sincerely, me

I've been getting lots of emails in my spam box from me. Right now, there are 14 spam messages, and six of them are from me.

The subject lines:

• Reply right after reading
• When did you come?
• Interested in freelance?
• Know any places for dinner?
• Mike caught with weed
• Once more to all

Which leads me to the conclusion that I don't know myself very well at all.

I do know this: I've been writing like a motherfucker; it has been exciting. I've cranked out three chapters in the last week - S has been out of town; rewrites, but major rewrites for the most part.

I've added a section to this blog connecting to my chapters as I've finished them and gotten around to uploading them (I've actually completed seven but only have three up on the page so far).

Nobody has looked at them though. One friend in a foreign country asked what the name of my novel was (she didn't know I was writing one) and I told her, and sent her a link to the novel blog page, and she wrote back: "Great title. But I'll wait till it's done." I guess everybody feels that way. S has been reading in, and listening to me read it from the beginning, because he is kind of my first editor. I've also been reading it to P1, and she seems to enjoys the process. Could be because she just wants to support me.

I guess it doesn't really matter if anybody reads it now or not - or if they ever read it. I would like to think that people will read it, that people might actually get excited about it. But that's not my reason for writing it. It's a process of purging my past, and being creative. It's my therapy.

thursday, october 21st (2004)

9:37 pm

When I was in the fifth grade, I sang "Put Your Hand in the Hand of the Man" at the monthly Friday talent show. The winnger of the first show of the day got to skip class later in the day to go back for an encore performance. I got asked back that first time I performed and was hooked. I had an LP of songs that were supposedly "truck drivers' favorites," the back cover of the LP looked like the rear-end of an 18-wheeler trailer, it actually opened in the middle like the real doors would. Inside were the names of the various songs and the liner notes - although I didn't know what "liner notes" were at the time. "Put Your Hand in the Hand..." must've been a trucker favorite, 'cause it was on the album. "I'm Just a Girl Who Cain't Say No," from the Broadway musical Oklahoma! was on the album, too. Curious that that was a trucker favorite, but there it was. I imagined cheerful truckers driving down the highway whistling along to "I'm Just a Girl..."

Those two songs were my favorites on the album, mostly because they had easy-to-learn lyrics. For the second talent show, Lanny Thompson sang "Flying Blue Angels, Up in the Sky," and he was very good. Not only did he have a great voice, but he had great stage presence. He did this thing with his hand that is burned vividly into my memory: it turned into a flying blue angel every time he sang that line. You could almost hear the jet engines roaring past overhead.

The students always clapped for every performer in the talent show. It was a requirement, and it was easy enough to fulfill the requirement because not doing so would meant school instead of assembly. You couldn't usually tell if most of the students liked or didn't like most of the acts in the talent show by their applause, but you could certainly tell that they liked Lanny Thompson. I don't remember any other acts in the talent show besides Lanny's and mine.

The second time I was in the talent show was the first time Lanny was. I hadn't had much competition in my first talent show, I guess; none that I can remember. I guess I didn't really even know what competition was, not in that arena. Competition always had to do with sports, not the arts.

It was obvious, however, that Lanny was my competition on this day. Only one of us would be asked back for the encore performance and get out of class later in the day. You have to give me credit for being able to think on my feet, if not for being able to make wise artistic choices. I had to do something like what Lanny did with his hand. I had been pretty good about that in the previous talent show. My mother had given me lots of encouragement and some tips, too, for "Put Your Hand in the Hand..." I "stilled the water" and "calmed the sea" with my free hand.

My gimmick for "I'm Just a Girl..." was to sit on the edge of the stage and sing to the auditorium, to the music teacher or art teacher on the front row - the judges - to perform for them in hopes of keeping my title, as if I were the character singing the song, the "Girl."

