tuesday, august 24th, 10:00 pm (2004)

It's been a long time. The day after the last time I wrote, it was Friday the 13th. Not that {sic} means anything, it's just an interesting point of reference.

I didn't go to the stand up thing tonight. I was uninspired, and very, very hungry. Yesterday, I had a stomachache and diarrhea, and today I've been insatiable, and I still have diarrhea. Right now, my stomach is grumbling and gurgling. Not a surprise since I had a bowl of muesli at 7:30 a.m., and eggplant parmesan at 9:30 a.m., 12 p.m. and 8:p.m.

Friday the 13th is significant because I started taking Wellbutrin that day. It certainly has done something to me. Besides the diarrhea. Everything is different. I wouldn't say I'm having a crisis, but everything is definitely different. Askew.

I got up and went to the Y, then to work. Then came home for lunch and hung out with R for a few hours (much to his confusion), then went back to work for a few hours (that was the part that confused him).

Today, I was planning on going to the stand up open mic - or I should say up until today. I felt uninspired and decided it was because I haven't smoked any pot since Saturday night. That night, I went out on what felt like a bad date with M and my alter ego(?), whom I met at a faerie part a couple of weeks(?) ago. But I don't want to talk about either of those things; they won't be easily forgotten so I don't need to write them down.

Anyway, after Saturday night, on Sunday (duh!) I decided I would stop drinking and smoking weed and cigarettes. At least until I figured out how I was gonna react to the new medication.

My plan for tonight at the open mic was to sing "Fancy Pants" and do a funny introduction too, like saying I got my Aunt Joy Belle's pants by mistake from Santa one year, and nobody wanted to admit the mistake, and I ended up wearing them to every family gathering from that point on. ((This is just coming to me.)) I got the nickname "Fancy Pants."

I'm no stranger to nicknames. I was born with one. In the eighth grade I was called Gaybird because I didn't know how to carry my books. The butch Italian classmate girl who lived down the street from me, VL, taught me how to carry my books so I wouldn't be a Gaybird anymore, but it didn't work. I was a short, fat, nelly boy whose parents had talked him into playing the tuba. Or more correctly, the Sousaphone, the big white octopus with its tendrils wrapped around me and its ass up in the air and wide open. The best I could play sounded like octopus farts. And since I wasn't an athlete, and since I carried my books like a girl, and since the best music I could play sounded like octopus farts, the other kids picked on me and called me Gaybird and made fun of my mayonnaise and sugar sandwiches on Wonder Bread.

So I took to eating my lunch at the end of the dead end hall where they kept the surplus of desks. Behind the desks. I found a little path and hid back there and ate my sandwiches and dreamed about what kind of revenge I would take on my classmates, what revenge I would take on the world. And I vowed to learn to play the 12-string guitar.

(take out ukulele)

I'm a third of the way there... Help me out. "Well" after me. I sing "Well" and then you sing "Well" after me. Got it? Every time I sing "Well" you sing "Well" after me. --Not yet. I'll tell you when.

(Fancy Pants)

--

I got into cooking last night and didn't clean. I swept the upstairs but didn't really clean. This morning I painted a picture - quite a lovely one, I think, from a picture R took in Scotland, I think; he's a wonderful photographer - instead of cleaning downstairs.

He woke up. I went to work. At 2:30, C and I went to Sam & Zoe's for a cup of coffee each and one piece of double chocolate layer cake. I also ate a bag of "Sweet 'N' Salty" from the Honest Vending box that R2 set up. (Jeez!) I also ate a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and I don't know what else. I had three sodas today, three cigarettes, three puffs of pot (and maybe I'll have a fourth and see if that helps me sweep the downstairs). I really just kinda want to go to bed.

I told R about the wan who washed his dog's head after Bayne humped him. R politely requested I not allow Bayne to do that since some people are really offended by that and we should respect them. But he walks up to a car with a W '04 sticker on it and sticks his tongue out at her! I'm confused. I thought he would find my story amusing, not make a request of me because of it. Is "flummuxed" the right word? Is that the right spelling? Sometimes I really have to question what R and I are doing together. In some ways it seems temporary. It's not because he doesn't want to have sex with me. Not yet. It's not because he doesn't think my comedy is always funny, or that when I ask his opinion on my Las Vegas story at the open mic he said, "Well, I've already heard that story before." Not yet, anyway.

It's comfortable, that's what it is, and that's what I think I need. And I guess I do, for now. But that doesn't keep me from thinking what-ifs. Sometimes-- no, that's not how I meant to start that sentence. A couple of times I've thought I don't know why I clean the house since R rarely comments on it. He comments when it's dirty, but not when it's clean. Well, almost never. He has such ease with criticism and such a hard time with compliments - or even constructive criticism (although I do see him trying hard on both of those). And I know it's all about his childhood, and I know he can't let go of that, but I don't understand how he doesn't want to; doesn't want to change that. S pointed out that R is very civic-minded. I hadn't thought of it before, but it's totally true. I always saw it as the closer you are to R the less interested he is in you. I saw it as possibly his one big flaw.

