and a beer at Joy Division -- but felt compelled to support the wait staff somehow, so I ordered decaf coffee and the plate of cookies ("fresh baked to order"). A couple sat next to me -- the guy reminded me a little bit in his looks but more so than his manner of my friend D from Boulder, Colorado, whom I first met in Nashville. We said hi but not much more until he went to the bathroom and his girlfriend asked what this movie was about. "I have no idea," I confessed. She said, "I know it's French." (I didn't even know that.)

When the boyfriend returned, he joined in our conversation about movies we've seen and liked (as is the habit, in this year's festival anyway), and then my plate of four huge cookies arrived and I offered them one, and made a pretty convincing offer, so they said they would eat half of one, and he took one and pulled it apart, and the chocolate chips were like molten lava, and they dripped all over his hands and stuck burning to him as he struggled, juggling the boiling dough from hand to hand with a pained smile. Finally, I got it and offered a napkin for him to put the cookie on, he apologized for taking my napkin, I apologized for offering him a cookie like that, we laughed and became automatic friends (though we didn't exchange names -- it was sort of a one-movie friendship).

The movie was a musical. Hooray! I was so happy when I left the theater, it was a delightful musical; not an early Hollywood era musical, a regular story about a man and his girlfriend, and their girlfriend, and the things that happen when tragedy strikes and how the secondary girlfriend's new boyfriend's younger brother and roommate makes a play for the main guy, and the sweet and sad and bittersweet things that come about for everybody. With songs! The main guy is played by Louis Garrel, who is the son of filmmaker Philippe Garrel, whom I discovered recently at a retrospective of his films (though I thought the film with Garrel -- filmed in scratchy B&W -- was actually a film from the late 60s; I guess it's obvious I'm more interested in the "fantasy" of film than the actual making of films). This man is beautiful. And he's a very good actor. Here's his picture.

And here's the synopsis for Love Songs (Les Chansons d'amour) from the SXSW website, which I hadn't read since I first put it on my big list of movies to watch more than nine days ago:

Christophe Honoré follows-up DANS PARIS with this modernist musical about love and loss in Paris. Taking its cue from Jacques Demy's THE UMBRELLAS OF CHERBOURG, the film is divided into three sections: 'the departure,' 'the absence' and 'the return.' The film features 14 songs by composer Alex Beaupain. Ismaël (Louis Garrel of THE DREAMERS and DANS PARIS) and Julie (Ludivine Sagnier of SWIMMING POOL) are the ideal young Parisian couple. They both have good jobs, a great apartment and are considered part of each other's families. After several years together, they decide to add a spark to their relationship and take on a third lover, Alice (Clotilde Hesme of REGULAR LOVERS), Ismaël's co-worker. She makes an ideal partner at first but things soon become strained between them. And when a tragic event occurs, everyone copes in very different ways. Ismaël pulls away from everyone and finds himself spending time with Erwann (Gregoire Leprince-Ringuet of André Téchiné's STRAYED), a wide-eyed Breton college student. Their relationship both terrifies and surprises Ismaël, but shows him that love is still possible.

That's a pretty good description but not a real accurate portrayal of the story. Alice is there from the beginning of the movie, so the above is kind of back story. But that's okay. I love, love, loved this movie. I cannot wait for it to come out in a regular run because I want people to see it, and I want to see it again. I was so lucky to end my SXSW experience with Love Songs!

sxsw film pass day eight

I had not planned to see Mr. Lonely, Harmony Korine's latest film, and Film #14 for me in this festival.

A Michael Jackson impersonator lives alone in Paris and performs on the streets to make ends meet. At a performance in a retirement home, Michael falls for a beautiful Marilyn Monroe look-alike who suggests he move to a commune of impersonators in the Scottish Highlands. At the seaside castle, Michael discovers everyone preparing for the commune's first-ever gala - Abe Lincoln, Little Red Riding Hood, the Three Stooges, the Queen, the Pope, Madonna, Buckwheat, Sammy Davis, Jr. And also Marilyn's daughter Shirley Temple and her possessive husband Charlie Chaplin. Meanwhile, a miracle is happening somewhere in a Latin American jungle.

I had not planned to see it, but people in lines were talking about it, and M called me from Shreveport where she's been stuck for the last couple of months working on a movie there, to beg me to go see it.

It started out very nice, then it became two films -- the impersonators film and the flying nuns part -- and the two never coincided. It seemed to me that they could have come together easily, but the director apparently chose not to do so, and so I'm left wondering why both parts existed.

I actually preferred the nun part of the film better, maybe because fewer of the actors spoke. It felt like there wasn't actually a script, that the actors were given an outline and told to ad lib, or maybe they were given a short line and told to work around it, but some of the lesser among the actors -- the little boy who played Buckwheat and Werner Herzog as the alcoholic priest -- just repeated one or a couple of lines over and over again, which took me out of the experience of the movie.

At 108 minutes, the film was way too long for what it needed to be. And there were some problems in editing, or perhaps, again, the (non-) script, in which parts of the story were confusing, sometimes very confusing, sometimes to the point of making me think something had gone terribly wrong with my perception of the story.

There was no emotion to latch onto in the impersonator commune story (though I was a little worried -- after having seen Korine's earlier films, I don't trust him to take care of his actors or the animals on screen -- that when a sheep got sick and the whole flock had to be killed and the Three Stooges showed up with rifles, that I was going to have to watch animals getting shot, or at least frightened). There was more of an emotional, though ethereally emotional, story line going on with the nuns in Latin America. But after all was said and the credits were rolling, I still couldn't figure out why they were in the movie.

I sat next to my new friends D & J, the couple I met at an earlier screening, he with the website who's "really interested in seeing my work," and she the "all-around artist," like me (actually, she's a sculptor). We had a nice conversation, and I figured out that they are a couple. Well, I surmised that they're a couple because they were all tangled up with one another during the movie and they both had on wedding rings.

I had Sex Positive on my list for the next film to see, but it was showing at the Austin Convention Center, and I was feeling a little headachey and wanted to get away from the cacophony that is Sixth Street, with loud, loud music pounding all around. I had to put up with it (and the hot sun) while I waited in line for this movie I didn't enjoy, so I decided to go home.

After I got home, I was wired (partly, I suppose, from the large Coke I had just drank). C called from Florida to tell me she wasn't in Guatemala as she had planned to be right now because her mother had to have emergency back surgery. Jeez! She spent ten hours in the hospital on her birthday on Wednesday, poor thing. I told C about my bad movie experience and she questioned whether it was because I was overloaded...

