just shoot me

Wednesday nights are the improv jam, or the "shootaround," as it's called sometimes. I don't know where that term comes from, but people talk about it like it's famously familiar, so I go along with it.

I went first to see Neal Medlyn at the Blue Theater in the Fusebox 2009 Festival doing a show based on Beyonce's live album from 2007 (I believe it was). I wouldn't have gone (not a Beyonce fan, believe it or not), except M bought me a ticket. I took her with me last year when Neal did a show based on Lionel Richie's most famous album; M had seen the concert that accompanied that album, so it was great fun for her, and even though I was never that big a fan of LR's (bigger than Beyonce, though, of course), it was a much better show because there was so much more to it; there was a storyline woven into the songs and great stage props - I will never forget him giving head to a unicorn until it ejaculated! There was nothing like that last night, just lots of spandex outfits and a couple of backup dancers (who were pretty phenomenal, by the way). The first time I saw Neal Medlyn was the year before last. He's a performance artist, and I went to get inspiration for the title character in my novel, august chagrin (himself a performance artist).

ANYway... I walked into the improv theater and was pushed onto the stage in the middle of a scene that was already happening. This is a funny idea/rule #1 of 2 they have at the jams, if you show up late, you have to go onstage immediately (rule #2 is if you have to leave early, you have exit via some sort of action onstage). Three of the guys from my level one class at one of the other improv theaters in town - the one which fired C&T who run this one - were at the jam; one of them ushered me onstage, yelling, "Push him! Push him!" Apparently, I was a girl, because when I finally got around to pushing the other character onstage, other characters laughed and said, "Beat up by a girl!"

That was okay, but the jam seemed to devolve into discomfort for me, and that's what I'm trying to figure out here. Two characters were about to hug - they were being played by two men, but I'm not sure they were playing men - when an older guy (older than me) jumped onstage and said, in some weird character choice, "We're banning all homosexual content from the rest of the night." It was a really odd choice, breaking many of the "rules of regular improv play." I know that many of my friends, upon hearing this complaint, would assume that my problem was with the anti-gayness of the moment, and that might have been a part of it, but more so it was a feeling of ABSOLUTELY NO CHEMISTRY with these people. I was onstage with C a couple of times, and the scenes felt difficult; I took my first level one class from him and didn't think he was a very good teacher (for me) and the lack of connection I have for him seems to continue onstage. I also feel a bit clunky when I'm onstage with T, but I think that is a feeling of intimidation because I have so much respect for her as a teacher and a performer. (C is a very good performer, too, and when C&T play together, it is awe-inspiring.)

So I had to force myself onstage every time I went. Once in a while, I got a laugh. But mostly I felt like spiderwebby wheels were slowly turning in my head. I think that had something to do with the fact that there were five or six people whom I'd never met sitting in the room (players are "supposed" to remain standing) who would jump in with odd choices, like the homosexual ban idea.

In moments like that I think to myself I could never actually do this in front of an audience, this improv thing. Sometimes the laughs I caused (or helped cause) made me feel like the eighth grader who got laughed at and called names. When I'm playing with CG (HOTNE$$ IN A PO$E), on the other hand, it is joyful for everyone. But she wasn't there last night. I'm not saying I quit, I'm just saying this is an interesting feeling that I want to note; this awkwardness is a big reason I'm doing improv. Getting over it is the goal.

thursday, september 16th, 10:08 a.m. (2004)

Even though I really can't afford it, I bought tickets for a weekend at the Nat'l. Storyteller Festival in Jonesborough. When I mentioned I'd like to go, Dr. C said he thought it sounded like the best idea he'd heard in a while.

shit or get off the pot

Two nights ago, I had a big cup of Smooth Move tea in the late evening as I was working on the novel. I wasn't particularly constipated, but had been feeling a bit bloated for a few days, hadn't felt like I was completely evacuating, and felt hungry all the time, hungry for junk food, cookies, potato chips, etc. I figured I would have a nice big BM the next morning and feel all better. But I didn't. I had soft stools all day long, but nothing that felt complete.

Last night, I made my way to the nearby coffee shop to work on chapter 31, having just read the first seven pages of it to S and having gotten some things to work on. I really wanted a cookie, but they only had two oatmeal cookies left, so I had a beer instead. Oh, and I had a cigarette. I had a cigarette there last Saturday when I went to work on the novel, and for some reason my creative mind responds well to that drug, so I did it again. Again, I was rewarded.

I was there for a couple of hours, churning away at the chapter, feeling good about what was happening with it. Then the woman at the table next to me had a piece of pecan pie. It looked so good... And, I knew that she had the last piece from the previous pie and there was now a whole, fresher pie on the baked goods shelf. So I went for it.

And I couldn't have a piece of pecan pie without coffee. So I got a small cup and pumped it full of decaf.

It was getting close to closing time, the students were shutting their laptops and leaving me in a bigger and bigger space. I was right at the end of the section I was working on, the last paragraph in fact, and really wanted to get it down while I was flowing from the caffeine, nicotine and sugar. But then there was a rumble in my stomach. Like a hunger rumble, but quite the opposite. I hated to take a shit in the bathroom at the end of the night, fearing that the nice woman behind the counter would need to get in there as part of her closing process. And shitting in public carries a certain amount of embarrassment with it.

I gathered up my notebooks, my water bottle and my dirty dishes, deposited the dishes in the bus tub up front then passed the restroom, twisted the knob, but it was locked, so I headed out the front door, to the truck to roll another cigarette. The rumbling had subsided; I decided I could hold it until I got home, until I finished that paragraph with the aid of one more cigarette.

No sooner had I lit the cigarette, opened the notebook and clicked the pen than the rumbling came again, and this time it was accompanied by a dropping feeling, as if my clenched intestines had just relaxed, top to bottom, and everything was at the bottom of my torso. I broke a slight sweat as I worked my sphincter muscle to keep myself from shitting in my pants. I gathered up my stuff and walked to the truck, humming a pained song to myself, telling myself that I wouldn't shit my pants, people don't really shit their pants, adults don't shit there pants.

But then I remembered this from Margaret Cho's "Revolution" concert:



But I didn't shit my pants. I was able to keep my ass clenched until I got home, though I did strengthen my stomach muscles. Fortunately no one was awake when I got home so I didn't have to make nice or even say anything; I went right to the bathroom and was there for a good 15 minutes shitting and shitting and shitting.

And then, for the rest of the night, my stomach made weird sounds, like distant thunder. I slept in two- and three-hour increments, and every time I woke up - to pee - the sounds were still going on. And I never got that last paragraph written, but I'm gonna work on it now.

distraction

How can I feel so content and so sad at the same time? That's not a rhetorical question; and I don't really want an answer.

I skipped yoga on Sunday, which hasn't become a regular day for me anyway, and then at the last minute yesterday - as I was getting dressed for it - skipped my regular Monday class, too. My knees hurt because of all of this rain. But I like this feeling, this humidity; it's not hot so the humidity doesn't bother me, it feels rich, I like the smells it activates.

R disappeared from Facebook and I got a little panicky. I had gone to Flightpath Coffeehouse to work on chapter 31 last week and suddenly got an urge to contact him, and thought I would do so on Facebook via my iPhone. He had contacted me a couple of weeks earlier, shortly after (I later discovered) he and his boyfriend had split up and his boyfriend had moved away. He called, but it was a short phone call; he said he had to meet someone and would call back. But then a couple days later he emailed to apologize for getting in touch and then disappearing again, saying simply "I've been unable to communicate..." Forgetting that the sentence actually went "I've been unable to communicate with anyone," my thought at the Flightpath was to ask "Is it just me or are you hiding from everybody?"

But he wasn't listed in my Facebook friends list. I was done writing for the day - that's why I let the distraction take me away - but it quickly turned to anxiety. Again my thought was "Is it just me or everybody." I packed up my notebook and bicycled home. I was somewhat relieved to discover that he had committed Facebook suicide, as it's called, having deleted his profile completely.

I guess I'm not over R. I don't guess I ever will be completely. The fact that he's moving from Tampa to Seattle makes me wonder what he's going there for. Or whom. Surely he's not already "with" someone. It probably has to do with his disdain for Tampa (yeah, I can imagine that).