His view of how to treat his fellow Earthlings is beautiful. Sometimes it seems that it is at the price of discomfort of Self. It sounds very Buddhist, and so I guess it is (I'm happy to say I've got R reading - and quoting from - Shambhala Sun), but he gets angry, it seems, when others aren't as civic-minded as he is. He's offended. Everyone should act civil the way he does. That's the important part. I guess he doesn't feel like he has to be civil to a supporter of George W. because he is so offended by him. I don't know.

I just lit cigarette #4 (a reward for the comedy bit above) and a suflur ember fell on my thumbnail and the tender skin just below it and slow-burned me. I couldn't tend to it immediately because I was having trouble lighting the cigarette; the match was short, the flint strip was damp, and the wind was blowing. I let it burn me as long as I could take it, then flicked it off and stuck my thumb in my mouth and it tastes like sulphur (are both "f" and "ph" correct in spelling that?). R would say, "That's what you get." That's his humor, and I don't find it very funny, either.

thursday, august 12th, 2:30 a.m. (2004)

Why don't I want to go to sleep? I feel dog tired, hungry and anxious. The stand up didn't go horribly, but it's not quite there yet.

More ideas. Wear tiger pants backwards and SALLI mask on back of my head. "boy drag" / Ru Paul /Jigaboo show at Boy Bar, NYC / My Pet Homo with Ruther and Mona Foote. Shaved head (wigs) / Lucky Greed Dress / Faeries

monday, august 9th, 10:35 pm. (2004)

Things that may/may not be funny about be/my life:

• my name
• my family members' names/nicknames: Joy Belle (from a hymnal); Aunt Konk (from a speech impediment)
• speaking in tongues (age 12)
• my own TV show (8th grade)
• my new nickname: Gaybird (8th grade)
• getting locked in a horse stall (8th grade)
• masturbating the neighborhood dogs (" ")
• coming out in Las Vegas/Diana Ross (age 17)
  
• mixing drugs and religion (Easter)
• working at 7-11
• my brief marriage...
  
• songs ("Whippoorwill")
  

monday, august 9th, 1:13 pm (2004)

I'm at Vanderbilt waiting to get a CT scan on my back, reading over the earlier things I've written, trying to figure out what I need to say tomorrow night, how I need to organize my thoughts and words for my first stand up experience. I feel totally confident, now that I've finally gotten there. I'm sure I'll be a little nervous (or maybe a lot nervous) tomorrow night, but that's part of the thrill; that's part of what I crave.

I wonder if I should tape record my set tomorrow night. And if I do, should I tell the audience I'm taping it - make a thing out of it - or just do it secretly or not so secretly? My goal is to be able to get up at an open mic and just be funny. I think I definitely have to wear an outfit. I'm thinking my outfit will dictate what I talk about. Maybe I'll be Babbling Brooke. Crazy B seems to think I should harness the BB character, that she would be a real force to reckon with. Maybe. I also have the Didgeridon't Tubal Tonal Orchestra.

sunday, august 8th, 10:44 pm (2004)

I am God's Little Miracle. We had to say that every day at Vacation Bible School. Two weeks out of every summer, six days a week. Sister Norma with the bright red wig and the too muych makeup. All together: "I am God's Little Miracle." I've been trying to figure out how I got to where I am today. My daddy was a preacher when I was growing up, and daddy taught speaking in tongues. And when I was 12 years old, I spoke in tongues. They say when you speak in tongues, the Holy Ghost comes into your body and out of your mouth. You have no control over it. Daddy was always the first to sense the Holy Ghost in the church house. We'd go thru one last hymn before the sermon:

Jesus it would please us
If you would come back real soon

etc.

And then daddy would give Brother Leighton the signal, and Bro. Leighton would continue playing the organ and a hush would fall on the congregation, and Brother Cannon would start moaning, "oooh... oooh..." like the Holy Ghost was trying to come out of his mouth but he was resisting it. And then somebody else would get the Holy Ghost in them, and they would start speaking in tongues, and everybody would be swaying, their hands up in the air, waiting for their turn, and maybe they would get their turn, and maybe they wouldn't.

And then after a while, Sis. Norma would start translating. They say that God was giving the translation to Sis. Norma because He was the only one who could understand it, and she could only understand Him because she'd taken a class in glossolalia at the community college - or at vocation school or something - a Vocational Bible School, and that's where she learned that "I am God's little miracle" thing. She was a glossolaliologist, and she would translate what the Holy Ghost had said through somebody, through somebody else.

