creature comforts

I'm fascinated by this creature called Creativity. I've been having a real run for the past few weeks, getting through chapters (rewriting old versions longhand and finding new depth and perfection in them); I even came upon an exciting, new, very solidifying way to organize the novel, which isn't radically different, but different enough to make things feel like they'd fallen into place, different enough to excite me.

Then I got to chapter twelve. I searched through my box of envelopes -- one for each chapter -- and found this envelope empty. Hm. I looked on my computer at the dizzying array of previous versions -- research and notes -- called things like august old files and old files august and files august old. I went through and reorganized all of the files in those folders, discarded repeats. Some had only chapter numbers for names, which was a bad idea because the chapters have moved around quite a bit and a number of times since I've. So I had to open most all of them, though I wanted to open many of them anyway, because I was looking for something to go on to help ease me into chapter twelve.

But I found nothing at all. I have the story in my head; I know what happens, so clearly that I thought surely I had written it down somewhere. But I let go and let God, in a manner of speaking. I bought another pouch of American Spirit organic tobacco after having not smoked for a couple of weeks when the previous pouch ran out. I believe that there is something to sitting on the porch and smoking a cigarette (occasionally with a tiny bit of an extra ingredient in it) that helps inspire my creative spirit.

A few days ago, I sat out on the porch again and again writing a half-paragraph or a half-sentence or a half-line. It wasn't terribly frustrating, I just didn't feel the flow happening, and I know from experience that it comes in its own time, though perhaps it can be egged along. I thought of this when I read my "Free Will Astrology" by Rob Brezny in The Austin Chronicle the other day.

I'm not a radical believer/follower of astrology, but I do read our 'scopes once in awhile, usually while I'm sitting at the kitchen table and S is putting the last touches on a meal that's about to be served, or sometimes when our after-meal talk has ended or was sparse in the first place. I always read Pisces and Aries for him, because he's on the cusp, and I always read Scorpio and Sagittarius for me, because I had an in-depth star chart thingie done on a few years ago on my birthday, and the chart-reader said that my rising sign was so close to Sagittarius -- and my childlike exuberance is so Sadge in nature -- that she thinks perhaps the nurse or whomever marked down my time of birth might have looked up at the clock a little late or early or something like that. Anyway, she suggested I read Sagittarius as well, and I do, usually just for the fun of it, more often after the fact to see how well things matched up with what the predictions were.

So, here's the Sagittarius reading for me for April 25 - May 2:
Your metaphorical pregnancy has gone on rather long. No reason to panic. I'm sure your brainchild or masterpiece will arrive shortly. But just for fun, maybe you could watch a time-lapse film of a rose opening. That was helpful in expediting the birth process for two new mothers I know. Here are two other tricks to try, even if the blessed event you're about to enjoy is purely symbolic: Arrange to be in a place where a storm is coming on. Folk tradition says that labor often follows drops in barometric pressure. Or get ahold of rings made from a rattlesnake tail. Early American explorers Lewis and Clark gave them to their Native American guide Sacagawea when it was near her time, and they seemed to expedite the baby's arrival magically.

That was the last of the four I read. When I finished, S said, "That's your book." He wasn't being new agey, just kind of wink-wink nudge-nudge. Before he called me to the table, I was sitting in front of the computer watching videos of "sixteenth birthday parties," because that's what chapter twelve is about. I said, "Maybe I should go search for a time-lapse video of a rose opening."

But I didn't. I had plans to go see a couple of shows in the theater festival that's going on here right now called Fusebox. First, at 7:00 was a show called Typewriter Chorus. Here's what the program says about the performance that made me want to see it:
Typewriter Chorus is an experimental collaborative writing exercise in which participants sit at multiple desks with typewriters while being read to from multiple texts by multiple individuals. Participants are asked to type what they hear. The final product is an alchemical manifesto in the spirit of Burrough's cut-up and divine inspiration.

I wanted to be a part of this! I tried to find the people responsible online but found rabbit holes and dead ends, so I decided to just go. I went to Blue Theater. It was set up on the concrete slab out in front of the theater. I got there a few minutes late because I was driving the wrong way to get there(!), but I didn't necessarily miss anything. About halfway into it, a guy walking around reading from an old encyclopedia said, "Does anybody want to read?" I said, "I do!" I read a bit of Homer's Odyssey, which I chose and which was kind of difficult with all of the character names.