The fact that S recently had sex with a man half his age who reminded him of R and then blogged that it was possible (not likely) that he could have a "whopping midlife crisis," fall in love and follow the man to California didn't help matters. Things don't feel so permanent here anymore.

I have a sneaking suspicion in the back of my head that the reason I haven't been able to find anyone to be interested in is because I'm still harboring hopes that R and I will be together again. I can picture a happy reunion sooner or later - even late in life. S has his doubts that such a thing would work out. I wish I could get it through my skull that such a thing could never work, but there is for some reason this feeling that R will always and forever be The One.

Not that S isn't important to me, but S is more like family, like a brother, my best friend. Our relationship is less defined in terms of our hearts; it's more of a soul connection, not physical. My love for S is stronger than it has ever been for anybody in my family, but it wouldn't (and hasn't been) changed by living across the hall or across the country from him.

I sent R an email, told him I felt a little pang of fear that he would disappear out of my life, that I felt like he was part of my family, a part that I never wanted to become estranged from. He responded a couple of days later with mutual feelings, said that I'm a big part of his family, too, "probably more than you know."

Was that just a statement to comfort me? It was comforting. It also made me want to write back and say, "Well, in that case, I'll meet you halfway there." But really, I'd much prefer it if he suddenly decided to come here where I've got a pretty good life going for myself, with the kind of weather I like, a performance community I'm beginning to feel comfortable in, and where I can afford to live and write.

Maybe that's the real reason I ain't got nobody...

...is happy to be alive.

That's how I updated my Facebook status this morning, and I got several thumbs-ups and a "Nice" comment from friends. But I was serious. In the sense that it quite possibly could have been the other way around. Not just "unhappy" to be alive, but rather... not alive.

Last night, I went to see Kat Edmonson at the Elephant Room. I heard her on the radio a week ago or so, and her voice reminded me so much of a singer friend of mine that I couldn't get her out of my head, kept Googling her, listening to songs, watching videos, etc, and noticed that she was playing the Elephant Room last night. I've always wanted to go to the Elephant Room.

I was supposed to go see my friend G do a dance performance in a park somewhere yesterday evening at 6:30, but I got out of improv class a little late, had to ride my bike home, needed a shower by the time I got here, and it was after 7:00 by the time I got done with that, so I blew it off. I was planning on meeting up at G's performance with D, a friend of G's with whom I've become pretty good friends, so we texted back and forth a couple of times through the day and decided to go see Kat together.

I got to his house at 9:30, picking up a bottle of red wine he requested on the way. He was sitting at the dining room table with two women friends from his college days in San Marcos, M and the other woman's name escapes me. We hung out for about an hour, D and M drinking the bottle of wine - their second of the night. I had a few sips from the glass he poured me, because I don't really drink red wine, because I figured I would have a beer at the club, and because I had taken a hit of weed before I left the house.

D and M dated about six years ago when they were in school. She recently contacted him and they've been "hanging out." She had planned to head back to San Antonio (where she lives) last night but both of her friends suggested that maybe she shouldn't drive back (in her condition, I assumed).

The woman I didn't know headed home, D went to change, M and I talked briefly, then she disappeared and decided to go with us. While she changed clothes, D came back out and asked if I minded; of course, I didn't. Unrelated to that exchange, he left the room then came back and put his arms around me from behind and said, "I know we don't know each other very well, but I know I love you." Maybe he was loosened up from the wine he'd been drinking, but it felt sincere. I told him it was nice to hear it, and that was about it of the exchange.

I had thought about asking D to drive because he drives his dad's comfy car, but since there were three of us, it didn't even come up, because my truck doesn't seat three very comfortably. D also has cool electronic music, so we were able to enjoy his jams on his dad's fancy sound system. It was nice; I was buzzed, feeling good, and looking forward to some good jazz singing and playing.

We had to wait a little while because Kat is from Austin and the Elephant Room was packed. When we got in, we had to stand in an aisle. D went to the bathroom and M moved to a spot next to the bar; I stayed where I was. Besides sounding vaguely like my friend when singing a pop song, Kat has a voice like Billie Holliday or somebody like that when she sings standards (or turned-standards, like The Police's "Tea in the Sahara" for example). She was singing in front of a tight quintet led by a piano player, anchored by drums and upright bass, and acceoompanied by trombone and trumpet, with a special guest saxophonist.

M and D were talking some, and talking to a couple sitting on barstools behind them a bit, but I ignored them. I was far enough away from them to do so, rocking in my shoes, eyes half shut, grooving. We were there till the end, we stayed through two breaks. During the first break, several audience members left. I saw some seats next to the stage and told D; he said, "Let's go!" but by the time I got there, there were only two seats left, and they didn't follow me all the way, turned and went back to their place at the bar. I couldn't stand forever, my knees were already starting to hurt, so I sat and enjoyed the second set from there.

During the next break, we were able to get in a better position, a table with three seats close to the front. We sat and talked, and that's when I pissed M off. She and D had been talking when we first got there and the couple on the barstools said, "We can hear you over the music, can you please be quiet?" (Or maybe they said "shut up," as I heard the story.) M got pissy; D got cocky. M's point (to me) was that she has to do what other people tell her to do all week long, the weekend is hers, she doesn't want to be told what to do during her weekend. The guy asked them to move if they wanted to talk, and D said, "If you have a problem with us talking, you should move." I was glad I wasn't present. (D doesn't strike me as being this kind of a guy, so I am led to believe it had something to do with being with a woman he was having sex with...)

M made her point for a while, and obviously wanted me to concur, but I just couldn't. I said that I probably would have asked them to be quiet, too. She said it would be different if she were at the symphony and there were signs around that said "No Talking." I told her that there aren't signs at the symphony, that it is just kind of understood that there is no talking in a performance of any kind. She pressed her point some more but I just couldn't bring myself to agree with her - at one point I offered, "The best way to keep people from telling you what to do is to be quiet!" I was trying to be light, but it was the breaking point for her. She went back to her place at the bar. And of course D went too. I spent most of the next set happily alone with my beer.

D spent some of his time trying to get M to come and sit with "us" at the table but she refused; I wasn't being supportive of her and was just as bad as the people who were trying to tell her what to do. I don't know how much D and M drank, but I saw her with a martini glass in front of her a couple of times, and he had pints of his beer in front of him. At the end of the night, I sampled her beer because she insisted (it was a different kind than what D and I were drinking), and because I was trying to make nice with her.

After the show ended, D went to the bathroom and sort of asked us to "talk." I made an attempt. M started in on her same story so I just dutifully shook my head and didn't respond too much otherwise.

It was suddenly 2:00 a.m. I know I had listened to a lot of great music, but didn't realize we'd been there three hours. We headed home. M sat in the front seat (I had sat up there on the way to the show, but took the back seat before she got to the car to show some sort of "respect"). It was misting out, D was driving a bit aggressively, or "cool" is probably a better description; it didn't strike me that he was driving drunk, just kind of like he normally does. We got on MoPac - which has a 70 mph speed limit. A car in the fast lane wasn't going quite that; D got close to the bumper, the car changed lanes, and D hit the gas and we flew down the wet road.

I thought of that billboard that insists on passengers speaking up against aggressive drivers. But that billboard annoys me. If you're in a car with an aggressive driver, particularly a drunk one, making a stink about the way they're driving seems to be a good way to cause a problem. I remained quiet. I knew D had had more to drink than me, but I don't drink very much; people have different saturation levels.

We exited MoPac at a higher speed than I thought was necessary. I braced myself and sunk my mind into the loud techno music playing. At the end of the exit ramp, D hung a right, fishtailed over-corrected - just like they say you do - and we spun around 270° so that we were facing the wrong direction on the two lanes we were in, at the same time continuing a sideways slide across the lanes into the oncoming traffic, had there been any, hitting the curbed median first with the back tire. In my mind, the sound brought the image of the tire and wheel being forced sideways under the car.

There was no oncoming traffic. There was no traffic at all, fortunately. It would have been a horrible mess had there been. I also thought later that there could easily have been a bicyclist on the road, or a pedestrian, even a dog or raccoon would have been a horrible addition to the scene. All of these thoughts keep flashing in my mind, and I am only left with gratitude for life.