I always used to wonder why, if only God could understand it, why did he turn around and tell somebody else how to translate it into English for us to hear? I mean, why didn't the Holy Ghost just say it in English in the first place? Well, maybe the Holy Ghost doesn't speak English. Or, or - they have this little thing between them, God and the Holy Ghost. I mean, who is the Holy Ghost? They never say. They say the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost. The Father is God, the Son is Jesus, but who is the Holy Ghost? They never say. Why? I think maybe the Holy Ghost is a female. Think about it. They say "the father" and they point to the brain, and they say "the son," and they point to the penis, and then they say "the Holy Ghost," they they point to the two titties. Why?

august 8th, sunday, 12:23 a.m. (2004)

I don't know what I'm doing here. I've never done anything like this before, and I'm thinking of a new career. I mean, I have done something like this, just not stand-up.

My name is JDJB. When I was little everybody called me Jaybird. And then, when I was in the eighth grade, kids started calling me Gaybird. So after that I insisted on being called J. But it never took. My Aunt S called me J the longest, but people started calling me Jay, and then it got back around to Jaybird again.

I was traumatized by being called Gaybird for many years. It's part of why I'm here now and why I look like this.

After my father died, I met TK face-to-face. He said he was sorry to me, about my father's death. If he wasn't such a babe jock I would've said, "Don't be sorry; you didn't do it." Which was kind of a smart-ass thing to say, but I also believed it was somewhat true, because I believed I was responsible for my daddy's death. Dum-dum-dummm!

TK was popular beyond comprehension, and his daddy was dead, too, and his momma worked with my momma at JCPenney's, and I'm sure his momma told TK to walk up to geeky little tuba-playing Gaybird and say "I'm sorry your dad is dead. Mine is too. Let's be friends." But all he managed was "Sorry about your dad." And when he talked to me, he looked into my eyes and I saw life. Life with a capital L. And when I was feeling down after that day that TK looked intomy my eyes and said "Sorry about your dad," I could feel TK's face in mine. Like it was right behind my face, and I could push it out, and I could see the world through TK's eyes. It's like I sucked in some of his DNA with my eyes.

In the next phase of my life, I'm going to look at where I came from and try to make a career out of sharing that with audiences. If you'd like to join me on this journey, I welcome you along. "I am God's Little Miracle."

august 6th, 11:45ish p.m. (2004)

God and the Holy Ghost spend too much time together. It's like when D would come over and stay with me for the whole weekend, by Sunday morning we weren't talking to each other anymore. Or if we did, we just got in little tiffs.

I think God and the Holy Ghost are like that. I mean, they've been around since before creation. I mean how long was that? An eternity before creation. (And they say that when we leave this life, we'll spend an eternity in heaven or hell. That's a long time. I don't know if I wanna believe in something like that.)

So I think God and the Holy Ghost get in these little tiffs. --Or maybe they have this one thing that they can't talk about. You know, like old married couples or gay couples who've been together more than three months. And God and the Holy Ghost have been together for an eternity already, so their one thing has built up and built up and built up over all that time and it created a big puss-filled boil called Earth - I don't know where that came from.

No, the Earth is like the baby old married couples have, or a dog or a cat the gay couples have. Earth was supposed to save their relationship. But they didn't think about all the work it was gonna be. There's a lot of managerial stuff they didn't take into consideration, like plagues and wars and hate.

And God so love the world that He (capital H) sent His (capital H) Son (capital S) into the {sic} not to condemn the world, but so that the world might be saved through Him (capital H). Does that mean the Holy Ghost didn't love the world? Didn't "so" love the world? I don't think so.

You know, when you think about a ghost, you think of a male, don't you? Casper the Friendly Ghost was like the Michael Jackson of the ghost world, but he was still a guy. Well, maybe. Maybe the Holy Ghost is a woman. Maybe she's like the wife of God. That would make more sense with the whole speaking in tongues thing. Who knows how long they dated before they got married, or if marriage is even legal up there. If you think about it, the Holy Ghost's initials are capital H, capital G, which could stand for Holy Ghost, but it could also stand for His (capital H) Girl (capital G).

They say the Father - which is God - and they point to the brain, and the Son - which is Jesus - and they point to his penis, and the Holy Ghost, and they point to the two titties. They never say who she is. God is the Father, Jesus is the Son, but who is the Holy Ghost? They never say.

But if you think about it, it makes sense. She is God's Girl, God's Wife (capital W), whatever you want to call Her (capital H). So it would makes sense that they would have tiffs, right? And their one really big thing is speaking in tongues.

When I was little, my daddy was a preacher, and he preached speaking in tongues. And when I was 12 years old, I spoke in tongues... So, when you speak in tongues, they say the Holy Ghost comes into your body and out your mouth. They say it's a language only God can understand. I think the Holy Ghost can understand it, too, but she's a victim of sex discrimination because they never say that.

And then somebody's always there to translate it. At our church, it was always Sister Norma with the bright red wig and the too much makeup. When the Holy Ghost came into the church, Daddy was the first to sense it - or Her (capital H). It usually happened before the sermon, after all the announcements and testifying and all that. We'd sing one more him {sic}

"Jesus it would please us
If you would come back real soon.
All the world has started singin'
That old dreadful Satan's doom tune.
Like a thief in the night, or as the clock is striking noon,
Oh, Jesus, it would please us
If you would come back real soon."