I was too wired to stay home, so I found a movie on my secondary list of films to see. It was showing at the Alamo Drafthouse on South Lamar, far from the musical mayhem, and I didn't think the film would be a big draw. Film #15 was Do You Sleep In The Nude?

Before there was Siskel and Ebert, before there was Simon Cowell, there was Rex Reed. He was the first superstar movie critic, the first celebrity journalist who became a celebrity himself by appearing on TV and in the movies. He helped push the idea that movies and movie stars were as important to our culture as politics and the economy, even as he pierced the veil to show that celebrities were, in many ways, just like you and me. Forty years after he blazed across the scene, he's still going strong, a brand-name movie critic whose name and face remain easily recognizable, even if his influence has waned. But the scene he helped create -- whether in terms of movie criticism or the nature of celebrity journalism -- has changed drastically.

I always enjoyed watching Rex Reed on The Gong Show and the talk shows of my youth. He was such a flamboyant "unmarried" man, and I'm sure I more than once questioned his sexuality. Well, this film outs him, much to his chagrin. The director made the movie and then showed it to Rex -- I guess for his approval -- and filmed him watching it to get his reactions, many of which were venomous. (Seems like he was getting a little of his own medicine, really.)

He did make a comment toward the end though that he felt like he was being outed, and the director asked how he felt about that, to which he said, "I'm getting used to it." Then he said, "Why don't you just put my phone number on the screen too so people can call me. Like I said, I'm open to anything these days, so just put my number right here." And the director did.

212-873-4311

flashed on the screen and I wrote it down, curious as hell if it really was his phone number. After I'd had a cup of coffee this morning, I called the number, figuring it was probably not his number, or at the very least it would have been changed (and it still might after the movie gets wider distribution), but the phone rang and there was his voice. "Hello, this is Rex Reed. Leave me a message and I'll get back to you as soon as I can."

I stumbled through a message to him. I mean, I'm not a "fan" of his, I wasn't tongue-tied because I couldn't believe someone who meant so much to me had given me his phone number. (He hated Dancer In The Dark, Lars Von Trier's dark musical, which I love, though his review, which he read in the film, is pretty humorous.) Part of the reason I called the number was because I thought it would be really sad if he had put his number on the screen and nobody had called him (there were fewer than a dozen people at this screening)! So I called, told him (or his answering machine, anyway) that I liked the movie, that I admired him, left my own phone number -- not sure why I did that! -- and that was it.

I enjoyed the movie. It wasn't the best thing I've seen. It was like watching TV, which, after all of the intense movie-watching I've been doing, was kind of nice. I had a chocolate malt while I watched it and came home more wired than after the Coke at the previous movie, not sure what to do with myself, a bit sick to my stomach so I didn't really want to lie down. I did a little cleaning around the house, then finally lay down with On the Road, which I'm trying to finish before the public reading on March 29th that I'm taking part in.

Okay, last day is upon me. I've got three movies planned for, all of them at the Ritz (which means opportunities to spend money on food, I wonder if I can resist); I wonder if I'll make it.

sxsw film pass day seven

I opted to see only one film so that I could go see my friend M play at Cafe Caffeine at 9. My eyeballs thanked me.

Film #13 was Body of War.

'Support our troops' has long been a rallying cry for war proponents. But that glib phrase will never sound the same after you meet Tomas Young, the eloquent former soldier whose story is told in Body of War. Raised in Kansas City, Young enlisted in the Army full of patriotism two days after September 11, 2001. He hoped for a deployment to Afghanistan to fight those who attacked his country. Instead, he was sent to Iraq where he was shot and paralyzed. In Body of War, we follow twenty-six-year-old Young for a year as he undergoes an activist's education. He speaks with candor, humor and raw emotion, meeting war protester Cindy Sheehan near George W. Bush's Texas ranch, lobbying politicians in Washington and being interviewed by Mike Wallace on 60 Minutes.This project results from the collaboration of several extraordinary talents. Venerable talk-show host Phil Donahue met Young and felt compelled to tell his story. He joined forces with director and cinematographer Ellen Spiro, whose camera work delivers an incredible intimacy. The emotional heft of the documentary is underscored by two powerful songs, written specifically for the film and performed by Eddie Vedder of Pearl Jam. Beyond politics, Body of War reveals plenty about overcoming adversity. Young possesses more courage and resilience than most, yet his challenges are enormous. After his injury, he became engaged to his girlfriend, Brie. We see the strains his condition puts on their first year of marriage. Young's mother, Cathy, joins him in anti-war activism even while her husband remains a committed supporter of Bush and her other son heads to Iraq for his own tour of duty. Woven throughout the narrative are excerpts from the United States Senate debate of October 2002, in which the majority voted to hand over Congress's war-making powers to the White House. The juxtaposition between their rhetoric and Young's reality is profound.

The synopsis says it all. It was profound; an incredible anti-war movie. Tomas came out afterward to a standing ovation and answered questions (his mother, then Phil Donahue and Ellen Spiro joined him eventually). He's quite a ham. Someone asked about his health issues today (they were many and severe during the film, the first two years after his injury, which doctors say is the hardest time for the body, getting used to the accident); he said that he doesn't have to wear the ice pack vest to keep his body temperature regulated anymore and that he doesn't have problems getting and maintaining erections anymore. Some in the audience applauded. He said, "I'm glad y'all are happy about my ability to get it up!"

The audience was heavily peppered with classic Austin political activist types, hissing every time George W. or John McCain, etc. were on screen, cheering for some of the senators who voted against the Iraq war initiative, and cheering/hissing when Ron Paul was on screen.

***

Before the movie started I found myself sitting two seats over from a man I've seen around town a lot, at different theater events and running around near the UT campus. I think he's very handsome -- he has incredible eyes -- and I've always wanted to approach him, always wanted to talk to him, to introduce myself, get to know him ... but I've always been too shy or the situation hasn't been right.

I wanted to say something to him at the Paramount yesterday, something -- anything -- but I was unable to speak and he seemed preoccupied. I considered putting a note in his SXSW bag, while he wasn't looking, nothing revealing, just a little wink of sorts:

Hi,
I've seen you all around
town and I always want
to come up and say hi
but feel shy, so I thought
I'd stick this note in
your bag because it
is in the chair next
to me and you're in
the next chair over.
Is that weird? I hope
not too weird.

That's all, nothing major, nothing identifying; my plan was that the next time I saw him (and I figured Fate would once again play a part in this), I would say "I left a note in your bag at SXSW," and he would say, "Oh, wow! Yeah. I remember. I saved it. I made a short film about it. Would you like to come over and watch it?"