After a brief moment of silence (D turned off the music), he apologized then drove back over the median, turned us in the proper direction and continued on at the speed limit, a raucous sound coming from the back tire. M leaned farther out her window than I thought was wise, to see where the racket was coming from. I tried to unclench my fists and jaw.

When D slowed, the noise got worse. We had a number of turns to get into the subdivision where his house is; he seemed determined to not slow down at any of them, then he said, "God! It's like the car doesn't even want to stop!" I was very, very sober, all the while trying to figure out if I would remember how to get back to my truck on foot, because if we stalled out or for any reason didn't make it all the way there in D's dad's comfy car, that was what I planned on doing.

As we pulled along the curb across the street from his address, there was the sound of glass shattering, like I imagine a champagne bottle hitting the bow of a ship might sound. But it wasn't glass. It was metal, two rounded pieces about a half-inch thick, one piece about six inches long, the other about three. It was the shattered rear brake rotor falling to the pavement when we stopped. I picked a piece up but could only hold it for a few seconds because it was very hot.

D was mumbling to himself saying "normalized" things like, "I guess I'll be making a trip to the brake store soon." I hugged him goodnight; we searched M out to say goodnight. She was hiding on the front porch behind a shrub. I told her to take care. She hugged me tentatively and said something like, "It's been real..."

I drove home, my head reeling with thoughts that I could have died. In that vein, I didn't hesitate even a moment to talk myself out of driving through Mrs. Johnson's, the Indian-owned late night donut shop, where they always give you one while you wait . I ate the freebie and another on the way home, then wrote "HELP YOUR SELF" on top of the box and left it on the kitchen counter.

S wasn't home yet. It was 3:00 a.m. He had gone to the bar. At 6:00 a.m. I awoke from a weird dream about D to the sound of the windchimes out of the bathroom window clanging like they had been run into. I could see under my door that S's bedroom light was still on and decided it was him, having forgotten his house key, trying to find an unlatched screen on an open window to climb through, even though I doubt he would never do such a thing. It didn't even occur to me that someone might be trying to break in; I had already had one near-death experience, I guess I figured I wasn't up for another so soon.

I looked out the bathroom window but saw nothing, closed the bathroom door and went back to sleep. At 11:00 I woke up, happy to be alive, happy to see S's light off. Later in the day, I noticed that the bush under the windchime had grown long enough that the wind sail had become caught, the striker was pulled outside of the metal pipes, and when the wind was strong (as it was all day) the pipes hit the striker the same way they had early that morning. I took wire cutters out and trimmed the bush.

D texted me this morning:

Wow! A little dramatic last night. Sorry about the intensity!!

I didn't know how to respond. S seemed to think I should tell him it was okay or that it was "no problem." But I wasn't sure I felt that it was okay or that I didn't have a problem. Not that I blamed him totally; I had just as much responsibility, if not more, for my well-being. I value his friendship, but I've been having a lot of consternation about friends lately.

Finally, I came up with this:

Let me know if you need a ride anywhere. Peace.

I haven't heard back from him yet.

sunday, september 12th, 5:52 p.m. (2004)

They say you aren't supposed to relight a cigar once it goes out. What they should say is it's damn near impossible to relight a cigar.

There's a beagle in the neighborhood. I can also distinguish the raspy bark of the black Doberman at the end of our alley.

I quit smoking cigarettes while we were in Nova Scotia. I got a cold a day or two before we left Nashville and had smoked the last of the pack of American Spirits I had so I didn't buy anymore to take on the trip. I smoked one of R's early on when we were at J's, there by the 20-foot high cliff overlooking St. Mary's Bay, and it did nothing for me. Well, it made my throat sore (more). So I didn't smoking another and didn't really have a second thought about it until I was reading an article by a columnist in the Montreal newspaper who smoked 25 Camels a day and had cancer. A side bar in the article mentioned the addiction people have to the smell of the match, putting the cigarette to the lips, the first drag, the curl of smoke rising, and I thought, Oh, yeah, that's what I like about it. The nicotine addiction is an unfortunate side effect. So that's why I just smoked the last Sweet Daddy cigar from the tin that I bought in Las Vegas.

I cross my legs, left ankle on the right knee, and I see a bundle of wrinkles at the top of my calf and I think, Oh, yeah, I'm 40. That's a sign of my aging. There are several gray hairs in my moustache and my goatee is almost solid white, except for a stripe down the middle. My jazz tooth isn't aging as fast as my other facial hairs. I plucked a few gray eyebrow hairs yesterday, and I've been pulling out shocking white coarse nose hairs for a while. Crazy.

I'm having a Spiritual Dilemma. Did I mention that? Let's see... I guess not.

Mosquitoes are starting to hover, even here on the front porch; I'll either have to go in or slather on some Burt's Bees Insect Repellant. One mosquito in particular is testing the ground that is me. My shirt, my arm. He hasn't dipped in yet.

Should I have a third Southern Comfort & Diet Coke? Should I smoke another bowl? Should I go inside and turn on the TV? It feels like I've been watching TV for two days. I've only been watching IFC and Sundance, and once in a while Comedy Central, but still, my eyes hurt from staring at the tube. I saw some good documentaries though.

Should I turn on the computer? And do what? Play Internet games? I feel like that's all I've done besides watch TV the past two days.

T's in town. (J's new boyfriend; we met him in Nova Scotia). We were supposed to go have a couple of drinks with him tonight, but we haven't heard from him. And here I've already had a couple of drinks.

It's one of those times when nobody's answering their phone. I called S. I called T. I called Sa, I called Ci, I called my mom. I called the S's, whose house I clean.

It rained all day today. Till now. It's cooler now; it's nice.

A's in town and we've been having sex. We're very connected in that way. And now that I've "figured out" my relationship with R - my "place" in our relationship (or something like that) - there's no need to hold back.

R and I had a shower together yesterday or the day before, and he said he had to jerk off; he hadn't had an orgasm in two weeks, which was the longest he'd gone in 20 years! I enjoyed watching him jerk off. He yanked my dick while he jerked his. I got hard but I didn't come. He made some comment that I can't remember, but which made me say, "Our relationship is not about orgasms." He said, "That's true," or something to that effect.

I am so out of money right now. My checking account says I have $10! I hope I have some money in savings to put in there. I was gonna go to the bank Friday morning and R discouraged me because it was 8 a.m. And so I ended up not going. And I've been spending some of the leftover cash I have from the trip to Nova Scotia. Actually, I didn't use any cash there because we heard you get a better exchange rate to Canadian if you use credit cards or even debit cards. And since I didn't have any money in my checking account (I thought I had $40; I only had $10), I told R to just tell me how much I owed him at the end of the trip.

S got to California in three days and starting working on the doc with C yesterday. They watched the 3-hour 45-minute edit that S created, and he told me that every idea C had, every suggestion, went right along with his thinking, and he's very excited to be working with him. They have a week to create the next edit, which they'll send to enter the Sundance Festival. (Sundance will accept unfinished entries.) And then they'll work another two weeks (? three weeks?) to finish the final edit. And at that point the budget for C's part will be spent. It's very exciting, really.

I've been having weird dreams lately. The most recent, most memorable weird dream included a family of deer running about, doing tricks and even dancing on busy streets, as well as a church service with a lot of inappropriate behavior (a weird play-acting thing in which a young guy is wearing only long john bottoms as his costume - though he has underwear or shorts on under them - and a mouthful of cassette tape that wouldn't stop coming out). I woke up with severe cottonmouth after that!

I had a falling out with R today. I don't know if he even knows it. He had gotten all his pictures out and was inspired (by A) to do a collage in an old window frame, and I thought I'd give him a hand by organizing the photos into Nature, R, R and Friends, Friends only, Animals, Things, etc. He came into the dining room, said, "What are you doing?" I said, "I'm organizing your photos, and looking at them." He said, "Well, they already are... I'll take care of it. It doesn't matter. I just have them in groups so I know where they were taken..." I left the photos and watched TV and played computer games. What am I saying? Of course he knows I had a falling out with him. It often happens as a reaction to him seemingly overreacting to something I've done in which I think I'm doing him a favor.