Sing along if you know it. (Repeat.)

And then Bro. Leighton would get the single {sic} from Daddy, Bro. RD, to keep playing, and everybody would stop singing because they knew that Daddy knew the Holy Ghost was with us. And Bro. Cannon would start moaning. Oooh... Ooooh... And I wondered if the Holy Ghost was trying to come out of his mouth, but Brother Cannon was resisting. Oooh... Oooh... And then somebody would break out into some glossalalia. And when they were done - or should I say when the Holy Ghost was done - a hush would fall over the congregation. And without ever having to be told, Brother Leighton would stop playing the organ, and Sister Norma would translate.

They always used to say that God would translate the Holy Ghost's message through somebody else in the vicinity. But they didn't always translate it. I think those were the times when God was pissed off at the Holy Ghost. He didn't pay any attention to what church she was going to, or even what town or what country for that matter. People say God didn't always translate becaue it wasn't always necessary for us to hear it, to understand what the Holy Ghost was saying. But I think maybe sometimes she may have been saying something like, "You created the heavens and the earth in seven days - no, make that six - and you can't finish the add-on to our house in all of eternity?" And He's like "Whatever."

In her defense, it seems to me God is a bit snippy, even bitchy sometimes. I mean, have you seen the billboards God has been buying around the country lately? (etc.)

Nobody translated when I spoke in tongues, but I don't think the Holy Ghost would use a 12-year old child to make nasty remarks to God. I think probably Sis. Norma couldn't understand me very well. It was my first time. I was probably doing it wrong, stuttering or something. Sis. Norma probably didn't learn how to translate in every situation at the school she went to to study glossalaliology. I think it was just a 9-week class at the junior college - or a vocational school. Vocational Bible School. Evenings and weekends. The church paid for it. And I guess the glossalaliology teachers always had the adult students stand up at the end of class - just like Sis. Norma had us childred do at Vacation Bible School every summer. All together: "I am God's little miracle."

july 27th, 1:10 p.m. (2004)

The weather has turned gorgeous. Probably in the 70s right now. I've been inside all morning, transcribing, and now I have to go to Co. to file.

Today is R's birthday. Tonight, the Clique is getting together at R's house for a party. A lot of controversy surrounding this gathering. This Clique is a bunch of egos and freaks. That's why they're a pain in the ass, and that's why I like them.

I cut my cigarette smoking down and almost out before R returned from his Wisconsin trip (18 days) but I smoked 4 yesterday, and I'm already smoking the first one of today. R has a way of making me feel small and yucky, whether he intends to or not.

T told L that T&W and I fooled around. L thought it was a big deal, T said he assumed I had told R; L mentioned it to R. I hadn't told him. He didn't think it was a big deal; T told me he told L an L told him I hadn't told R, like it was a big deal. Oh boy! I said something to R today and he said he didn't think it was "wise," that they're kind of predatory. Whatever that means. What does that mean? No straight answers from R, that's for sure. I have to ask S what he thinks it means, because if I ask T&W, it'll likely turn into something unnecessary. Jeez!

R doesn't think it's wise to have sex with people he knows, "but that's just my opinion." I said I'd rather have sex with people I know, "but that's just my opinion." I wanted to say I didn't think it's more wise to have sex with strangers, that that's how people get things they don't want, but that doesn't seem like a good thing to say, especially not to him - he who has so much shame about sex and HIV.

It's really, really hard to be compassionate and patient sometimes...

10:44 pm (2004)

Everything was going along pretty well. Well, on and off throughout my time there, I felt like I belonged there. But then I would suddenly feel like I was from another planet and would have to force myself into the situation, or a situation again. I got in the pool one of those times just after dark, naked. Three or four other people followed me in, naked. Others came and went in their swimsuits. J was in their {sic}, and K the cabinet maker. Cutie! Earlier I'd been dancing with/near G. We danced together for a while. I tried to coerce him and his big feet into the pool. Then K got out, stayed naked, and they started dancing. J got out, I got out. We dressed. I felt anxious about how long Jesse had been at home unchaperoned. And I was feeling a wave of people not seeing me again, and I couldn't get comfortable with it, and I left, and I came home, and Jesse hadn't done any chewing or peeing, which was good, and we went in the back yard, and I called S to tell him I felt bummed out, and his voice mail picked up (of course - festival), and when I hung up Jesse brought me a baby bird she had just killed. It was still warm. I wanted to cry, but I was too angry. I put her in the house and buried the bird in the alley best I could (lest she dig it up in the yard), and came out to the front porch for a beer and a smoke and corn chips with no salsa because I gave too much of it to C&L, and maybe some TV later and some buttermilk pineapple sherbet. I have to forgive Jessee, and I will, but I need another minute.

july 14th, 7:15-ish (2004)

It's Bastille Day. Once, when I lived in New York, I happened in on Restaurant Florent on Bastille Day, but that's the only time I've ever celebrated or been much aware of the holiday. The faerie community here goes to Joss-uh-leen's for a big to-do. Since I'm part of the faerie community now, I'm gonna go.