Yeah, right. (The fact that I was able to transcribed exactly what my little hopeful note to him said means that I didn't pull it out of my little notebook and put it in his bag! Probably for the best...)

He was on the phone telling someone where he was sitting, looking around, not engaging me at all. I figured his boyfriend would be arriving soon and my fantasy would be over. But he didn't. A woman appeared (a fellow UT film student). She sat next to me, told him there were two more people with her; she asked if the seats on the other side of me were taken, I said no. I started to move and she protested. I relented because one of the second floor theater boxes would've been in the way of the screen, and I didn't really want to sit any farther away from my future boyfriend than I had to. The other two friends came, a man and a woman. The man said, "I haven't met you before." I said, "No, that's true." He said, "Are you a friend of C's?" I said, "No, I'm just sitting here in the middle of your group!" My future boyfriend said, "We're all friends now." We all introduced ourselves. His name is K (ah! dreamy!)

Then he said, "You look familiar to me."

Come to find out, his feature documentary was in the Tampa GLBT Film Festival the same year S's (ours) was. I remember now sitting in that big old theater and meeting him -- at something else, not at either of our films -- and I remember now thinking he was dreamy with his dreamy eyes.

This probably would not have been the introduction I would have chosen for us, but now I know his name and I've found his website and perhaps I'll contact him through it once I get up the nerve.

***

At 9 I went to the South Side to Cafe Caffeine where M was playing. I saw so many people there from the Dance Group I used to go to all the time, people who still go, people who say they haven't gone in a long time. M's songs were amazing -- one song brought tears to my eyes because it made me think about R (goddammit!). But I also felt emotionally fragile among these people. In the drive home I felt an urge to cry. I examined it. I don't know what it is. All I could come up with was that I have such strong feelings for a lot of these people, positive and/or negative feelings. I like some of these people very much and I don't like some of them much at all, and I think part of that comes from the feeling that they don't like me, or maybe just as simple as feeling like they don't see me. Some of these people I've connected with in a very deep way, and others I've had the same opportunities to connect and it hasn't happened, and there's a sense of loss. Sometimes I think maybe it's because I'm gay. (I'm reminded of one woman who wasn't there but I saw her on the street on the way to the Paramount yesterday who was at mine & S's soup party a year ago or so, who said to me at the soup party, "I tell my friends he's too fine to be gay!" which she meant as a compliment, but which confused the hell out of me -- still does -- and I didn't know how to respond.) For the most part, I don't think those people know I'm gay, maybe because I don't express it openly enough. But others of them seem so naive as to glaze over when it has come up. It's a complicated thing. Some of the people I have love/hate relationships with (and hate is a bit strong a descriptor) saw me last night and said very loving things to me, things that made me feel good. One woman, who, when I first met her, wanted me to be the father of her second child, said last night, "You look good, very balanced." Hm... wow, I don't know if I felt balanced or if I was just a bit removed because of all the movies I've been watching.

sxsw film pass day six

First, I have to say that I don't know who the picture of the guy below is. Well, I do know who he is (or I'm pretty sure because of the website he's on), but I don't know him, and he's not the guy I thought he was, who I was thinking he was. It's funny because the name I had in the back of my head for the guy I'd met the night before actually was the right name. I saw him in line yesterday as I was waiting at the Paramount to see Film, #11 Lou Reed's Berlin.

An artful document of musical legend Lou Reed, performing his influential record, "Berlin," to audiences in New York City.

My younger- and nerdier-looking (but still very handsome) new friend walked by and asked if I'd made it to Joy Division, a new documentary about that Eighties band. I did not. I had seen three films the night before and I was feeling the Fatigue (today I'm calling it F4 -- you can probably figure out what the fourth F is for!) and didn't think I wanted to start out my day listening to pounding Eighties music, so I skipped it. Plus, there was work I could do at home -- and considering the fact that I've been spending about $15 a day on eating at the movies, it seemed like a good idea to stay home and work. (So anyway, I looked at the guy's badge and saw his name.)

Lou Reed's Berlin is the best concert film I've seen since Stop Making Sense. What it doesn't say in the description is that it was directed by Julian Schnabel, which was another reason I wanted to see it. I like his films, I think (I can't recall one right now that I've seen). But anyway, this is a beautiful film. Schnabel's daughter, Lola, did most of the super-8 styled footage that was overlaid onto the film and on the backdrop of the set. And surprise, surprise, Antony (of Antony & the Johnsons, who used to be part of Black Lips Performance Troupe in NYC, and with whom S and I shared a stage when we were both starting, we as "Y'all," he as "Miss Fiona Blue...well, not Miss, really" -- that's how we'll forever remember him introducing himself) was one of the backup singers along with a woman named Shirley Jones and the Brooklyn Youth Choir. Antony sang the first of the two encore songs with Lou, and Lou seemed to be on the verge of tears when it was over, looking across the stage with a face of wonder and adoration. Antony is definitely due both of those things (he's kind of a Freak with a super-special power).

Lou was in the audience at the screening, the house was packed, downstairs and balcony; it was quite an event. After the movie was over, Lou shuffled to the stage like a little old Jewish man and asked for the house lights to be turned down so he could see people, and when people asked him questions he often said loud into the mike: "I can't hear you."

Before he went onstage, I noticed Jack from the Art Guys sitting in the VIP section. I called over to him to say hello, he invited me to sit by him. He was there with the guy who designed Lou's website and his girlfriend, and they were going to a party afterward with "free vodka drinks." I wasn't so interested in that, but was interested in tagging along with Jack and his friends and the Lou Reed entourage (since Jack got clearance for me), and off we went down the street.

I've been having this idea recently to do litter collages (picking up litter from the streets), and being with a famous artist like Jack, I finally got the nerve to start bending over and picking up things. He tried to help out, pointed out a garbage can, and I had to make the rule that the litter has to be on the ground -- i.e., "litter," not "garbage" (there's a distinction, in my mind at least).

We got to the party, which wasn't a private little affair at all, it was taking place in the upstairs of what used to be the Alamo Drafthouse Downtown. Now it's a bar/club called Pangaea, which Jack's friend told us has an "urban safari" theme. What?! There were stripped logs along the walls, skulls (probably, hopefully, fake) of gazelles, photos of sexy women and men holding skulls of African animals, shields and candles on the walls. It was weird because I've spent so much time there watching movies...