A and I joked about the fact that I could live in Denver.

I don't know if any or all of this has to do with my Spiritual Dilemma. I was reading UU World the other day, and there were article after article on the recent General Assembly, and I found myself getting bored and thinking, This is all a bunch of religiosity. Now that MK is gone, I don't seem to have a Spiritual base here. It seems that it's all about choir and lay ministry. And choir is a lot of input (Thursday night rehearsals and early Sunday morning calls). And lay ministry seems to be suffering from a lack of leadership.

saturday, september 11th, 11:12 pm (2004)

My right arm and neck hurts as of yesterday morning. I can't write much; will try to recap the trip to Nova Scotia sometime. But I'm not sure I need to; it's not the kind of memory that'll fade. {2009: I have written things like this a couple of times and have no idea what these unforgettable memories are!}

I saw Dr. C yesterday. He asked me to grade myself on how I'm doing compared to "a while back." I said C+. He said he figured I'd grade low (what with my self-deprecation and low self-esteem and the fact that I'm an artist, which is the antidote to those other things); but he thinks I'm doing better.

I did do a lot of soul searching in N.S. Came to terms with what I think R's and my relationship is. Decided I need a straight man onstage with me. And I considered (am considering) taking the Improv class in town, but when I was saying that to Dr. C, I said something about wanting to go to the (a?) Storytelling Festival, and he jumped on that and said that sounded like the best thing I'd struck on in a while.

near miss

Last night was the improv jam. It's not a class; every Wednesday anybody and everybody from whatever level of improv they've reached (some haven't even taken one class) get together and "play." I'm starting to feel a little more comfortable in the big group without certain people like CG, the woman with whom I took level one and am taking level two (but she's been absent with health and family problems for several weeks, and I was out of town a couple of classes before that).

I took my nine ideas with me that I wrote down in my improv notebook - Romantic / Despair / Fight / Joy / Horse / Madness etc. - and that was useful; I didn't get through all of them, but it was a good springboard for getting me onstage. I still felt clunky some of the time, but I'm starting to find my improv stage legs.

After the jam most of us stood outside, some smoking cigarettes or drinking beers. T - the Indian dude I took level one with but who stayed on at the other theater after the split - asked what I've been up to. I told him I've been writing and doing improv mostly. A, another guy from our level one class who I don't think is all that good a performer and/but who thinks pretty highly of himself (it seems) - and, more importantly, doesn't seem too interested in me! - was standing next to T when we starting talking. T asked what I write and I told him I'm working on novel. He moved closer; A moved away.

There was a moment, as there often is in my life when talking with relative strangers, where sexuality comes up. I don't know why I'm not comfortable with it. (Well, I do know why, but I don't know why I haven't gotten over the discomfort in my life - but I'm working on it, and improv is helping.) T asked what the novel is about. I could see my mind working around Randy Reardon, the main character, his sickness - AIDS, the tell-all - and stumbled at that point of the revelation and then just went for it, just let it out, spilled the beans. And T didn't freak out or anything! Not that I really thought he would, but that's what goes through my head.

He told me he's taking a creative writing class this semester, we talked about his writing some and he said that most of the other kids don't like what he writes. I said, "Fuck them! It's not about them!" He described a story he recently wrote. It sounded a bit all over the place; he admitted that was the case, said he has a hard time sticking with one storyline. It's a bit like improv, I think, and I told him so; just going with what comes and not editing. I told him about Natalie Goldberg's book, Writing Down the Bones, which I recommended to him, and might even purchase for him when I'm feeling a little more flush (and, sadly, when looking for the link to her book, I discovered that I just missed a rare visit by Natalie Goldberg to my town).

Also, besides the fear of sexuality talk is my fear of intellectuality talk. T is a computer geek, inventor, scientist, etc. In other words, he's an intellectual. He's a very funny, instinctive performer, but a lot less absurd in his choices that am I. Well, he does a lot of weird things, but they seem a lot more intellectualized to me. Anyway, when I was describing the novel, talking about the seven different storylines that run through it, I was describing specifically the letters that Amitodana writes to August - one of the storylines - and T asked, "Is the whole novel epistolary?" My mind went blank for a moment.

I don't think I'm a stupid person; I know I am clever and smart enough to write a novel and plays and songs, and can usually come up with the word that means what I intend for it to mean, even if I don't know the exact definition. I use words in sentences that sound right, and often are right, but I sometimes misuse words. S has said that my vocabulary is the weakest part of my talent. (He didn't say it in those words, but that's the gist.)

And so, when T asked me if the whole novel is epistolary, I had to consider what he meant. I probably should have just asked him what it meant, but I was afraid of looking stupid. The word apostle came to me, which brought to mind preachers, storytellers, particularly Bible storytellers. Epistle seemed a similar word (there's a "pistl" in the middle of both of them!), so I made the leap to think that he was referring to the letter-writing storyline, and said, "Oh, no, there's prose and script and other things, as well." I think there was possibly a look of panic on my face (or at least I felt a look of panic directly behind my eyes and did my best to hide it!), but T didn't comment on it. And why would he?

That's the thing, I guess. I'm smarat enought to be writing a novel but fear people will think I'm not. I struggle with words like "epistolary" and other even less intellectual words than that. I would never use the word epistolary in my writing, I don't think, and I definitely wouldn't easily use it in a conversation (though I use words in my writing and in ways that I would never say aloud all the time). So I keep looking for the comfort in the idea that there exist many novelists who aren't (or weren't) as word-smart as even I am, and there are plenty of novels out there that are full of big words that are crap. It's really not something I need to worry about.

But I do. That and the Gay Thing.

system overload

I've been feeling a bit down lately. No doubt the effects of my lost friendship with C. I started thinking a lot about friendship, about the friends I have, and what they mean to me. But with a kind of dark view, because I've been feeling a bit down. I guess it's the depression thing. I didn't make it to yoga on Sunday, and then on Monday, I felt like I hadn't done yoga for ages; I was tight and hurt when I tried to get into certain positions. It was very frustrating.

So yesterday, I tried to talk myself out of going. But I was feeling pretty bummed about things and decided the meanest thing I could do to myself was go and deal with the frustration. (I knew it was also the nicest thing I could do for myself.) Actually, I let work decide for me. If there is no work to keep me at home, then I'll leave at 3 in time to get to the 3:30 class. That's what I told myself. And I even almost talked myself out of it when 3 rolled around and there wasn't a transcript to do. But I had already worked 37.5 hours in the preceding six days (12.5 of them on Sunday), and my eyes were bothering me.

When I got to M's apartment (the yoga studio), he was cleaning windows. He asked how I was; I said, "I'm here." He said, "Oh, it's like that, is it?!" He's a cheerful sort. Good-looking, strong, patient, funny, intelligent, a great teacher. I told him I couldn't think of any reason not to come, and he said, "You could've cleaned windows!" I said, "Yeah, if I had thought of that..." He said, "Call me next time and I'll give you some suggestions!"

Inside, I told him I deal with depression. He said he does too; he told me if he wasn't on anti-depressants nobody would be there. Interesting. He pushed me a little harder than I thought I wanted to be pushed yesterday - I thought maybe he would take it easy on me since I was feeling down (I wanted him to take it easy on me) - but he pushed me to do a jump-back. I struggled with it a while, complained some, got more instruction, then viola! I saw the light. I even said that. He said, "I wouldn't have told you to do it if I didn't know you could...for future reference."

And so, he gave me the ability to accomplish something difficult. I didn't do the jump-back very good, mind you - and boy were my arms tired after - but it felt good to have succeeded at something, to have done it that well.

I have a friend that I needed to take a break from. I realized after the loss of my friendship with C that it is a friendship that takes (a lot) more from me than it gives. And I think I need to surround myself with people who lift me up, people I want to be like. At least my close friends. There are some people in the improv community who annoy me (their sense of humor), but I don't feel close to them. I feel my friends should be willing and able to listen to me, that I should feel that they're listening.

With this one particular friend, I don't feel like that is the case. I never have. It has felt more like I am a caretaker all along. I came to this realization when I thought about telling this person about what had happened with C. I couldn't imagine saying anything because this person doesn't deal well with that kind of information. I don't need that in my life.