But first, I'm having a beer and collecting my thoughts (in my big little journal). My attempts to find a lover have fallen through twice so far. I guess I could take on T&W, but I don't know, they're friends and it's fun messing around with them now and again. I was there last night when the storm came and the power went out. They were about to make supper; I had just dropped off their leatherwear I'd borrowed for last Friday night and a 1/4 of a chocolate cake I made (with fudge icing; the same recipe I made for L's birthday; I had buttermilk and condensed canned milk left over). We got stoned, drunk, watched the Family Guy on DVD in their computer and T and I messed around a little. W fell asleep, snoring, got up and went to bed and I came home. I'd had a beer before I went over there and two huge vodka tonics there and I was swaying when I got home. I took the trash out into the alley naked and thought I was gonna get arrested and then put in an insane asylum! I've been trying to quit smoking cigarettes. I only had one the night before last, but chain-smoked two last night. I wouldn't mind being a casual, once-in-a-while smoker if I could, like I used to be. But I don't know if that's possible anymore. It's really the only obsession I've got anymore, since I've given up my sex addiction.

I've been running into S at the dog park. He's got two Shelties, and I dig his mouth; it's his sexiest feature - though he's pretty sexy all over. We kinda flirt with each other, and I left a note on his car tonight with my number telling him to call me when he goes to the park and I'll meet him there... Time to eat cake (I hope).

july 13th, 7:58 a.m. (2004)

I've started telling people that I'm planning on signing up for the August open mic at Zanie's. I have an alarm set on my cell phone to call on the appropriate day at the appropriate time. With S's help I realized that my strong comic subject matter is my religious background. This is what I'm working with right now:

I am God's little miracle. They made us say that in VBS. Every day for two weeks, before we could make the burned match crosses or the other crafts. All together.

I think we're all trying to figure out what in life got us to where we are now. What screwed us up? What in the world went wrong to make us turn out the way we have? For me, I think it was religion.

My momma married my daddy when she was 17 years old to get out of a repressive religious household. She didn't fall in love with my daddy, he was just a ticket out of her personal hell. Her daddy didn't allow playing cards in the house. They were of the devil. No dancing, except when in church, when the Holy Ghost insights {sic} you to dance. My momma's brother had to sneak a spaghetti strap dress out of the house for her to wear to her high school prom. Apparently, her shoulders were of the devil, too. My daddy sure thought so. He'd never seen shoulders like those. All he had was brothers back in his podunk little hometown. He was mesmerized. My momma saw she had a spell on him and asked him to marry her, and the country boy had won the city girl prize, devilsh shoulders and all.

Shortly after the honeymoon momma was pregnant and daddy got the callin', you know, the calling from the Lord to be a preacher. My momma's momma - my Nana - heard it loud and clear. She put the bug in daddy's ear that that was his destiny; that's what would make that country boy good.

Nothing would make good of her own boy, the brother who'd snuck out of the house in his sister's spaghetti strap dress so she could wear it to her prom. That's my uncle Joe. He's two years older than my momma and by the time he turned 21, he was wearing women's clothes all the time. He never wanted to be a woman, mind you, he just liked the clothes.

He gave me this dress. This is my Lucky Green Dress. It was Uncle Joe's lucky green dress before he gave it to me. But that's a different story. I'm talknig about what screwed me up... Back to religion.

When I was 12 years old, I spoke in tongues. This was before I had the Lucky Green Dress. Nana says luck has nothing to do with it. They say the Holy Ghost comes into your body through your soul and out your mouth in a language only God can understand. At our church, there's always somebody ready to translate the words of the Holy Ghost into the words we can understand. They say God Himself just gives the translation. My question was always why the middle man - or middle woman, since it's usually Norma with the bright red wig and way too much makeup doing the translating - or should I say receiving the translation? I mean, if God wanted to say something, why couldn't he just say it in a language we could understand from the start? Why the special language? Why so secretive?

When I was younger I used to ponder the mysteries of the heavens and the earth, and I decided that God and the Holy Ghost were not on speaking terms. God would be like, "Say it in English." And the Holy Ghost would be like, "No. I have to use my special language." And God is like, "But they won't understand and I'll have to translate it for them." And the Holy Ghost is like, "You aren't the boss of me!"

No telling how long they've been having this little tiff, I mean, since they've been around since the Creation of everything. As long as I've known about them, at least.

--

Have you seen those billboards God is putting up recently? And when I say recently, it could've been any time in the last 1000 years, since God's been around forever. It's relative. Anyway, he seems to have an attitude problem if you ask me. His billboards say "What part of Thou shalt not did you not understand?" and "Read my book, there will be a test."