That ended at 8:00 and I was going to see another show there at 10:00, but I didn't want to just hang out outside the theater so I headed for home. Then I got the idea to drop in on M&J because I didn't have my phone with me to call them. I did and they were happy to receive me. P was of course excited to see me, "Uncle JDJB!" she exclaimed, "I didn't know you were coming over!" Obviously no one did; J greeted me at the door in his underwear!

I told them about the show I was going to see, Neal Medlyn's Lionel Ritchie Opera:
...composed entirely of songs from Mr. Ritchie's seminal greatest-hits album 'Back to Front' in the order they appear on the album. The songs, together with a plot (partially based on Richard Strauss' opera Arabella) about a love triangle between the queen of the land of unicorns, her sullen betrothed and a hot and sexy foreign musician, come together to tell an epic and tragic tale involving mass murder, unwanted pregnancy and lust. Singing! Blood! Processions! Livestock! Life! All performed by Neal Medlyn. Phew! Oh, and there's a short, unrelated prologue.

M wanted to go with me because she had seen Lionel Ritchie perform at the Summit in Houston back in his heyday (and also because they "never get out," and J encouraged her to go with me). I was excited to have company. But we still had some time to kill, so we drank some muscadine wine a coworker of J's had given him -- her father's "No Good" stash, labeled this way so that his family wouldn't drink the good stuff (the bottles marked "Good" were really the no good stuff) which she ended up with after his death. Then we drank some tequila. Then we left and came by my house to smoke a little weed and got to the show just in time.

The most bizarre and interesting thing that Neal did in the show was, as the queen, gave head to a unicorn which ejaculated all over him. It was all smoke and mirrors, so to speak, but pretty exciting (in a non-sexually stimulating way).

The reason I wanted to see Neal's show was because I saw him a year ago in this same festival (he's from here but lives in NYC) and I was inspired by him; he reminded me of my titular character, performance artist august chagrin, whom I've realized in more recent months is probably more like me than any other character in my book, and in having that realization I've been able to explore my own desires to perform (as august chagrin), and have been doing so. It may sound weird, but it was good for me to see a straight man give head to a unicorn onstage. Oddly, it gave me permission to not be so freaked out (and I have been) over what people think of me. This all comes from childhood baggage, of course, but it's very real and probably a big part of why I want to be a "weird performer," so as to exorcise (and exercise) these demons within me. Not that I want to give head to a unicorn onstage -- not yet, anyway! -- but I feel free to let my creativity roam a little more.

After the show, M and I went for a drink, first to Clay Pit (where D supposedly works -- D whom I gave my number to three weeks ago when I saw him there, and who has not called, which could have to do with the fact that he wrote my number on his hand at the end of his shift; I've been back twice, now three times, and he has not been there) and then to Longbranch Inn.

Earlier, M&J and I had talked about S's and my desire to live on their property, which they're all for; J said draw up a design and we'll do something funky. When I got home, I couldn't sleep right away. I was inspired, and drunk. I sat on the porch and smoked a cigarette and came up with an idea for a design (see how cigarettes function in my life?!). I came in and sketched it out.

Then -- here's the big exciting part of the blog that connects back to my horoscope -- I finally went to sleep at 2:00 a.m., only to be awakened by a storm, a loud cracking of thunder, three cracks in fact, and as I petted Timmy to calm him, the wind blew the curtain horizontal and leaves and limbs and chimes outside clanked about. The barometric pressure was dropping!

I went to the bathroom to pee, and while I sat there, I thought that perhaps August's sixteenth birthday party couldn't take place because of a storm. I came up with the idea of hail, not in any specific way, but just generally as a good dramatic effect to interrupt things somehow. Then I flushed and came back to bed. And believe it or not as I lay down, a brief tinkling of hail played on the awnings outside my windows. It was electric!

I woke up the next morning (at 11:00) and started writing. It flowed out of me fabulously. I paused in the middle, exhausted for a spell (because I have to write everything longhand first), and washed some laundry, did some dishes, took the dry laundry off of the clothesline in the middle room. LR from the Dance I used to go to was having her annual birthday party/performance at A's house at 6:00. I wanted to go to try to be part of the Typewriter Chorus at 7:00 again, which the artist had told me was happening again the following night, so I told A I wouldn't be able to stay for the whole party and she told me to come early, 5-ish, she said LR would be there.