The band playing was called The Black Angels. Lou went to his little VIP section there, and we probably could've gone in there, too, but Jack's friend's girlfriend didn't have her picture ID on her, so the two of them had to walk back to their car and get it. Jack and I went inside and I was adamantly against having a vodka drink (the sponsor's brand). Jack asked if he could buy me a beer. I wasn't really into the idea of having any alcohol at all, but then when he ordered a screwdriver (a free drink) I said I would have the same. It was tasty but I got pretty buzzed (had another half drink before I remembered I didn't even want one!), which was okay for about an hour, until I had left the club and was standing in line at the Paramount again waiting to see another movie.

Jack's friends returned, we hung out a bit, more friends arrived, Lou was over there, we were over here, loud bands, two of them, both with female drummers (just like the Velvet Underground; hm, I wonder if that was planned) played too loud. I stuffed napkin wads in my ears and remembered why I don't like going out to see music.

Oh, and I also saw the guy with the website from yesterday again. I told him I looked at his website, was impressed by what I saw, but didn't see his name on it anywhere. "I own it," he said. (He was ordering drinks and trying to get $15 change from a 20 so he could tip but the bartender said that the tab came to $25 because they weren't the sponsor's vodka, which was weird and maybe was what put my new friend a little on the edge.) I asked how I could get in touch with him, then, to show him my work. He gave me his personal business card and another of the glossy cryptic ones with the website address on one side and "LITTLE RICHARDS WAS A CREATIVE MOTHERFUCKER" on the other side (he hadn't given it to me the day before because it has a typo and he was embarrassed by it...) He seemed a little impatient with me. Maybe I was reading too much into it; maybe I was already buzzing. Something. Whatever. He did say he was very interested in seeing my work...

I left and went to the Paramount to wait to see Film #12, Choke.

An adaptation of Chuck Palahniuk's novel, this is the sardonic story about mother and son relationship, fear of aging, sexual addiction, and the dark side of historical theme parks.

I don't know who the director was, don't know Chuck Palahniuk (I've read the name but not any of his books; he has a cult following, according to the audience around me); I went to see this because it stars Sam Rockwell, Anjelica Huston and Kelly Macdonald. I love them.

I didn't love the movie. I thought the story was kind of contrived, though the acting was really good. The main film booker for SXSW talked up the film beforehand, told us we were very fortunate that Fox Searchlight Films allowed us to see it after it just premiered at Sundance; he said it's twisted and hilarious. It was twisted, it had some funny moments, but it wasn't great, I didn't think. It could be one of those instances of feeling like I'm missing something; people around me were rocking in their seats with laughter at seemingly insignificant moments, one man directly behind me laughed so loud it kept scaring me (and the guy in front of me who seemed at least as unimpressed as I was kept turning around to look at the man).

There was lots of sex -- the main character is a sex addict -- but it was lots of titties and a lot of camera angles to make you think you were seeing something you weren't seeing. Not that I necessarily wanted to see Sam Rockwell's Cockwell, but it just seemed gratuitous -- almost every woman in the film showed her breasts, even some in their 70s and 80s. I'm not being prude, I'm just getting the feeling that this is like a "dude" film; I didn't get it. I guess I'm not dude enough.

I had a nice conversation with a guy in line waiting for this movie. He's a graphic designer from LA working for the Obama America campaign; he's staying here until the March 29th Delegation, but he'll probably move here after that because he met a girl. We were in line together for almost two hours, so we really dove in and talked about all kinds of stuff. I was excited that he was wearing an Obama button and that kind of started things; he showed me dozens of pictures in his camera of the HOPE signs he and this young woman he met (who shortly after the photo shoot, I'm assuming, became his girlfriend) had put up around the UT campus.

I had planned to go see a thirteenth film, one between the two that I did see, but instead I went and got drunk. My newest friend told me the movie (Goliath) was so-so. I wasn't really all that interested in it, but S told me it looked good, showed me an article in some paper or online or something, so I kind of sort of had it in the back of my mind to go see it. But when I ran into Jack, I couldn't even remember what movie it was I was planning on going to see (and it was at the Austin Convention Center, which I've successfully avoided so far this year because the seats are very uncomfortable).

Also while I was waiting in line for Choke, a couple came by and said, "JDJB, right?" I said yes; they looked familiar; they were there to see the movie, but the pass line was already really long. I told them good luck, they left. I think I met them waiting for Nerdcore Rising on Sunday night (the only film so far that I haven't been able to see). I don't know if my Sunday night friends got into Choke; it seemed like the kind of film they might have liked more than I did, but I didn't know them well enough (I was drunk, too) to tell them to get in the front of the really long line with me.

Today, I've cut my viewing options down from three to probably one. I was going to go see some experimental shorts this morning at 9, but I realized that there are no movies showing at 9 a.m. (they're at 9 p.m.), and I already had plans for something else at 9:30 p.m. But my friend M is singing at Cafe Caffeine tonight at 9, so I might go to that instead. That leaves one movie at 4. We'll see.

When the wind blows this direction from downtown I can hear music. SXSW is in full swing now, lord help us.

my "bad cat" collage (8.25 x 10.75")

Click for larger view.

sxsw film pass day five

Feeling a bit of Film Festival Fatigue (or F3) this morning. I saw three films yesterday, even though I'd seen three the day before, and even though I only had two on my list, and even though I cut out one on my list for another, just because the time was more convenient. But I'm glad I saw everything I saw yesterday.

Yesterday's theme seemed to be (loosely), bisexuality. One of the films was about bisexuality, another was about a hippie man (and everybody knows the hippies were all bisexual in the Sixties!), and the third wasn't really about that, but the subject of the film made a joke to his interviewer, Robin Williams, saying, "I want to have your children," to which RW said, "I have three, I'll send one over!"

A lot of what this festival has been for me, particularly because I'm alone at it, is meeting people, in line, in the theater, on the street. Everybody wants to know what you've seen that's been good; many of them are networking for their own films. And they're from all over the place geographically, so they're very interesting (and it's also not possible for me to obsess about them knowing that they don't live in my own town so there's not much hope I'll see them again and have a long-term relationship with them...).

Film #8, In A Dream.

The chaotic story of Julia Zagar and her husband Isaiah Zagar, a renowned mosaic artist, who for the past 30 years has covered more than 40,000 square feet of Philadelphia top to bottom with tile, mirror, paint, and concrete.

I almost wasn't interested in this film, that description doesn't do it justice, but I'd remembered seeing the mosaics around Philly and thought the story about the artist responsible for them might be interesting. It was much more than that.