And they're so low tech. I mean, God created the heavens and the earth in three dimensions and he puts out billboards with white letters on a black background??? If he really wanted to impress us - or scare us into being good - I think he should've created billboards that we've never seen before, out of materials that never existed before because he just created them. Four or five dimension billboards that say "You --> I'm talking to you! I want you to meet my Son. He loves you." And I'd be like, "All right. I'm in a relationship right now, but it's an open relationship. I can meet him for a beer on, what, Sunday? No? Wine on Sunday? Okay, but I don't want any of that watered down shit."

july 7th, 10:58 pm (2004)

I know how to tell I'm crazy. Because I just started smoking cigarettes. Only a crazy person would start smoking now, after all we know. I was thinking about addiction tonight, sitting on the front porch, smoking a cigarette. It's like I've traded one addiction for another. I've pretty much given up sex. I haven't given up thinking about it, or taking care of it once in a while. But I used to be a real sex addict. I don't even wanna go into that; I might could be arrested for that.

I have to change subjects here for a minute. I'm lying on the bed covers, naked as I sleep, writing in this book. I just heard a distant knocking sound and a muffled voice. At least I believe that's what I heard. And I thought of a segment for my "Neighborhood Association" book or whatever it is to become (play, etc.). The two ladies who live next door say they're sisters. Not that I don't believe what I've heard tell (R was the one who told me that). But what if they were actually closeted lovers? One of them might be in the upstairs attic room spying on me, naked butt exposed, perhaps even masturbating - or at least touching herself. And the other one caught her and yanked her back and threw her anger out the window at me for being here, banging on the window and hollering something at me like "You should be ashamed of yourself!" But was she really saying it to me? Or to her sister/lover. Maybe it's a requieted love the older one feels for the younger one. Perhaps they're second cousins and they both nursed ailing parents until they were way past marrying age, and they ended up together. Do they even have an intimate relationship besides the bland chatter during commercials of "Wheel of Fortune" and "Jeopardy" while eating their plates of food in their matching hand-me-down La-Z-Boy chairs? Ah, yes, they never fail to touch the other kindly if they pass within comfortably reachable range. Sometimes they sleep in the same bed if there's a storm or a movie on TV at the foot of the bed. The younger one is 61 and has been on disability for several years. The older one is 64 and not sure if she wants to (or can) retire in a year's time. Partly because she's not sure how she can spend every day with someone whom she loves but cannot share the news with. (What kind of sentence was that?)

je voudrais m'asseoir sur votre chat

Four days from right now, I'll be stumbling around the City of Lights trying to stay awake until I can check into my B&B and take a shower - 19:00 or 20:00, according to the company who hosts the B&B where I'll be staying. And because they lady who owns the apartment in which I'll be sleeping does not speak English, I have come up with a few (20, actually) lines that might come in handy during my interactions with her. Here they are.

Hello, my name is JDJB.
Bonjour, mon nom est JDJB.

It is nice to meet you.
Il est agréable de vous recontrer.

The breakfast is delicious.
Le petit déjeuner est délicieux.

Thank you very much.
Merci bien. / Merci beaucoup.

I do not speak French. I'm sorry.
Je ne parle pas Français. Je suis désolé.

Where is the bathroom?
Où se trouvent le toilette?

May I have an extra towel?
Mai j'ai une serviette de bain?

May I have another pillow?
Mai j'ai un autre oreiller?

Where do you keep the blankets?
Où peut-on stocker les couvertures?

May I open the window?
Puis-je ouvrir la fenètre?

May I make a local telephone call?
Main-je faire un appel téléphonique?

I am from the United States, Texas.
Je suis des États-Unis, au Texas.

I do not like George Bush.
Je n'aime pas George Bush.

I like President Obama very much.
J'aime beaucoup le Président Obama.

Is there a grocery store nearby?
Existe-t-il une éepicerie à proximité?

Can you write the address down for me?
Pouvez-vous écrire l'adresse pour moi?

I may arrive late; I don't want to disturb you.
I arriver fin mai; je ne veux pas vous déranger.

Thank you for your hospitality.
Je vous remercie de votre hospitalité.

I'm sorry, I don't understand.
Je suis desolé, je ne comprends pas.

I am here with friend for a memorial.
Je suis ici avec des amis pour un mémorial.

If there are any French/English speakers out there who read over this list, please let me know if I've made a mistake and would be saying something embarrassing, immoral, or illegal. Thank you!

9:50 pm (2004)

S and I had a full day. It ended with the crash/boom of fireworks all around us. We could only here {sic} the big official fireworks over the Cumberland River, but our "fearless" (as S called them) redneck neighbors across the street gave us a week's salary worth of fireworks that S watched from the front porch and I watched with Jesse in the back yard. She wasn't fazed much at all by the noise or the spraying green, red and gold lights filling the neighborhood sky. She noticed them, seemed curious, but not afraid. I'm glad she's not afraid of fireworks. She spent most of her time catching and eating fireflies. It was her own sort of independence day celebration.

