mum

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

ask mr. owl

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

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

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

A year's a long time.

the jury's still out

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

add this to your queue

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

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

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

chapter three: black lake (put to rest)

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

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

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

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

And the last:

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

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

s'experiment: day 13

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

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

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

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

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

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

a letter to the new man

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

Nov. 5, 2008
Dear Brother Obama,

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

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

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

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

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

the final curtain

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

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

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

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

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

s'experiment: day 9

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

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

And for a year?! WTF!?

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yet.

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

me too, di

this is the day that the lord has made

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

s'experiment

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

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

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

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

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

soup salon number one

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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