So, I ignored this person for a while, and kept getting phone calls that I didn't respond to, which caused the person to call another friend of mine and ask if she knew what was up with me. I didn't want to be rude, so I sent an email to this person saying that email was a much better way to correspond with me, that I was lying low and not answering the phone. The person responded to the email by calling me! I ignored that call, and then started getting emails and texts, asking me to do this or that. When I responded in the negative for whatever reason, I got a follow-up request for a different date and time and event. So, I sent an email saying I was not going to be socializing for a while, that I was concentrating on working and writing and doing much of anything with anybody.

The response was "Okay. I understand. Unless it's something I've done." Followed by another two paragraphs about how we could deal with it if it was in fact something that this person had done to upset me or push me away.

Too much work, that's what I say.

So that's where I am. I'm still feeling a bit blue, but I feel like I'm getting through it. And I'm very happy about the writing I've been doing.

tuesday, august 31st, 5:37 p.m. (2004)

My stand-up for tonight:

I have an Aunt Joy Belle. That's pretty funny, isn't it? Actually, she's my great-aunt, but I never called her Great-Aunt Joy Belle. I don't know why; she is pretty great. When she was born, her daddy opened up the church hymnal to the song "Keep the Joy Bells Ringing," and that's where he got her name.

Pawpaw was a bit of an alcoholic. He was definitely drunk when he named her sister Aunt Konk!

Actually, that's just her nickname.

I'm no stranger to nicknames. I was born with one. JDJB. That's my name. Most people call me Jaybird, and you can too, if you like. My family called me Fancy Pants for a while when I was growing up.

One Christmas, I inadvertently got a present that was intended for my Great-Aunt Joy Belle. The tag said, "To: Joy, From: Santa," but the present passer-outer thought it said "To: Jay, From Santa," so I got it. It was these pants. They didn't fit me much better then.

I tried them on and somebody called me Fancy Pants, and the name just stuck. But nobody said anything about the fact that they were intended for somebody else. I figured it out myself later when I was looking at the tag, trying to figure out what Santa Claus was thinking. Did he know something I didn't know?

When I was in the eighth grade, my classmates nicknamed me Gaybird. Not because of these pants. Mostly because I didn't know how to carry my books. Apparently, I carried them like a gaybird. Like this instead of like this. Valerie, the butch Italian jock girl who lived on my street tried to teach me how to carry my books like a jock. But it was useless. I was chubby and nelly and I played the tuba in the marching band.

Correction, I played the John Philip Sousaphone in the marching band, the big, white fiberglass anaconda-looking tuba. It really was. Our team mascot was the anaconda, and all of the sousaphones were outfitted with two fangs and a forked tongue. Essentially, we were blowing into their assholes! That's what it sounded like when I played, too. I was a terrible tuba player.

So, because of that, and because I wasn't a jock, and because I couldn't even carry my books like a girl jock, they called me Gaybird. And they made fun of the mayonnaise and sugar sandwiches my momma packed into my lunch bags. And I took to eating my mayonnaise and sugar sandwiches at the dead end of the hall where they kept all of the spare desks. Behind the desks. I made a little path and crawled behind the desks and ate my mayonnaise and sugar sandwiches in peace, and dreamed up ways to take revenge on my classmates and on my school.

I decided to learn to play the 12-string guitar. Somebody at our church played "Amazing Grace" on the 12-string guitar and everybody oohed and ahhed and acted like it was the Second Coming of Christ, so I decided I would learn to be the greatest 12-string guitar player that ever lived. That would be my revenge. (This was long before Columbine and that kind of revenge. This was back when learning to play an instrument really well was revenge enough.) I imagined that people would soon be eating mayonnaise and sugar sandwiches and trying to figure out my secret to playing the 12-string guitar so well, and they would call me Fancy Fingers or something like that because I would be the greatest 12-string guitar player ever.

{Strum ukulele.}

I'm a third the way there...

{Sing "Fancy Pants."}

nine ideas that work

They are:

ROMANTIC
DESPAIR
FIGHT
JOY
HORSE
MADNESS
VULGARITY
THE STANLEY
FOREIGN LANGUAGE REPOSE

These words were written in chalk on the stage by the five actors in a play I saw on Friday night. It's called The Method Gun, and the company presenting it is Rude Mechs. It was at the Off Center. I also saw it about a year ago (a different version) at the Long Center here. It will be in New York City at PS 122 in January 2010 - I highly recommend it - but that is not what this entry is about.

I was inspired by the improvisational-seeming nature of quite a bit of the play, and particularly by the RASA BOXES (whatever that means; that was how they were described when presented in the play) with the above words in them. The actors ran from box to box (there were nine boxes, each with one of the ideas in them) and they incorporated the idea written in the particular box they were standing in into their actions and words.

I wrote them down.

I went to improv class the next day, and each time I got up on stage, I thought of one of those ideas in the RASA BOXES - actually, I started with the one in the top left box, "Romantic" - and took that onstage with me for the scene I was playing. The next time I went up, I took Despair as my emotion. The next time, I thought of a Fight. And so on.

It worked beautifully for me, really gave me something to hold onto.

Interestingly, we are taught that Fighting on the improv stage is dangerous because you have to build on what is happening onstage, and once you get to the point where you're throwing punches or chasing or being chased, there's not much left to build on. I thought about that before I went on. I said the line, "I think you're trying to start a fight!" I said it in kind of a drunkard's voice. And so I became an old, seriously drunk man on a street corner under a street light. (In my mind, I was black, but that's not really important.) It didn't become a fight onstage because the man playing opposite me chose a similar character - "No I ain't! This is MY corner!"

I was feeling it in improv class on Saturday. Sometimes I feel it; sometimes my natural comedian comes out. I feel very comfortable play absurd characters. Or I should say I think I am best at playing absurd characters, and sometimes I am comfortable with letting those characters come out, but other times I feel stunted.

I realized long ago that improv is all about chemistry. And I'm starting to notice patterns in me, the times when I'm really cooking and the times when I feel awkward and even bad. When I took Level One a year ago or so, the class was mostly twenty-something straight white dudes. The more recent Level One I took had a wider mix of types of people, women, blacks, an Indian, etc. I was much better the second time I took Level One, and I didn't think it was because I had already taken the class before.

And now, the Level Two class I'm in has C, a woman with whom I have such a great stage chemistry. She loves to play straight, normal characters (and is very good at them), and she feeds my absurd characters onstage so perfectly. I seriously see the two of us performing together down the road. Or I hope we will. We even have a "team" name picked out:

HOTNE$$ IN A PO$E

Don't ask! (Or do, but not right now. Okay, well, the one key in pronouncing it is that $ is pronounced "dollar sign.")

I haven't blogged a lot about improv. But it has started feeling like a good outlet for my creativity, and I feel myself leaning toward a stronger involvement in it. Time will tell if it's just another passing fancy.

chapter thirty-one: christian wall

I finished chapter 24 and read it and chapter 17 to P a couple of nights ago. The novel starts in chapter 3, then skips seven chapters to pick up the next part.

Chapter 31 is the last part of this section before the chronological storyline goes back to chapter 4 and picks up there in seven chapter intervals. The section to follow that is chapter 2, then chapter 1, chapter 6, chapter 5, and finally chapter 7, each storyline moving through the novel seven chapters apart.

It may sound confusing, but it all makes sense in my head.

P made dinner for us and before I started to read, I asked if she wanted to hear chapter 17 or only chapter 24, the one I had just completed. She hadn't heard chapter 17 before, but I wasn't sure how much time we could spend together, since it was getting late in the evening. I looked to see how long each chapter was and discovered that chapter 17 is seventeen pages long and chapter 24 is twenty-four pages long. P said, "Is that another clever little thing you're doing in your novel?!" I have all kinds of things going on in the way this novel is constructed (like the non-chronological order) but I don't think this is one of them; I couldn't possibly condense chapter 1 to one page! (Though that sounds like a fun way to write a future novel...)