It was filmed by the younger of the couple's two sons, and during the making of the doc, the family has some big issues going down; Jeremiah Zagar (the filmmaker) was unflinching in his portrayal. In the Q&A after the film someone commented on how brave it was that he kept filming while all of this was going on, and he responded that every time he took the camera away from his face he started crying, so it was a much safer place to be.

Isaiah was there, too (Julia was unfortunately unable to be there because she's currently out of the country), and I had to go shake his hand (I should've hugged him, but oh, well, my loss). He was sweet and a little touched and a brilliant artist -- which is obvious from his work all over the city and all over the movie. His home, from basement to roof, floors, walls, ceilings, are all covered in mosaics, and it goes out from there, into the streets, the buildings around his home. He and his wife have been buying old buildings, fixing them up, mosaicking them, and renting them out for years.

There was also a brief part of the interview in which Isaiah talks candidly about being molested as a little boy. His portrayal of the experience was without malice, almost sweet even-- not to say being molested was for him in any way "sweet," but he didn't seem to have any blame or anger toward the man who diddled him. I think that was what touched me most about the film: his spirit.

There was a young man from NYC in the audience next to me; he's a filmmaker whose first feature documentary is in the festival; it's called Flying On One Engine, about a plastic surgeon who is wheelchair-bound and has no larynx; he travels to India every year to perform free surgeries on children with deformities. He is a god there. It looks interesting -- and I had heard about it from somebody in line the day before -- but I'm not sure I'm going to be able to make it to see that one.

Film #9, Bi The Way.

Journeying through the changing sexual landscape of America, BI THE WAY investigates the latest scientific reports and social opinions on bisexuality, while following five members of the emerging "whatever generation" -- teens and twenty-somethings who seem to be ushering in a whole new sexual revolution.

This was an interesting subject matter for me. It was a well-made film; there were some really cute people in it. The people who made it were also pretty cute. I don't have a lot to say about it. It wasn't the best thing I've seen, but I would recommend it.

The thing that bugged me about this movie experience was that it was at the Dobie. This was the first movie I've seen this year at the Dobie. The Dobie is in the back corner of a university residence hall food court. The lines for the movies (badges, pass holders, ticket buyers) is very disorganized, and that's a little frustrating. I hated having to tell a couple that there were a dozen or so people in front of them in the line they just suddenly appeared in -- The guy said, "Where did all those people come from?" And I said, "I don't know where they came from, but I've been here for an hour and the line goes that way." I didn't want to have to do that, but I wanted to see the movie, didn't want to have stood in line for an hour to miss it because I didn't stand up for myself or some shit like that. Ugh! Oh, well, it all worked out; I think that couple got in, and I got a good seat.

There was a weird singer/songwriter performing when we went into the theater. He just moved here from LA recently, he said, and his songs were words to already-written tunes, mostly. He confessed that he'd been drinking early on, and he had that kind of drunken, funny, a little annoying attitude. He was there, I guess, because he sings songs about homos and bisexuals (though he said a few times that he is neither). One of his songs was about Brokeback Mountain, another was a reworking of "The Pina Colada Song" with the words "If you like penis massages..." in place of the first line, and it went downhill from there. (It was about waking up with a boner, his roommate was gone, so he got on the internet, onto Craig's list and found somebody into penis massages...and of course, it ends up being his roommate.) Me thinks the drunk doth protest a little too much!

Film #10, Dreams With Sharp Teeth.

25 years in the making, 'DREAMS WITH SHARP TEETH' is a documentary that brings literary hero Harlan Ellison, his magnetic personality and amazing work to life, with appearances from Robin Williams and author Neil Gaiman. Directed by the producer of 'Grizzly Man', Erik Nelson, it features an original score composed and performed by Richard Thompson.

This was the added film for the day. I think the guy I met at In A Dream recommended it. It had been on my big list of movies I wanted to see, but not on the short one. But I'm glad I saw it. He's a caustic asshole, this Harlan Ellison, but also a very inspiring writer/speaker. He is a proud atheist who says that believing in God is a cop-out to living up to your own true potential. Great documentary.

When I walked into the theater -- the big ol' Paramount -- I went for my usual seat, stage left section, a little more than halfway down, close to the aisle. I saw a handsome young man across the aisle with big boots at the end of his long splayed out legs. Of course I sat across from him, just because.

I pulled out my little carry-around notebook to write some notes about the festival. In fact, I wrote a note about him:

of course I position myself
across the aisle from the hot
guy with the big boots and
the Elvis Costello glasses,
just in case. he makes
contact. brief. nice.

But it was more than "brief." I don't know how he noticed my colorful notebook -- I slipped it out of my pocket and back in, had it open most of the time -- but he did, said, "I like the cover of your notebook. Are you a painter?"

The woman next to him got involved in the conversation; the two of them are working on a film (not in the festival, not made yet). He had a wedding ring on, but I didn't see if she had one on, so I don't know if they're a romantic couple or just a working couple.

I told him that I'm not a painter or anything in particular, that I'm just an all-around artist. The woman raised her hand and said, "Welcome to the club."

We talked across the aisle until the movie started. He found out that I'm writing a novel and gave me a cryptic (but glossy) business card and said, "I own a small publishing company, too, so let me give you my card." One side of the card says:

Glos olalia.org

the other side says:

"A huge portion of the
new money in this
market is being spent on
contemporary art."

I looked it up when I got home (the website, not the quote, because what the hell does that mean?!)

It turns out this guy is part of a creative collective; he's a collage artist, a photographer, and he's aligned himself with poets and writers and other all-around artists. The website is worth a look. Harlan Ellison dropped so many names in the movie that I completely forgot the young man's name, so I found myself poring over the possibilities on the website trying to locate him late into the night last night. I'm pretty sure this is him -- though his hair is shorter now and he has glasses... It's kind of like he was dropped out of the heavens for me (not just because he's good looking; I mean, he's married -- ahem!) but I've been getting more creative recently, and have been wondering how to get myself out there. Maybe this guy will be a way. Maybe not. At the very least, it's inspiring.

sxsw film pass day four

Yesterday's films kicked my ass. I saw three, and strangely they had a theme running through them which was SUICIDE. Two of them were documentaries, and the other I thought was a documentary until the very moment the dead actors appeared onstage. I'm not giving anything away here, except my own ignorance; it says clearly on the website that the film was a Narrative, but I didn't see that until after the fact, so I felt sick to my stomach, thought I might puke up my black bean burger, fries and root beer. So, yay, that was effective.

Film #5, Crawford.