I didn't know if I would have a performance offering for LR. Last year I sang my song "Sweet Tooth," but didn't want to do that again. Well, as I was taking the laundry down, the first line of a song came to me: "Laura Rose, Laura Rose, how deep is her love? No one really knows." It sang around in my head, and then another line came, and another, and I figured I'd better stop what I was doing and write down what I had. Eventually, I turned on the keyboard and found a nice oom-pah-pah song style to go along with it:

Laura Rose, Laura Rose,
How deep is her love?
No one really knows.
Through the ground, deeper down,
And up to the sky like a garden hose.
From her tits, to where she sits,
From the crown on her head to her twinkle toes.
From her heart, 's where it starts,
This most awesome love that is
Laura Rose.

I printed a couple dozen copies of it, went to the party at 5:00, left just before 7:00, went to the Typewriter Chorus, was selected as a reader and read from a book by Salvador Dali then Sexus by Henry Miller, nonstop for an hour, got back to the party just after 8:00, in the midst of the performances happening, asked for a number (everybody took numbers to decide when they would perform), picked a low number, so I was next! Interestingly I wasn't nervous at all. The crowd loved the song, started singing right away, and kept singing after I was done and even later on in the evening.

I got home at about 10:00, having left the first half of chapter twelve halfway transcribed. I finished transcribing the other half then kept on typing and finished the chapter (not longhand, for once), and I love the way it turned out.

I was talking to P on the phone earlier yesterday when I was trying to find out what time the party started. I told her about the chapter that was coming out of me and she told me she was glad to hear me talk about the chapter because I was the only person in her life currently who is experiencing any joy at all. That was a little bit of a bummer, but it's true that I'm experiencing joy; this creative creature residing in me is such a joyful comfort in my life when he decides to bubble up.

chapter five: tom collins (1968)

chapter five continues in the counter restaurant. Tom is 19 and didn't finish high school -- he was held back one year at some point. He ran away a week before graduation (he wasn't a very good student anyway), mostly because he didn't want to end up like the rest of his brothers: stuck in Big Flat, Ar. He took the family money (though he doesn't tell this to Dar until they are at her apartment, maybe after they've had sex and he is modeling for her painting) and hitchhiked around and ended up in Houston without much money left.

Dar is 20 -- barely a year older than Tom, and she is a junior at Rice University {this fact hasn't changed}. She comes from a completely different background but feels like she and Tom have some things in common -- not liking the constriction of their religious upbringings (hers, Catholic; his, Fundamentalist), being virgins {this is new}, wanting to make a difference in the world (she with painting/art; he unsure how).

Dar invites Tom back to her apartment to show him her paintings (because he's interested) and perhaps to get him high for the first time.

School is very important to Dar. At one point, she makes a comment about how Tom could/should get his GED and go to college -- "if only the University of Houston." He thinks this might be a good idea, but says he has to get a job first. Dar's father is in a management job at Exxon (or whatever it's called then -- or maybe Shell or Humble Oil) and she can help Tom get a job. All of these things play into the two of them ending up in her bed. {Maybe the title could/should be "november ___" (1968).

maybe it's in the air

B and I ended up at Clay Pit (where D said he works) last night after the improv show (which wasn't really improv -- more scripted; some guy from Oregon -- and which was okay). D wasn't working -- which was fine -- and B and I had a long conversation about sexuality (mostly mine) and meditation and art.

Today, for some reason, S and I started thinking about moving. It's kind of a casual thought because a house down the street is for rent. They rent there is $1050, which is $400 more than we're paying, and it's more than we want to (and really can) afford, but we're increasingly concerned about the eventual reality that DL is going to sell this house and we will have to move. A's daughter has a house south of Cesar Chavez which I think is $1000, and it isn't for rent right now, but it's a better location, maybe. Maybe it will come up for rent in September or October, which would be better.

But this is all speculation at this point. I like the house down the street. I think I like this neighborhood better. S doesn't like the house because it's not shaded and because it has orange trim (the UT color) which is kind of annoying. It might be noisier because it's closer to the interstate. I would be willing to pay $50 more a month than S. But neither of us really wants to move right now.

blah-blah-blah

I don't know why I sometimes feel the need to fill up all of my time with activities. Maybe I'm avoiding working on the novel, or maybe, after having spent so many hours in front of the computer doing $ work, I don't feel like spending the rest of my time sitting in front of the computer doing creative work. But I've also gotten into a stretch of socializing -- since John's memorial service last Sunday -- that I really enjoy. I don't follow my astrology too closely (once in awhile I look at the Chinese horoscope on my facebook page, and I often read Rob Brezny in the Chronicle, but they don't usually say anything too meaningful), but I certainly feel myself going through phases, socially, that if I were to look back at my horoscopes I think I might see something there. Really, I think that's the only way for me, to look back and say "Ah."