The teacher's aide who put my album on (we just sang along to records, back then; karaoke was years down the road) lifted the arm and placed the needle in the groove right before the track number I'd instructed her to play. The introduction started, I was in place on the edge of the stage, one foot dangling, one foot on the stage, my free arm resting at the elbow on my bent knee, feeling pretty good about my aw-shucks choice. But before the singer and I had a chance to start singing, the teacher's aide lifted the arm and needle off of the player. She held the record player arm in one hand and the album in the other, the back doors of the 18-wheeler flopped open. She called from the wing, "Is that right?"
I said, "Yeah, that's it."
She shrugged and put the needle back down in the groove and I sang:

It ain't so much a question of not knowing what to do.
I knowed what's right and wrong since I was ten.
I heared a lot of stories and I reckon they are true
About how girls're put upon by men.
I know I mustn't fall into the pit,
But when I'm with a feller,
I fergit!
I'm just a girl who cain't say no,
I'm in a terrible fix
I always say "come on, let's go!"
Jist when I orta say nix...

The smiles on the faces of the judges bore into them and must've hurt to hold them there.

The usual unenthusiastic applause was unusually sparse as I took the LP from the expressionless teacher's aide and handed her the microphone. She announced the next act and I slipped into the audience. I don't remember having any remorse about my song choice. I do remember feeling embarrassed and a failure as I sat in Mrs. Bussey's math class while the second assembly was going on.

I remember plotting my next act. It had to be bigger and better than sitting on the edge of the stage, bigger and better than stilling water and calming the sea; better even than a blue angel flying off the end of my arm. But, alas, I had waited too long into my fifth year of school to perform. Summer break came the next month, and then sixth grade, which meant a new school.

wednesday, october 20th (2004)

11:55 pm

I wonder if Dr. C has any clients who aren't smart beyond measure and talented and good? I'll have to ask him about that. Or is it some kind of trick to help us to get better? It's working; I guess that's what counts. I've never had a relationship like this with a therapist-type. And he's an actual shrink, and people say they're usually disinterested in the person and keen on filling out prescriptions. But that's not Dr. C. He said, "Worker {sic} harder than you think you need to, and save faster than you think you have to," and I've been doing that without even realizing I was taking his advice so strongly. But I guess I am. And I'm glad I am.

I do get drugs from Dr. C, but I'm pretty much in charge of my medication needs status. I started taking double the Wellbutrin and weaned myself off of the Lexapro altogether, a little at a time. I'm just off of them for three days or so, and in the last couple of days, my equilibrium has been off. I feel dizzy now and then, particularly when I turn corners or turn my head left and right quickly. But it's not always, and it's not forever. I think I remember feeling like this when I first got on Lexapro. I'm not sleepy all the time now, and I feel pretty darn good. I've even gone so far as to sing the extended version of "Throw Away the Dove" as Nell Carter in the Suburban. (Now, that's crazy!)

tuesday, october 12th (2004)

10:36 p.m.

At first he didn't want me to try to change him. He felt like I was always trying to change him. What it was was I was always trying to be myself, but kept running into his "You're trying to change me!" And I'm talking about as simple as rearranging stuff in his house. The "controversial library," I call it, was the first of these big clashes.

And now that I'm going away (in a year), it seems to him that we were just falling into place, that I know where things went, and I let him do the things that only he (and his dearly departed mother) knew how to do right. But it felt to me like we were falling into a stuck place. That was the impetus for me wanting to leave. I also feel like sex should be a part of a relationship. A close one. And then I also realized that I desire that creative connection S and I have, and that was the easier thing to focus on, for mine and R's sake.

The reason I picked up the journal to write, I wanted to say something in particular. There's been a $40-something-dollar receipt floating around the kitchen. R cooked a wonderful meal the other day and afterward said, "That was a $35 meal." Wow, I thought, I like to eat at home to save money.

But I didn't say that. The receipt seems to keep appearing in different places. R tends to put things away haphazardly, but the receipt isn't floating around haphazardly. I don't think. Am I just high? Does he want me to/expect me to pay half of that receipt? Shouldn't he say something if he does? Should I say something to him or will that cause bad vibes?