Just a short time before George W. Bush announced his intentions to run for the Presidency, the New Haven-born hopeful bought a ranch in tiny Crawford, Texas. From this suitably folksy pulpit, he engineered that down-home, aw-shucks presidential campaign persona that captivated/divided the nation, and then there were those hanging chads and...well, you know the rest. CRAWFORD follows, through the eyes of the town's citizenry themselves, the crazy arc that accompanied two subsequent presidential terms: the press corps filming the same appropriately rural hay bale over and over again, the proliferation of Bush souvenir shops, flocks of tourists, and, later, the arrival of Cindy Sheehan and 20,000 riled-up protesters. The film is an examination of what happens when a town of 705 is thrust into the spotlight, and the irrevocable growing pains that linger in town long after the fuss has died down.

It was a rainy day yesterday, so I guess that was a theme too. There were scenes of rain in all of the movies I saw. Pretty cool how that all tied together. The Paramount Theater (which seats about 1,500) wasn't very full because of the weather and the fact that it started at 11 a.m. the Monday morning after the clocks sprang forward. I was okay with that, got to sit in the best seat in the house.

This is a good movie. I don't want to say more about it than that because I know it'll be coming around again and most of my four readers probably don't want to hear a spoiler about it.

Film #6, A Necessary Death.

"Documentary Filmmaker looking for suicidal individual to follow from first preparation to final act." Cut from 142 video tapes, this project sheds light on the tragedy following the infamous internet ad.

That's all they give you in the synopsis. If you look up under the title of the film, it says "Narrative Feature," but I watched hundreds of previews when I was making my decisions about what to see, I didn't have time to read every word on every page. I seriously didn't know it was a narrative film until the actors were brought out afterward. But by that time I'd already been affected, my heart racing, my stomach heaving. I had to come home and sit for a while to try to process it. This was one film I really wished S had seen with me, because I needed somebody to talk to on the way home.

This same thing happened to us recently when we went to see a movie called Woodpecker, which is also in this year's festival, but we saw a work-in-progress version of it a couple of months ago. Even though the viewing we went to was part of Austin Film Society's "Narratives-In-Progress" program, S and I were both shocked to find out that it was not actually a documentary. Neither of these films are actually "mockumentaries" in the style of Best In Show or Spinal Tap, but I think this is a new thing, this narratives-presented-as-documentaries style of filmmaking.

In some ways, maybe I'm paying the price for having spent ten years pretending I actually was the character I played onstage, the lucky green dress-wearing nephew of a trailerhome salesman from Okey-Dokey, Texas. Fans that we made friends with more often than not said they were "crushed" or something along those lines when they found out that the characters we played onstage and the stories we/I told were not fact. Hm...

Film #7, Dear Zachary.

On the evening of Nov. 5, 2001, Dr. Andrew Bagby, 28, was murdered in a parking lot in western Pennsylvania. The prime suspect, his ex-girlfriend Dr. Shirley Turner, promptly fled the United States for St. John's, Newfoundland -- where she announced that she was pregnant with Andrew's child. She named the little boy Zachary. Filmmaker Kurt Kuenne, Andrew's childhood friend, originally began this film as a way for little Zachary to learn about his father. But when Shirley Turner was allowed to walk free on bail in Canada and given custody of Zachary while awaiting extradition to the United States, the film's focus shifted to Zachary's grandparents, David & Kathleen Bagby, and their desperate efforts to win custody of the boy.

Other than the way-over-the-top sentimentality of this film (particularly the score), it is very good. I think it would probably be hard for the director not to be sentimental about the subject matter, but, jeez, back off on the synthesizers. Like the other two movies I saw on this day, there were unexpected turns and emotional twists and it was very affecting. It started out as a home movie and turned into a feature film because of what happens. Good, good, good, but enough death for one day!

That's the first four days of the film festival. I've seen seven movies, which means my pass has paid for itself. Everything after this is icing.

sxsw film pass day three

I was awakened this morning by a wonderful Texas thunderstorm. That and a cat who seems to know that the clocks sprung forward night before last.

Yesterday I saw Film #4, Beautiful Losers.

The most memorable cultural movements in history have always developed organically. More often than not, they have been the simple result of a few like-minded people coming together to create something new -- usually for no other purpose than a common love of doing it. In the early 1990's, a loose-knit group of American artists, many just out of their teens, unwittingly started just such a movement. Rooted in the popular underground youth subcultures of the day, such as skateboarding, surf, graffiti, punk and hip-hop, they created art that reflected the alternative 'do-it-yourself' lifestyles they led. Over the last decade these artists and the subcultures they sprang forth have become not only popular, but have sparked the most influential cultural movement of our generation. BEAUTIFUL LOSERS is a theatrical documentary film that explores the creative ethos behind this growing movement through a collective portrait of ten of these artists.

This was the best movie so far. It was inspiring, it was touching, funny, sad. I laughed, I cried. Well, I didn't actually cry, but there is some sadness in it that...saddened me.

One of the artists featured in the film was none other than Harmony Korine (wrote Kids, wrote and directed Gummo, Julian Donkey-Boy), standing mostly around the tiled dragon of Dragon Park in Nashville, Tennessee. I'm not a fan of his movies; S hates his movies, and said that Harmony's this, that and the other thing (I don't want to misquote him and I don't remember exactly what he called him -- self-centered?) but he doesn't like him, creatively or personally, apparently, according to having seen him speak at a film festival in Nashville. But I found him to be charming and really the sad clown of the film. I gained a new perspective into his work because they showed an early film of his in which he plays a mentally or physically handicapped (or both) person living on the street, playing the banjo and doing a funny little dance I suppose for money. It's about ten years ago now that he did that, but he is still able to do that funny little dance, which I thought was impressive. He says he doesn't want to make movies like anybody else is making, he wants to make movies that are different... I can appreciate that. (And I think S can too.)

I spent the hours between that movie (which ended at 2:45) and the late one (10:30) working at home. I was afraid that if I didn't do the work that was available over the weekend, it wouldn't be there this morning. And I was right; I just looked at the company website and there is no work to do. Which is good; it frees me up to see the three films I have on my list for today.

Perhaps the 10:30 film is the best film in the festival so far, but I wouldn't know because I didn't get in. It was shown at the Alamo on South Lamar, the one with the big theaters, and not even all the people with badges got in (badges go in first, then passes, then they sell leftover seats after that). I got there too early, I thought, sat in my truck and smoked a cigarette because I didn't want to be the biggest geek in the building. I was in a respectable place in line -- twelfth or something -- but there were a lot more people with badges, so... Also, there seemed to be a whole lot of people who worked on the film or were somehow on the guest list going in the theater before they even let any of us watchers in.