I decided after I finished the first draft that august chagrin felt a bit rougher than I wanted, so I'm going back through the whole thing and "rewriting" it chronologically, to make sure the story flows. It seems like it was a good idea. Chapter 24 was already written, as are most chapters, but had to be changed somewhat - as had the chapters in this storyline before it because I inadvertently changed the date of chapter 10 from 1973 to 1977, changing the ages of the main and secondary characters. That turned out to be a good change (since a sexual awakening is better at age 14 than 10), so I altered the chapters that followed to go along with this change.

Chapter 31 hadn't been written when I finished the first draft - there are a couple of chapters that need to be created so that each of the seven storylines has exactly five parts - and looking at the thing overall, at first I felt a bit overwhelmed by the idea of having to write more story. Not that I don't know what is supposed to happen in chapter 31 or the other chapters that have to be added. But then, after reading chapters 17 and 24 to P, it seemed simple how I would get into the next part.

I'm often surprised how the story comes to me. I find myself walking around in silence, making breakfast, washing dishes, doing laundry, or sometimes working, typing transcriptions (my job), my mind busily toying with the story, slowly coming into focus. That's how it was this morning. Chapter 24 ends the summer before Randy Reardon goes to college. There's a brief connection wrapping up chapter 24 at the beginning of chapter 31 (as there was a a connection from chapter 17 to 24, from 10 to 17, and from 3 to 10), and then it just flows from there.

I haven't been drinking coffee regularly since the beginning of February. I've been drinking black or green tea, mostly. But a couple of times I've had coffee, just because I need the extra kick. Last weekend, I went to a coffeehouse to work on chapter 24 and had coffee and a cinnamon roll and my work poured out of me easily. This morning, I woke up at 5:30, finished a transcription that was left over from last night, and then there was no work to be done - thankfully - so I poured myself a cup of coffee after breakfast and started in on chapter 31:

The first plane that tried to take Diamond and me home from Las Vegas faltered soon after it got into the air. The pilot told us in a steady voice that there was nothing to worry about - "a little engine mishap!" - but turned around and took us back to the airport to get a different plane. Diamond pretended to be asleep, even as we deboarded the broken plane and boarded a new one, wouldn't speak to me, so I made a silent promise to myself that if we got home alive, I would never get on a plane again.

Randy doesn't see Diamond again that summer until she's heading off to Denton, Texas, to go to music school, and shortly thereafter, he's on his way to Gainesville, Florida - only twenty-five miles but far enough to be a world away - to study theater at the University of Florida. He arrives at his dorm a week before his roommate and spends his third and fourth days alone at his desk writing his very first story, "Diana's Tallywacker," based on his first adult sexual experience which took place in Sin City, which is the name (and subject) of chapter 24.

I'm enjoying this.

paris journal

26 Mars 12:45

I want to go home. I'm trying to do that right now. I'm on the train to CDG Aeroport. At least I hope I'm on the correct train.

I left Mme. Rey's at 11:15, took the subway to the Gare du Nord Station, where the airport train leaves from, and spent more than an hour trying to figure out where to go, how to buy a ticket (which included finding a ticket machine then walking around the station - a long walk - and then to two stores to buy small items to get the right coinage for the machine, then finding the machine again).

I'm not happy here. I feel stressed about money. I'm going to the airport to see if I can get my ticket changed from Sunday to Saturday. I also wanted to do a practice run on getting to the airport by train. Good thing.

Last night was actually the best time I've had here, but it was a fluke. M&M and I went to a club called Andy Wahloo last night. It was in an alley on the way to another club we were looking for - a French cabaret. People seemed to think I was a famous deejay. Half a dozen people came up to me, several of them asked me specifically if I was the deejay or a deejay, or DJ Magic (I think)--

Ma went to the bar to get drinks, Me went to the bathroom, I stood in the middle of the room waving back at the people who were waving excitedly at me. When Ma returned, I told him what was happening, he said, "What did you say?" I told him I told them no. He said, "Don't do that! Tell them you ARE the deejay. What does it matter?"

Me came out of the bathroom eventually followed closely by two gay guys - or so we assumed - one a Spaniard with a low-cut T-shirt, the other a shaved headed black man with Elvis Costello glasses. They introduced themselves to me. The Spaniard's name was Martine. I told him people thought I was a deejay; he patted me on the back and said, "No, no...!"

There was a deejay already there, already playing music. I was enjoying it, enjoying dancing with Martine and all the other Parisians. M&M ended up on the couch watching the crowd.

Finally, I was ready to go. I told them; they were ready to go, too. We weren't going together. They were taking a cab to their hotel, I was hoping to take a subway (if they weren't closed, if it wasn't after 1 a.m. - I found that out the hard way a couple of nights earlier). As we were standing outside saying our goodbyes, Martine appeared with two helmets. I joked that I needed a ride; Ma told Martine he should give me a ride. Martine said okay. He was heading to the north of the City, I was heading to Bastille; it worked for him.

I said my goodbyes to M&M and followed Martine around a dark corner to a bunch of scooters. He handed me one of the helmets, said it was his daughter's, and insisted I wear it, "Because I'm very, very drunk." I was stone cold sober.

I didn't care. I pulled the tight little helmet onto my head, climbed onto the back of Martine's scooter and took a thrill ride through the wet streets of Paris with the scooter crossing lanes willy-nilly when he turned to say something to me that I could hardly understand anyway.

I could've died. I didn't care.

wednesday, august 25th 11:12 pm (2004)

I feel numb. I have a hard time having a conversation with R. Compassion and gentleness don't seem to affect him. He has so much anger there is no such thing as understanding.

On the way to the movie (The Corporation) tonight he had the talk radio blaring as per usual and grumbled about the points being made. I tried to just ignore it all. I hate talk radio! On the way home from the movie he told me he was wearing one of his anti-corporation T-shirts at work last night and a co-worker, "if I could understand his thick accent," said, "You just don't give up."

I told him he could take it as a compliment and he said, "But that's not how it was intended."

I said, "But you still could. You can take whatever is said to you to feed your anger or fuel your fight." (What I really said was "fuel your energy," but I meant "fuel your fight.")

He said, "Why would I want to take something other than the way it was intended?"

I said, "People are always misinterpreting what is said to them."

He said, "Oh, absolutely." And he said it in a way that sounded to me like "End of discussion."

But of course, I could've just been taking it the wrong way.

paris journal

12:30 a.m.

I cried through my meditation again and it wasn't all about C. I think I realized something important. I don't feel like I fit in anywhere. Most of the time. I can fake it sometimes, I guess, but I don't feel like I really fit in. And the weird thing is, I think most people think I do fit in. I mean this group of people I'm in Paris with, and I mean C and P and M&J and even S.

paris journal

11:15 pm

Stopped for a tiramisu and mint tea on the way home from dinner, the first celebration of John in a three-day memorial for my friend who died a year ago tomorrow.

It is important to remember that this is the purpose of this trip. I am struggling with other parts of the trip which will surely become more clear in time but right now just feel like an undercurrent of dissatisfaction ... or something.

paris journal

5:00 p.m.

I walked from the Eiffel Tower to St. Michel (a long way) and got on a subway there to come home and pee because I could find no public toilettes. I considered several times stopping at a cafe for thé and a crepe (and to pee) but I couldn't find any place I wanted to stop in.

I got a cheap (€2,50) souvenir from a pickpocket. I was walking along the Seine and as I took the stairs up to the road a young woman was calling after me, telling me I dropped something. It was a man's ring.

"Is it gold?" she asked, all agog.

"I don't know. I think so. It's not mine," I said and gave it back.

She put it on each of her fingers. "Too big."

"Try your thumb!" I said.

It didn't work. She handed it to me. "For you," she said. "It's your lucky day."

So I was a little gullible, but not stupid. I turned to leave, she came running after me asking if I had some money so she could get a sandwich. I fished a euro out of my pocket. She asked for €5.

"A sandwich costs €5."

I fished out more, but she asked again. I gave her all of my change (€2,60) and she asked again. For some reason, I was wise enough not to take out my wallet, with my last 50 in it. I said, "I'm sorry," and walked on, twirling the ring on my finger.

A short while later, I saw an older couple sitting on a park bench; a young man walking past bent over in front of them, picked up a gold ring and said to the couple, "Ooh, did you drop this?" The old man on the bench said, "No chance!" He and the woman laughed.