My paranoia's making me think he is trying to cause bad vibes. Not intentionally, but he may be doing what he's doing - moving the receipt around (if he is) - as a way of saying something to me. It causes a number of opportunities for the creation of a tangent in my mind. Is he keeping track of what I'm eating? what he's bought? Should I willingly pay for whatever he asks me to pay for since he isn't asking me to pay rent? Should I offer to pay rent? Haven't I already? Could I even afford it? No. I would have to go back to LW's. She'd be more than happy to oblige. She just brought it up again recently. But I really don't want to live in that area, in that little house. I'd rather live in a small apartment by myself. But could I find anything cheap enough to afford? And why wouldn't I give that money to R? I have no problem with that, but it's hard to get answers to all these questions when I'm the only one talking.

It's 11:00. S's gonna call any second now.

coke adds life or something other than that

I'm trying to get my mind around chapter 04. I've finished reading my research book (Edmund White's States of Desire) and I know where I want to go with this chapter, but the inspiration isn't coming. It'll come, I know it will, but there's always a feeling of frustration waiting for it.

In this chapter, "Hell's Kitchen," Randy is thinking back over his relationship with Charles Hatch, the first person he met when he arrived in New York City. Charles dies of an brain aneurysm while coked up having sex with a man much younger than him (he is 63 at death).

At death, Randy is upset with Charles because Charles has become a financial supporter of Randy's friend August Collins (who becomes the performance artist "august chagrin" for whom the novel is named). Randy met August on New Year's Eve 1989, they had a brief relationship, during which time, Randy asked for Charles' assistance with August's career - getting him a director, rehearsal space and performance opportunities. After August's career is underway, Randy and August have a falling out, and Randy wants Charles to stop funding August's career, but Charles refuses. That is the source of Randy's unhappiness.

Randy believes Charles changed, but realizes, after death, that he was the one who changed. He thinks back on his arrival in New York City in a rental car, his one night in a hostel and the ad for a job he found on the hostel bulletin board (a weekly newspaper focused on the Hell's Kitchen neighborhood where Charles lives called The Kitchen Sink). Charles takes Randy under his wing, first as a "personal assistant," and at the end of the summer, when the newspaper begins publishing, as its listings editor; Charles also provides Randy with an apartment in an old tenement building his family owns (the Hatch fortune is from real estate).

Randy flashes back on what precipitated his arrival in New York: a year at the University of Florida, in which his best friend Christian betrays him. The two of them had plans to move to New York to become famous playwright (Randy) and actor (Christian). Randy rents a car because he is afraid of flying, after his round trip to Las Vegas the summer after high school with his neighbor friend Diamond White, which was fraught with turbulence, literally and figuratively.

Chapter 04 is written after Charles' death in 1990, but the bulk of it takes place in 1982. It is difficult figuring out how to make that work.

Randy and Charles had sex shortly after he arrived and moved out of the hostel and into Charles' loft, but the sex is more for Randy's "education;" Charles readily and constantly tells Randy that he isn't his type. Unlike Charles' other numerous sex partners (muscle men in their mid-twenties) though, Randy and Charles maintain their friendship. Randy recognizes that Charles is like a father to him, though he is three times older than Randy when they meet.

The night Randy moved into his apartment, a stray cat splattered with tar comes to his fifth floor window. He spends most of his first summer in New York at home watching TV and hanging out with the cat whom he named Ahoy, not even realizing that he missed Gay Pride Weekend (Charles is on Fire Island) until he sees coverage of it on the local news.

That seems like a kind of lame place to end the story, but I haven't even figured out how to get to this point dramatically. Charles is a difficult character to write. I have several versions of him, all very different. Mostly I see him as a very tall, thin, healthy but insecure man who believes sex won't kill him because he is a top. He is referring to AIDS, which is a bigger and bigger issue in New York City from 1982 when Randy arrives.

In the end, sex does kill Charles, in a sense, because all of the cocaine he snorts is in order to keep up with the young men he is fucking.

improving

Last night, S and P1 went to the theater with me to watch me do improv. It wasn't an official performance, just the weekly jam, but I was pooping all day yesterday, I think because of the nervousness.