The movie is called Nerdcore Rising. It was on my long list of movies but got cut off of the short list, but then I met the editor of it at Super High Me (and he was cute) so I decided to go. There are two more showings of it in the festival, so I'll try to see it another time, now that it's such a festival hit.

I almost talked myself out of going anywhere at all last night. I was tired from work. I smoked a bowl to try to inspire myself, and then I thought up an outfit I could wear (because of the cute boy, I guess) that inspired me -- I even wrote it down in my little book I've been carrying around with me to write notes in:

Sun. night -- I worked all day and felt lonely. Got high, trying to inspire myself not to stay home. Then I took a dump and got inspired by the Sun, then I got inspired about an outfit. Sexy brown pants, Me Infecto T-shirt, black Navy shirt, black socks and wing tips, "natural" leather jacket I got in Santa Cruz, and black Kangol I got at Cream when Judy was in town. All items of clothes that have some specific pleasant memories. Even my earrings -- or the holes anyway -- that I got with Russ in NYC.

I've written a lot of tidbits in my little book that maybe I'll share later, but right now I've got to hurry up and get ready to walk in the rain to see a movie that starts at 11.

After much personal deliberation last night, when the lines were dispersed, I decided to go to Magnolia and write. I was close to Magnolia already but didn't have my three-ring august chagrin binder, so I came home first -- had to feed Timmy anyway. I spent a good hour sitting in a booth over a Neptunian Landscape and a short stack of gingerbread pancakes, one with pecans, one with bananas, working on chapter four. That felt very productive.

sxsw film pass day two

I woke up singing that Paul Simon song, "Diamonds in the Soles of His Shoes" -- well, no, not really, because I don't really know the song, just barely a tune that goes along with the title -- because I had a dream that I was wearing bowls of kumquats for shoes. I had on a regular shirt and khaki pants, and it seems the purpose of the dream was to go around asking people if I looked all right, if what I was wearing was okay. People in the dream would say, "Yes... yes... No!" That's kind of where I'm at in my life right now, I guess.

---

Yesterday I saw two movies. The first (Film #2) was called The Lost Coast, which I mostly liked. Here's how the website describes it:

High school friends reunite for Halloween in San Francisco: Mark, who is now gay, and Jasper, who is straight and soon to be married, are forced to confront their unspoken sexual history in this haunting, spare look at the subtleties of sexuality, friendship, and loneliness.

Now that I just reread that, I'm confused. The Mark character was more obviously gay (personality-wise), but I thought he and Lily were a couple in the film. It was a dreamy, murky film, beautifully shot, taking place a lot in the dusky and nighttime hours of San Francisco (Golden Gate Park, etc.) where the characters were wondering around in costumes that were possibly sort of symbolic.

Except for that confusion -- which didn't ruin the film at all; I thought it had some very good points -- the thing that bugged me most about the film was that one of the characters started out by writing an email to his girlfriend, which is okay, but we kept coming back to that again and again. It got kind of tedious and really pulled me out of the story; it seemed very much like something they went back and added to the film later to clear up confusions about the story. I think I would rather have been confused.

Film #3 was called Then She Found Me.

Adapted from Elinor Lipman's novel of the same name, Helen Hunt makes her feature directing debut with a touching story of schoolteacher April Epner and her very unlikely path towards personal fulfillment. Following the separation from her husband and the death of her adopted mother, April is contacted by her apparent birth month, who turns out to be local talk show host Bernice Graves. As Bernice tries to become the mother to April that she was never able to be, April seems to find solace in the arms of the parent of one of her students, only to find that the mystery to life's questions cannot be solved by a simple revelation.

Helen Hunt was there in person to introduce the film. She is still as sexy as ever, aging gracefully and gorgeously; I almost started crying when she walked out onstage, just because I had such a crush on her when she was on "Mad About You." (S and I used to watch that show religiously, back when it was on the air, back when we had a TV, back in NYC...) Unfortunately, she wasn't there afterward -- or didn't come out anyway -- for a Q&A, which seemed a little odd. My thought was that maybe she wasn't completely satisfied with the movie. She asked if there were any filmmakers in the audience (and of course there were quite a few) and she said, "All I can say is don't give up; this film represents the past ten years of my life, trying to get it made, making it..."

There were a lot of boom microphone shots in the first half of the film, which is very distracting to me. You don't see that in Hollywood films, and I kept wondering -- as the black mike (or silver one in outdoor scenes) kept popping into view and pulling me out of the story, screaming IT'S A MOVIE! IT'S A MOVIE! -- where were the technical people who were supposed to not let this happen? I still loved the movie, it had a great emotional pay-off, me and the chicks in the room were sobbing (I guess some of the men were too), so I would highly recommend it, but as S likes to say, "I'd watch her take a dump!"

Bette Midler, Matthew Broderick, Colin Firth were in the cast; it was a good cast (though I'm not sure I'd watch Bette take a dump!). I felt wiped out after it was over, just the big emotional release; I really could have stood Helen coming out after and letting me know she was okay.

Outside, waiting in line before the movie started, the people in front of me were talking about the movies they've seen so far in the festival, what they liked or didn't like about them, even telling the entire plot lines of the movies they'd seen. Fortunately I didn't hear any spoilers because they seemed only to be seeing movies I'm not interested in, but I did pull my hoodie over my head, plugged the ear on that side and buried myself in my book I'm reading so I wouldn't get a spoiler. But before I did this, before I realized what they were doing, I heard one woman say this about some film (I don't know which one):

"It was like a poem...if you like poetry. It was like film...poetry. It could've used something...in the editing or something, I don't know."

sxsw film pass day one

It has begun. Last night was the opening night of the SXSW Film Festival (the only part of "South By" that I care about). S went with me to see Film #1: Super High Me, a documentary based on, believe it or not, a joke by stoner stand-up comedian, Doug Benson, who I'd never heard of before this movie. His joke was that the stupidest movie to see when you're stoned is Super Size Me -- the Morgan Spurlock jewel in which he eats nothing but McDonald's for thirty days to see how it affects his body -- because, he said, "I'm thinking right now a Nugget sounds real good!" Doug Benson jokes in the movie (onstage) that he'll make a movie called Super High Me, using the same premise except substituting being high 24/7 for the McDonald's. A fan (I suppose) or maybe a friend who happens to be a filmmaker decides to make the movie. They decide that in order to "clean out his system," he won't smoke pot for thirty days prior to the over-indulgent thirty-day period. The documentary covers the whole sixty days.