---

Mme. Rey continues to amaze and mystify. Every time I go into the apartment she remembers to tell me another thing I did improperly or she forgot previously. Today's episode: "I must tell you to leave the paper in the toilette long. You always make it too short. Like on Saturday, you left it so short I was obligated to open the box to pull it out." She went on to repeat this in slightly different ways three times or more. "Leave the toilet paper long" has become my mantra for my stay with Mme. Rey.

paris journal

Monday 23 March 1:30 p.m.

I'm feeling the money pinch today after giving the woman at the yoga studio €48 for a week pass and mat fees.

I haven't bought but one of my own meals so far. Yikes!

Today I'm heading to the Eiffel Tower. I'll meet up with the group for dinner tonight at 8. but am feeling a little overwhelmed by their chatter and my lack of funds. A didn't give me any money. Maybe she'll give it to me at some point, but I don't feel comfortable asking for it, since she doesn't owe it to me or anything.

I've been meditating regularly - 30 minutes morning and night - which feels very sane. Last night I started crying thinking about (doing Metta {loving-kindness practice" for) C. I don't know what it's about. We were so close and now it feels like a struggle to be far away from one another. I tried to just be with the feeling, and so I was, and it passed, but the passing was temporary. I kept sobbing for most of the 30-minute sit, no matter how I tried to continue down my Metta list of "close friends."

I didn't charge my phone this morning and now I only have 1/3 juice for pictures. C'est la vie.

Mme. Rey continues to be a loony-pain, but it has to do with the language barrier, so I am trying not to get bent out of shape. Last night I told her I was going to yoga and wouldn't have breakfast this morning. She seemed to understand, asked if I wanted it when I returned. I said that would be nice and told her I would be back at 11:30 (I'm thinking that's what she probably didn't understand). She did say, however, "So I can sleep in in the morning. Thank you." As if I was doing it for her. (No, that was just probably a funny language quirk.)

At 8 a.m. this morning she knocked on the door between her bedroom and mine, I was asleep but made a noise which she obviously didn't hear, then she started through my room, saw me and turned back. When I got back from yoga, she apologized for coming into my bedroom. "But you said you wanted to eat at 8 o'clock, so I thought you were already up and gone."

She asked if I wanted something then (at 11:30), I said, "If it's possible." She said, "Yes, it is possible." and gave me the usual. I tried to explain that I want breakfast the same time the next three mornings; we'll see if she got it in the morning.

--I'm at the Eiffel Tower but decided not to go up. It has the feel of an amusement park - tourists, cotton candy, etc., and it's €12 to go to the top, and I'm thinking, "What for?"

At the subway stop, two British women approached me and asked me to play a part in a film they're making for a couple of friends who are getting married. They asked me to talk about the guy, Christophe. On camera, one woman took out a photo, said she was looking for her lost friends and asked if I knew or had seen either of them. It was up to me to improvise. I said I knew Christophe, met him a couple of weeks ago at a crepe stand, and was looking for him myself and thought I might see him at the Eiffel Tower. She asked why. I said because he kept talking about it, mentioned that his crepe looked like the shape of the Tower, and he was going there to get a crepe. It didn't make a lot of sense but it was fun.

I had French fries (feh!) but I really want a crepe now and there are no crepe stands here. Imagine that.

paris journal

Sunday 22 March 2:15 p.m.

I'm at a Moroccan restaurant feeling very out of place and a bit lost. I'm on my way to A's hotel because I can't call her on my phone, can't figure out how to use the public phones, and Mme. Rey only has a cell phone and I'm not too sure about her.

I got home at about 11:30 last night and she was sitting in front of the TV watching a bunch of Catholic priests (or something) shuffling around and chanting. The background music sounded like a cross between Jean Michel Jarre and the music from that 70s TV show, "In Search Of..." Mme. Rey asked me what time I wanted breakfast the next morning, and looking at the time, I said, "I don't know, eight?"

She jumped out of her skin. "No! This is too EARLY! I have to get out of BED!"

I said, "Okay, when is good?"

She thought a moment, put the sentence together in her head, then said, "How about a quarter to nine?"

I managed to meditate for 30 minutes on two folded-in-half pillows with the TV blasting, Mme. Rey talking on the phone, and a group of actors(?) in the courtyard making "scary" hawn-hawn-hawn noises.

I put in earplugs, an eye mask and slept hard, even though the bed was too short.

In the middle of a dream in which a very masculine person was talking to me and then someone else was telling me it was a woman, Mme. Rey rapped on the bedroom door.

I said, "Yes? Hello?"

No response.

I figured out where I was, got up, dressed, went to the toilette then brushed my teeth and went into the living room.

"Did you sleep?"

"Yes," I answered, "I slept very well."

"You see? And you wanted me to get up at 8, and it's almost 9!"

(It was 8:34.)

She gave me her chair in front of the TV, apologized for not having CNN because it "costs a little dollars more," but offered me the BBC, which I declined. She gave me one cup of English Breakfast tea, a half glass of fresh-squeezed OJ, a glass container of sheep yogurt I bought yesterday at a grocery store (a 4-pack, because I thought the containers would make good juice glasses back home) and a croissant. She burned the first croissant and blamed me ("When I wake up with the alarm I am wonky." She didn't say wonky, but made a gesture which can best be described as "wonky!").

Oh, and last night she scolded me for hanging my toiletries bag on a round drawer pull on a dresser which is "worth much money, like the table" at bedside. That was understandable, but it was just one more crazy thing from Mme. Rey.

Today, I meditated then walked through the Jardin des Plantes (Garden of Plants?!) then to the mosque where there is a hospital, a restaurant and a Turkish bath. I was there about three hours. Very interesting, beautiful, steamy.

I came out and had a crepe with Nutella and banana then walked toward A's hotel but stopped here {at the Moroccan restaurant} on the way because I was starving.

And now I'm stuffed.

toxins

When I first moved into this house, I was worried about the comfort and safety of my cat. He died a month after I got here; obviously, he wasn't safe. Before he died, an old shingles scar that I had since I was six or seven years old, started to flare up. I showed it to C - an acupuncturist and Chinese herbologist - and he gave me an ointment for it, which worked pretty well, but didn't clear it up for good. He asked if there was any stress in my life that I recalled around the time that it flared up. Moving.

Soon after C and I started having our very intense relationship, I started getting blemishes on my back, and very itchy ringworms. As our talks intensified, I started having rashy flareups on the front of my torso as well. heat bumps eminating from my sternum or the place of my heart. By that point, C had told me he wouldn't treat me anymore (he doesn't treat "friends"). He referred me to a cheap acupuncture clinic here, and said he didn't want to give me any herbs either because he didn't want his prognosis to interfere with what I got from another acupuncturist.

I also visited a third acupuncturist/herbologist, a friend of C's but whom I met through my other close straight male friend, G. I went to see L after a conversation about getting herbs to help me with my fear of having a panic attack on the plane on my trip to Paris. She looked at the ringworms, shingles scar flareup and other spots on my back and, just like the previous two acupuncturists, told me a lot of toxins were coming out of my body. She gave me herbs and tinctures for different things, including for panic attacks, and the breakouts. She asked me if anything major had happened in my life when they outbreaks began. My relationship with C.

I started to think I would forever have the blemishes on my body. It was interesting to think that a scar from my childhood would suddenly flare up, and that all of the embarrasing blemishes I had all over my back during my teenage years were back. I started thinking about how that might relate to what I was going through. I was dealing with a lot of childhood issues with C, and dealing with a lot of new issues within my relationship with C.

In the last couple of days, the shingles scar has practically cleared up completely, and there is only one itchy bump left on my back. I haven't been taking herbs for any of this stuff since Paris. The only real change is that my (difficult) relationship with C has ended. And now I'm thinking about how some people say that relationships can be toxic.

paris journal

4:45 p.m.

We walked around at A's pace. I had to just let the day be, plod behind her, try to help when she asked for help, let it go when she cut me off and ignored my help (while thanking me for it).

We had omelets at the Metro Café next to the Oberkampf subway stop, walked and rode to the Place des Vosges and had a snack - me a tarte du jour, her fish soup, both of us espresso, her also a wine.