I have an idea for a series of stories called "Neighborhood Association," modeled after people I know, have met, or merely see around the neighborhood, this neighborhood. The stories, vaguely associate them with each other, if only by their own thoughts about their neighbors. I like that East Nashville has a list serv and seems very connected civicly (civically?) - in a very civic way.

2:57 p.m (2004)

"Good Today, Better Tomorrow Cafe"

july 4th, 1:19 am (2004)

There's a record player in my head. It plays all the time. When I told my shrink this, he took his foot off his desk and leaned forward. Before this we were just talking about where I'm from and who I'm from. It's always been there, always been playing.

almost midnight (2004)

I had to call S to tell him I just came up with the greatest name for our "act":

This Mother's Brothers

I'm glad he answered.

C called @ 9:30 to invite me over for carrot cake @ 10:30, and I just got back. L and I "burned one." I told him I was only up for "burning half of one," and as it turned out we ended up burning about three-quarters of one, and then he finished it. I'm on the porch now, smoking another cigarette, and then I'm gonna eat some chips and salsa and finish my Sierra Mist.

The redneck (but nice...) neighbors across the street just came outside - daddy (hot...) and three teen and or pre-teen kids - out into the street and burned a silent, sparkling, glowing firework. The kids all took turns hopping over the glow and sparks, laughing (and one of them sang "For he's a jolly good--" but thought better of it and stopped there). From here, it looked like nothing more than a welder's glow; it hurt my eyes to look at it.

I just spilled a glob of salsa in the bowl of crumbs. Now I'll have to eat them all!

je ne parle pas français

I've been kind of feeling sorry for myself about France. I bought a French phrase book and dictionary, but haven't done a whole lot of work with it, and I've been feeling like I can't afford this trip because of my pay cut at work.

But I have to remember the reason for the trip. It is to honor the life of my friend who died a year ago. J had leukemia and was blind and I helped out at his and his wife's house and (more) at the hospital while he got a bone marrow transplant. I became very close to him and his wife and his father and brother and other family members, so when his wife brought up the fact that they would be going to Paris (his favorite city) to celebrate his life on the year anniversary of his death, I said, "I want to go," and she said, "Anybody is welcome to go!" So I went home and bought a ticket. That was six months ago or so when the financial world (mine at least) was a lot less uncertain.

So, ahhh, I take a deep breath and think about what a wonderful trip this will be. My friend died on March 24th, so there will be rituals and celebrations the day before, the day of, and the day after.

On March 23rd, all those assembled in Paris will go to one of his favorite restaurants (he loved Paris, visited several times with his family growing up, spent some time teaching there in his adult life, went with his wife on several occasions); those who knew him better than I did will give remembrances of his times in Paris. I'm sure there will be funny stories, because he was a very funny man, as well as sweet ones; there will probably be tears.

On the 24th, we will have a full day of celebrations and remembrances, in the Old Jewish Quarter, the Seine where A will sprinkle some of his and his guide dog Dillon's ashes, then to that famous cemetery where the bodies of Jim Morrison, Oscar Wilde and others lie. Later, we'll have a less formal dinner at another place he loved, and finish out the night possibly at a jazz club; J loved jazz and I think because of him I've gotten a real taste for it myself. (I'm hoping some day to borrow some of his CDs and copy them onto my iPhone.)

The 25th, the day after the anniversary, is about the future. A friend who lives in Paris has chosen (or is choosing) a restaurant and perhaps other sites to visit that J never went to but would have liked. Maybe he even mentioned wanting to go to these places at some point.

I leave Austin on Friday, arrive on Saturday the 21st, so I'll have time to acclimate to the time change before the celebrations begin. And I'll be there until the 29th, so I'll have a few days after to explore Paris on my own. But I will happily tag along with J's brother and sister-in-law while they are in town because they are both fluent in French, and I hardly even know how to say "I can't speak French" in French!

I was a little panicked recently when the company who booked me into the bed and breakfast I'm staying at told me I should get in touch with the woman who owns the apartment where I'll be staying (in the guest room). But she doesn't speak English. When my panic was apparent, the woman at the company told me that she would be happy to contact Mme. Rey on my behalf. Je vais compter sur la bonté des étrangers.

july 3rd, 8 pm (2004)

I'm sitting in the backyard watching the laundry dry and smoking another cigarette. I was gonna quit when R left town, but I'd had two that day already when I remembered, so I said what the hell. I have two left after this one; we'll see where I stand after those.

I was wanting this journal to be a writing journal, to help me work on my writings, my novel, my stand-up, whatever. And I guess it's not too late for that. I'm on page 3 and there are about a million pages in this journal, so there's still time. Yesterday while I was cleaning the one house I clean on Russell Street I kept coming up with funny things and paused in my work to write them down. What I don't want is to have stuff written on loose pieces of paper all over the place.