It was actually better than I could have hoped it would be. It showed Doug Benson onstage almost every day during the thirty days without and the thirty days of constant highness, but there was also a subplot of the medical marijuana advocates in California, the "dispensaries" and their dealings with the DEA "illegally" breaking in and shutting the places down and the protests, etc. It also showed a not-too-pretty version of the man as he buffooned his way through his daily life, going to doctor appointments, taking S.A.T. and psychic tests. (He had someone driving him around during the film, which is probably a good thing, but probably didn't truly test his ability to be high around the clock and function.) A cautionary tale? Not exactly. But it has some really funny moments, particularly the live-taped stand-up stuff, which doesn't always stand up in a film, so to speak, and here it did. For a second there, I considered giving the film (and all the ones to come) a score, 1 to 5 or something like that. But my brain's a little foggy this morning -- because of the experimenting I did around going to see the movie last night -- and coming up with a scoring scale would hurt me right now.

crazy on you

Here's what my week's been like:

Job work has been slow, so I've done a lot of work on the novel, rewriting each chapter longhand to get a feel for it. I keep the PC purring so I can check occasionally for work that might have come through that I can latch onto (for the dough), but I've had stretches of three and four hours of uninterrupted time at the kitchen table. I'm somewhere in the middle of chapter four right now.

I've alternated between that and uploading what I've done so far on my new myspace page, chapter by chapter in the blogs section (I'm enjoying myspace, have reconnected with some old friends).

I've also taken to this "Mysore Ashtanga" yoga practice. It's available Mondays through Thursdays 4:30 to 6:00, but so far -- because it's a work-up-to-it kind of practice -- I haven't stayed longer than thirty-five minutes. The instructor is dreamy, big wide-open eyes to his soul, always coming to look right into mine and say "How do you feel?"

I feel like I love you, I say inside. Can you hear me?

Oh, I'm such a crush-junkie! He's a great teacher, and though I felt like he was smirking at my dismal attempt to get through the first series of Surya Namaskars (sun salutations) on that first day (I thought maybe I was in the wrong place, that he wished I hadn't come, all those insecurities of being at the gym or in P.E. class or something), he seemed equally pleased that I was back the next day. (I have a lot of conversations in my mind, thoughts about what other people are thinking about me, and though they're probably not always correct, there's probably some truth in what I'm feeling). So I went back three days in a row, and he gave me a second set of Surya Namaskars to go through the next day, as well as two more poses each new day (so I'm up to six, right?)

Day One: My muscles, particularly in my arms, were like jelly. At one point, M (the instructor) was talking to me and I reached up to scratch my nose and missed it!).

Day Two: I felt good.

Day Three: My lower thighs (backs of my knees) were so sore I couldn't pull my shoes off with the opposite foot!

So this is Day Four, but there is no Mysore on Fridays, and some of the practitioners don't do it on "Moon Days," regardless of the day of the week, but I'm not there yet (they also stop everything at the beginning of class and do a chant, which M told me on the first day to just listen to silently; maybe someday he'll give me the key to that as well...). Also, I won't be able to go to yoga class at all next week because of SXSW -- I got my Film Pass, and the film festival starts tonight (more on that later) -- I'm going to have to do the six series/poses I was taught on my own so I don't have to go through the jellied muscles and start-up pain again week after next. And I think ultimately, it would be nice to not have to go to the studio everyday, once I know the entire hour-and-a-half cycle, though at some point, M gets more involved in your practice, helping you with stretches (i.e., touching you!)

My yoga practice has blossomed because I have also spent an inordinate amount of time this past week thinking up things to say to R, and then spending the rest of the time talking myself out of calling or texting or emailing him to share those things with him. I feel he has pulled way back, and I feel myself full of a desire to pour myself into him, to swallow him up, to fill up my time thinking about him, thinking about him, thinking about him. It's gotten to the point where I've felt like I need to just cut off any connection or any hope of a connection with him, to tell him as much (though when I told S he said that would be kind of cruel to just cut him off after he opened himself up to me. I'm thinking, In what way has he opened himself??? I don't know, I don't know, I don't know...)

R called me on his birthday and I got all junior-high-girlish. It felt ridiculous. I also sent him a birthday present that I shouldn't have spent so much money on, and then I feared he hadn't received it (because I didn't insure the package, sent it USPO instead of UPS or FedEx, didn't ask for receipt confirmation or anything like that... this actually kept me awake practically an entire night thinking about it, wondering, worrying, obsessing). And then, three days after his birthday, at least two days after I thought he should have received the package, I texted him to see if he got it. This was his message back to me (misspellings his and left in to add to to the sense of confusion and insecurity I felt):

I got it today. Huf
been thinking
about how i say
thank you. Its
awesome, and very,

That was the whole message. And that was the last I heard from him. That was six days ago. I obsessed about that for a long time. And so I dove into yoga, dove into my writing. That's what I've been doing this past week, avoiding that, and it has been good for my creative and physical selves. But dang, there's a part of my brain that's short-circuiting, and there's a part of my heart that's hurting.

Speaking of Heart:

If we still have time, we might still get by
Every time I think about it, I wanna cry
With bombs and the devil, and the kids keep comin'
No way to breathe easy, no time to be young

But I tell myself that I was doin' all right
There's nothin' left to do at night
But to go crazy on you
Crazy on you
Let me go crazy, crazy on you, oh

My love is the evenin' breeze touchin' your skin
The gentle, sweet singin' of leaves in the wind
The whisper that calls after you in the night
And kisses your ear in the early moonlight
And you don't need to wonder, you're doing fine
My love, the pleasure's mine

Let me go crazy on ya
Crazy on you
Let me go crazy, crazy on you, ohhh

Wild man's world is cryin' in pain
What you gonna do when everybody's insane
So afraid of one who's so afraid of you
What you gonna do...ohhh...

(Ah-ah-ah-ah)

Ooooo...Crazy on ya
Crazy on you
Let me go crazy, crazy on you

I was a willow last night in my dream
I bent down over a clear running stream
Sang you the song that I heard up above
And you kept me alive with your sweet flowing love

Crazy
Yeah, crazy on ya
Let me go crazy, crazy on you, oh
Crazy on ya
Crazy on you
Let me go crazy, crazy on you, yeah

(Ah-ah-ah-ah)

Crazy on ya
Crazy on you
Let me go crazy, crazy on you, ohhh...