I got a hankering today to see some Improv at ColdTowne, and I thought of B, who always says he interested. So I called him and we made plans to see a show at 8:00. I also like the idea of spending more time with B. We enjoy each other's company.

I've been spending too much money lately and there hasn't been enough work to sustain me, to keep me from having to dip into my savings. But some of the expenses have been necessities -- yoga, the vet -- and that's what my savings are there for, I tell myself.

I need to go grocery shopping.

after CampCamp

Back on the porch with another cigarette, but this one of celebration. M showed up to help me, and MV was there to read a poem -- which is a good thing because I couldn't read my Revelations printout with my contacts, and he loaned me his drugstore reading glasses, which did the trick. I had already decided before I left the house to abandon the weird-eye glasses (because they obstructed my facial expressions), and once I got to Bouldin Creek Coffeehouse, I abandoned the harmonica solo and cut the reading by a third. All good choices, as I see it. M anointed me with the beet juice so perfectly in the last part of my reading, and much to my surprise, people -- the whole audience, it seemed -- sang along from the beginning!

But the big thrill of the night was that I saw D, the cutie waiter I felt like I'd embarrassed myself in front of at El Chile so long ago when he worked there (because of the huge crush I have on him). He saw me in my costume shortly before I went on and seemed to recognize me, but perhaps not from that situation (perhaps he wasn't sure he knew where he recognized me from).

After my bit, I hosed off in the restaurant restroom slop sink. I didn't see D after that (and wondered if he'd seen my well executed performance) until I was leaving, walking out of the Bouldin Creek back yard with G. D grabbed my hand and shook it, told me how he loved my performance (he was on after me and was in fact behind me, behind the sheer curtain during), and he held onto my hand for a long time. G said, "He sure held onto your hand for a long time!" And he gave a little squeeze at the end after he asked my name and told me his (I had forgotten, too). Good night!

CampCamp

I bought a three-dimensional journal, so I've been writing in it instead of blogging, so I'm gonna cheat a little and backdate the next blogs and put in my journals instead of coming up with something fresh.

CampCamp tonight. The theme is "Lamb of God" or "Tranimal Paradise." I'm going with the "LoG" theme. A white sheet sort of Virgin Mary style over toupee with the weird-eye glasses P gave me for Christmas. I'm gonna wear my orange fuzzy pants -- which are kind of animal-like -- and rain boots. I'll read several versus from Revelations chapter 7 (verses 9 - 17 or something) -- it's actually an entertaining story -- and then a harmonica solo (with the wrong last note) leading into "Are You Washed in the Blood of the Lamb." Oh, and I'll have a tambourine attached to my head sort of crown-of-thorns style, if it works. And oh-- Oh, I'm going to pour beet juice over my head between the story and the song! I'm nervous; I've shit five or six times today. I think I'm gonna sign up as "august chagrin." I'm smoking a cigarette right now, then I'm gonna shave and shower and maybe have a shot of tequila.

John Slatin, 1952 - 2008

This is my favorite picture of John. It looks the most like I remember him. The glass of wine in the foreground is more like his wife A's; he stopped drinking alcohol and caffeine when he first went through chemo in 2005.

This picture was blown up (along with half a dozen others) inside the UT Alumni Center, where John's memorial service was held this past Sunday. S & I walked over and got there at about a quarter to 2:00, right before it was scheduled to start. There were lots of people there -- people from the Dance group; people from UT; people from the Web Accessibility group which John had a huge hand in creating and maintaining over the years; friends; family; etc. Some were milling about in their cliquish little groups, some were crossing over into other groups, some were lined up along the left wall behind a table, writing on long strips of colorful paper and weaving them into a yarn hanging, an artsy little prayer/wish/memorial thing.

When I saw the pictures on tripods inside the entryway, it warmed my heart to see John in various phases of his life -- at the Kennedy Center to perform in a dance piece with his guide dog, Dillon; on a beach with A; etc. When I saw the above picture, it hit me: John's gone. My good friend who cracked me up so much, who struggled through this illness, struggled through treatments with such aplomb and level-headed assuredness. I was there to get him from one appointment to the next during his 2006 - 2007 Houston hospital stay, and I was there after that to organize his medicines into baggies so that it would be easier for him to take the right ones at the right times. But I felt like I was also there to offer some comic relief. John loved to laugh, and it didn't seem like there was a situation too uncomfortable or degrading in which he couldn't roll his eyes (his blind eyes) and cut that smile (the one pictured above) and let everybody know it was okay. It wasn't okay, but it was okay.