The last two days have been crazy busy. Right now I can't wait to take a shower. I can't decide if I want to go out - perhaps to the drag show at the Chute, or maybe for a drink at the Gas Chamber (since the drag show starts so late and I have to be at church in the morning at 8:30) - or if I just want to stay in and watch TV. Or maybe write. I was heading out this morning with a bad sinus headache to walk Jesse to Bongo East, but realized in the front yard that I had to go pick up the Bugtussle produce, so we went there, then I dropped S's share off with him and the three of us went to Bongo Java on the West Side and had coffee and muffins. Then Jesse and I came home - stopping at the Turnip Truck for laundry detergent, carrots to juice and half and half - and washed load after load of laundry. R likes to do laundry after dark, to save the planet's water reserves, but I have a hard time coordinating that sometimes. In between loads I washed vegetables, cleaned out the refrigerator, made banana raisin bread, blanched squash, green beans and greens and froze them, mowed the front lawn, divvied up the lasagna G gave S and me after the concert last night, and froze the individual sized servings, and took Jesse to the dog park.

G2 never called, so I guess he's not interested in hanging out (or whatever) with me. Oh, well.

Friday was equally hectic. I thought I was gonna work at Co. in the afternoon, after I cleaned house, but had fogotten S's and my plan to rehearse before the house concert at the GS's. The concert went really well; I do love singing with S, and I'm gonna miss him terribly when he moves to California (in August or September).

R called at some point during the day Friday, but I missed the call. I don't miss him as desparately as I did the last time he left me here and went on the road. Our relationship has settled quite a bit since then, or I have, and he left me with Jesse this time, so I have a lot more responsibilities this time, I guess. I felt like a fucking housewife today, and I feel for those women (and men) who always have to do the job I've done the last couple of days.

Oh, yeah, I also picked beans out of the garden today, and I made some awesome salsa...

Okay, the light is almost gone; my eyes are straining. I'm gonna pull in the laundry, make the bed, fold and hang the things that need to be folded or hung, and decide what's next - after a hot shower.

july 1st, 2004 (july 2nd, 12:05 am)

My journaling is a bit too personal and intense to share lately. I was thinking that maybe in a year or so I'll share what I'm writing. And then I just got a hankering to pull out an old journal and start sharing that as blog entries. This one chronicles a particularly difficult time in my life, in the throes of a depression I wasn't even aware of in the beginning. It gets pretty intense, if I recall correctly, but there's a lot of creative outlet, too...

--

It seems a good time to start a journal. Change is always a good reason. The man I love so dearly left today for 18 days or so. Maybe not quite that long. We'll see; he's not one to wallow in specifics. I don't know why I love him so much. He certainly doesn't treat me as good as he should. He himself has said that on a number of occasions. But there's a lot to love about my man. His loyalty to those he cares about is at the top of that list. I know he cares about me; I know he loves me. He has taught me a lot in our relatively short time together. I have learned that I am loyal to him as well. He isn't big on sex. Of course it's a hard notion to shake that it's not because of me. When I ask he tells me he does find me sexy, but more often than not, his actions don't speak as loud as his words. And so I've decided I need to find someone to fulfill that physical need in me. I called someone just today. I met him on a recent trip rafting down the Chittooga River. I didn't have any interest in him at all at first, but then on the long ride home he fondled my foot, or my foot fondled him, or a little bit of both, I'm not quite sure. He was first on the list. (There are other candidates.) I called and he seemed interested at least in hanging out with me. He said he'll call. And if he does, I'll take it that he is interested. If not, I'll move on down the list.

Well, I'm falling asleep amongst the pages of my new journal, so I guess I'd better call a night a night.

t-minus two weeks

Two weeks from right now I'll be on a plane to Dallas, and from there to Paris. I woke up at 4 a.m. this morning and starting thinking about how little preparation I've done and turned over a new leaf, making lists of things to get ahead of time, things to do day of, and things to remember before, during, and after the flight (mostly stuff to help me combat jet lag). I listened to the mp3 recordings of French phrases I downloaded onto my iPhone weeks ago and never got through all the way. For the next couple of weeks I plan to spend idle moments (while making food, washing dishes, doing laundry) going over the phrases. This became suddenly important today because I found out that the woman who owns the B&B (with a room for one guest at a time) does not speak English. I'm supposed to get in touch with Mrs. Rey two or three days before my arrival. Bon jour, je m'appelle JDJB...

PARIS

• ear plugs
• blindfold
• wool socks
• melatonin
• snacks
• Swann's Way
• valerian tea
• neck pillow

FIGHT JET LAG

• high carb lunch
• drink lots of water
• set watch to destination time
• remove shoes; get feet up
• go to sleep immediately
• eat lightly, if at all
• use earplugs, blindfold, blanket, neck rest
• set a/c to high
• don't use sleeping pills (Tylenol PM okay)
• exercise and stretch

Upon arrival:

• 15 min. bright daylight
• early morning/late afternoon exercise
• protein-rich breakfast