We walked to the Picasso Museum but were too exhausted to pay for a ticket. She took a taxi back to her hotel, I walked back to Mme. Rey's apt. - very cool room in a sweet toothless old widow's place.

The room is decorated with Tibetan art from magazines, postcards, books, and a pretty statue of a young Buddha she told me she won in a lottery.

Now I'm gonna shower and head back to A's hotel for dinner I guess. Got to keep awake so I can start tomorrow right - no curtains in my room.

paris journal

Saturday, March 20, 9:00 a.m.

I lifted the window shade and saw the Seine snaking through the countryside and plumes of smoke from stacks unmoving and tricking me into thinking they were some kind of statues for a moment.

The land is cut up into irregular squares, verdant and earthy red with clusters of buildings at some of the corners, communities or country roads.

As we near the end of the flight, patches of unfarmed land grow bigger, the clusters of buildings get bigger and more uniform, the country roads widen and become more silvery and the river comes around the bend like a long shiny green snake. On the opposite bank, buildings congregate at the water like pigeons waiting for something that may never come. And the landscape turns industrial.

The plane tips to the left and the bright morning sun pours in and warms my face and melts the frost on the outside of the window.

Traffic circles! Cars and trucks creep by on an eight-lane highway like busy ants. {??} shapes in a bright green patch - is that a golf course?

The river and the tightly packed houses in its elbow, red roofs and windows catching the sunlight, winking up at me as if to say, "We are here!" and "Look at me!"

A sewage treatment plant with a canal running off of the river; here the green water turns oily black. Several tall buildings in the distance poke up through the haze. Nearer, apartment buildings zigzag through the streets like block letter Ms and Ls.

A farm - two patches of red, three of green - looks out of place next to the jagged terrain. And then more farmland, with a commuter train cutting through it, then a factory, where the farmland turns dull sand-colored and eighteen-wheelers {actually ten-wheelers in France} wait in a parking lot. This gives way to the airport - Charles De Galle. Landing.

Bon jour, Paris!

--

The airport was very quiet. In fact, the only thing I heard was my traveling companion saying over and over how quite the airport was.

shut up and write

I'm in a race to write a book,
getting things in order before I sit down in front of the computer
or splay myself on the bed with the three-ring binder and pen.
I need concentrated time, uninterrupted.
I want to get all of the interruptions out of the way,
bedtime,
breakfast,
sending pictures of my Paris trip to my mother,
journaling,
blogging,
and work.
If work comes, I'll do that first.
I want work; I need the money.
If work comes, it takes precedent over writing.
Unfortunately, that's just the way it is.

I don't have far to go to finish this book,
but I feel like I'm forever away from the end.
I'm still in the midst of first draft land here,
but so much of it is done,
so I'm really just filling in the blanks.
I don't even have to do a top notch job with it,
just get it out,
there will be time later to fix the stuff that doesn't work.
But that's not the way my mind works.
I'm forever fixing,
perfecting,
rewriting
even as I'm writing,
thinking about stuff down the line that might oughta be changed,
picturing the finished product,
the proud responses,
the surprised reactions,
the not-so-surprised.

But now I need to take a shower.
And it's a shaving day.
And I keep clicking the Refresh key on the laptop to see if any work has come.
And there's breakfast dishes to do,
and laundry,
and the mailbox to check,
and just a little downtime to think.
And then yoga,
and improv.
How did it get so complicated?

I did do a little writing last night,
after everything else.
I got through a little more than a page,
typed up something I had written longhand.
It was good; I'm happy with it.
I could have gone on for a couple of pages more,
easily,
typing up what I had written,
but I was distracted,
thinking about this, that, and the other thing;
checking email,
looking for a recipe for a friend in need,
going hither and yon,
pulled away
all the while wishing I had more time to write.
I was tired so I didn't want to commit too much time to writing.
Chapter 24, "Sin City."
It's a good one.
I'm just getting geared up for it.
This is one of the ones I wrote ages ago,
part of the very original draft,
something pulled from real life
so it's practically effortless.
But I have to work it into the lives of the characters,
who are not real life.
Not really.
They're in my head and so vivid they seem real.
Sometimes I catch myself doing loving-kindness meditation for the characters I've created.
Which I guess is okay;
I guess it's like doing meditation for myself,
the many facets of me.

But I'd rather be writing than meditating.
I'd rather be writing than doing so many other things.
But then, when it gets right down to it,
it is really hard.
Just me and the piece of paper,
waiting for the inspiration.
Come on, come on...

--Oops! There's work to do.

paris journal

Friday 20 March, 5:30 a.m.

And so the journey begins. I don't know if I've ever been so prepared or relaxed for a trip. I woke up at 2:30 this morning - 8:30 Paris time, quite respectable! - meditated, then got on the computer to see how far it is from my B&B to A's hotel (she texted me the info I asked for in the middle of the night). 36 minutes walking time. No problem at all. I walk down Blvd. Richard Lenoir to the Bastille monument/traffic circle, then onto Blve. King Henry, over Pont de Sully (a brige over the Seine, I'm thinking?), left/right/left and I'm there.

A was originally going to be on the near side of the river, but she changed hotels to be closer to P&N - to the Left Bank, twice as far from me. Not that I care so much, but she said she felt bad and offered-- no, insisted on paying half of my B&B. I didn't protest too much since I am feeling a bit strapped and since my mother intimated that she was sending me something for my trip (which I assumed was $) but she never did, or hasn't yet.

I took $300 out of my savings account and got another 96 by cashing in my change at one of those CoinStar machines. I was surprised and delighted! I don't need much - I only intend to get a souvenir for a 6-year-old and mabe a nice straw hat for myself - but I would hate to run out of money. I want to be as prepared as possible in case A forgets to give me money.

simplification.

I'm not writing. Today, it doesn't look like I'll get around to it. Maybe this evening, after yoga and the performance I'm taking part in (reading from a numbered list of instructions, guided by audience members calling out random numbers).

I'm trying to simplify my life, but it doesn't seem to be simple right now. Since I no longer have a relationship with C, which was so challenging and simultaneously enriching, I feel like I need to spend more time with the other challenging/enriching element of my life, my book. I left it behind when I went to Paris. Or I should say that was my intent. I had struggled with a chapter rewrite, and then, in a wash of inspiration, completed it a week or so before the trip, and the chapter that followed started coming to me almost immediately, so I felt like I should pay attention, but I had already set the intent to not work on it in Paris. I found a space in the bottom of my carry-on big enough to slip the slim three-ring binder into, just in case.

A couple of times, I packed it in my bag and carried it with me to the Eiffel Tower, the Arc de Triomphe, thinking I would find a place to sit and be inspired and write. But it was too cold in Paris for sitting outside, or inspiration. I didn't write anything in Paris other than random notes in a journal.

Now I'm back from the trip, happy to be back, but more broke than I thought I would be, and feeling the need to really simplify my life. Again.

I've been enjoying improv classes, and I've found a way to take more of them for no money (repeating the current or previous levels). There's a new level two starting up next Thursday evening, which I think I'll join, and I'm already in the Saturday afternoon class and sitting in on the Tuesday evening class. Last week, for the first time, I joined in on the Wednesday improv "jam," which isn't a class but a free-for-all performance for people of all levels (no audience except each other). It doesn't feel as "safe" as the classes that I've been taking, but I feel the need to get out of my safety zone.

I'm also doing more yoga. Monday through Thursday at 3:30, and now Sundays at 1:30. That leaves Friday through Monday evenings to fill up, if necessary. I would like to fill up some of that time with writing. But I also feel a strong urge to work as much as I can, since the recent pay cut, so that takes precedent. If there is work to do on Friday, Saturday and Sunday, I'll do that first, and then fill in whatever leftover time I have with writing. Or at least that's the plan; there hasn't been any leftover time so far.

I just finished the work available this weekend. I've worked 16.5 hours since Thursday - which is pretty good, because I didn't work at all on Thursday and not much on Friday. I went to therapy, got a massage, took some Me time. I needed some time off - even though I just got back from "vacation." It didn't feel much like a vacation. It felt like a challenge. It made novel writing seem like the easier option. So I'd better get to that and prove myself right.

Oh, but I've got to head out for a rehearsal right now, and then yoga, and then the performance. Jeez...