I don't think most of the different communities that John was a part of interacted with the others; some of the people probably didn't even realize that some of the others of John's circles even existed. I was in a rare and enviable position, having spent so much time with him in the hospital and in his house, when people came to visit, to have met a lot of the people from the various communities. I didn't always feel comfortable socially around these people, but that wasn't really the point; I could tell that they appreciated the fact that I was there helping John, that they were comforted in knowing that he was being taken care of by someone they knew or didn't know, but someone who was obviously fond of him, because I was very fond of John.

Had I known what a mover and shaker, what an intellectual, what a geek John was, I think I might have been intimidated by him, at least before I got to know him. I didn't know him at all the first time I went over to their house to volunteer my time. I barely knew him, anyway, had only seen him a handful of times at the Dance group where we met. I had worked out an agreement with the company that employs me that allowed me more free time, more flexibility in my schedule. I decided I wanted to volunteer my time; less than two weeks after I made that internal decision, after I had started looking into hospices and other places where I could volunteer my time (which would be enriching for me as well), LR made an announcement at Dance that John & A were in need of helpers. I didn't know LR very well at the time either; she is this kind of Mother Earth hippie love spectacle thing who is at once frightening and delightful (until you get to know her, and then the fright quickly melts away). Similarly, all intimidation on the part of John disappears about thirty seconds into your first conversation with him.

The first time I went to their house to sit with John, to read with him or whatever, John wasn't feeling well. The first day I was there, instead of being able to help, John had to go to the hospital right away, and he was there for a couple of weeks (months?). This was shortly before the bone marrow transplant. And so I didn't volunteer at their house, I volunteered at Seton Hospital here in Austin, and then I spent three days a week at MD Anderson in Houston during the BMT.

It was nice to see all of John's circles in one place on Sunday, though it was a heartbreaking experience for all of us. I saw P, the blind woman who reminds me of one of my great aunts on my father's side. She taught John to read braille back when he first needed it. I met her at a dance performance -- an homage to Elvis called "The King & I" -- performed by Allison Orr (the choreographer of the piece that took John and Dillon to the Kennedy Center). P and John had headphones and a "professional describer" on the sidelines of the audience describing to them the dance moves onstage while they listened to the music and audience reactions to color in the piece more fully.

Knowing John was an interesting experience. At first I felt guilty that, as a writer, one of my big reasons for wanting to be around John was because he was blind. I had never known a blind person, had never known what they experience, how they see the world, so to speak, I was curious. Of course, when I share my guilt about this to friends, they always assure me that what I did was a good thing; both John and I got a lot out of the experience. I know that in my heart.

The memorial service was a full two hours. S had to go home directly afterward to study for school. For a second I thought I would stay at the alumni center and mingle, but my social awkwardness kicked in and I found myself making a quick getaway. In fact, I somehow got ahead of S and found him coming up behind me halfway home.

I was starving and talked myself into going to the BBQ in John's honor at the Salt Lick Pavilion in Driftwood, Texas, half an hour from Austin. It was supposed to start at 5:00; I got there at a quarter to 6:00 and was one of the first to arrive. Yikes! I managed to get through conversations with different people I kinda sorta know, and then, when the food was finally served (vegetarian option was pasta with veggies, but I also had lots of cole slaw, potato salad, red beans and bread -- and later chocolate cake), I found myself hanging onto M, and she onto me; we spent the rest of the evening pretty much in each other's company.

I had mentioned to her that I smoke a cigarette once in awhile, and towards the end of the evening, a group of five or six of us were out at my truck in the mostly emptied parking lot, me rolling three cigarettes (which sounds really "cool") in a cigarette rolling machine (which is really "dorky"), all of us laughing and enjoying each other.

I only smoked a couple puffs of the cigarette I'd rolled for myself because I realized I don't really like to smoke in front of other people. Not because of the guilt -- as M put it regarding another friend of ours who doesn't smoke in front of other people -- but more because I really enjoy sitting on my porch contemplating the universe and sucking in a little nicotine. And that's what I did. I came home, rolled myself a fresh, thin cigarette, sat on the front porch and let the memories of John wash over me.