The shootaround (jam) went all right. Both C and T were there; T is my current teacher and coach, C was my first improv teacher in Austin (I took a class when I was in Nashville five years ago).

It was nice to have S there to observe me and give me some insight on my insecurities, particularly with C, who I think is a wonderful performer, but I wasn't really all that crazy about his teaching style. I also have felt very self-conscious with him onstage, and I wasn't exactly sure what that was about. I feel a little more comfortable playing with T, although she's the best improviser I know.

S pointed out that the difference is likely the fact that T is a woman and C is a man. I am more comfortable around women, for the most part. Boys are so hard to figure out, particularly straight white 20-somethings. Well, there's the attraction thing (not that I'm all that attracted to C, though he is cute), and then there's the issues I had with boys from eighth grade on, with them calling me names, picking on me, etc. That was 32 years ago! It's crazy how psychological shit sticks with you.

That's what I see as the "good" of improv for me. It's not so much about the performing, it's about the therapy I get out of it (though I do look forward to performing for an audience of more than two!). The first several shootarounds I went to, I was so nervous and felt so out of place, particularly when T wasn't there and there were several of the guys from the other theater I took an improv class with (before C+T got fired and started this one). But I stayed aware, have been observing myself and my relations with these people. The first couple of times I played with C, I felt so bad, dorky, stupid. The first couple of times I played with T, I felt awkward, but it was fun.

Last night, I actually enjoyed a couple of scenes I had with C. I don't know if it was because S and P1 were there (I had something to prove), or if it's just that I've gotten more comfortable with myself and others. Maybe a little of both. There was a skinny kid named N at the shootaround last night, too, young enough (or looking), I guess, that I wasn't as intimidated by him - or maybe it was more of the comfort of having S and P1 there, and/or more of the comfort I'm gaining doing the shootarounds every week.

There were also a couple of men there who were a bit annoying. One of them was there before. He has never taken an improv class but believes he "gets it" and "knows what it's all about," but his choices are offputting and just wrong. He brought a young man with him who was almost as annoying, but not quite as in-your-face as the older dude. The first time I played with him, the next time I saw T, I asked her what was the good of the shootarounds, if there are people there who have no experience. I was "concerned" that perhaps playing with untrained improvisers might be doing me more harm than good. She said that for her it is good for keeping her sharp and helping her to work with unexpected situations. She said she also meets people whom she loves playing with and would never have met had she not gone to the shootarounds.

I realized last night that I was also seeing the good of playing with "bad" improvisers. It certainly puts me on the spot more than a comfortable situation like being in class or in a rehearsal with T and just CG and me. It's like cheap therapy. Cheap because the shootarounds are free, and because repeating levels of classes (which is most of what I've been doing lately) is free.

There is an intensive class next month on recognizing and working with patterns and games in improv scenes. It is going to be led by C, and it costs $100. When I first heard that, I thought I wouldn't take it because I don't like C's teaching style. But I think maybe I need to give him another chance.

saturday, october 2 (2004)

almost 10:00 a.m.

The College Street Tent is filling up. Word has it there are at least 10,000 people who come to the International Storytelling Festival. There must be 50,000 stories here at least. I'm close to the back of the tent. I'm thinking I'll stay here for the first three tellers of the day, that way maybe I'll be able to move forward a bit each time. Number three is an elderly lady named Kathryn Windham; I hope to be pretty close for her.

I got my program and sat down with it and a cup of coffee and tried to figure out some method for deciding which teller to see when and where. I was wearing the raw silk knit cap I got at Spring Gathering. An old man stopped and asked me if I got my hat in Morocco. He had gotten one similar to it when we was stationed there in the Navy. We talked a while. He's been coming to this festival for 17 years - only missed one when he was flat-on-his-back sick. He told me I was gonna be hooked. I told him I already am, and haven't heard one word of a story yet. People are so friendly.

Jonesborough is the oldest town in Tennessee. I don't know if that has anything to do with it, these people are from all over the place. I asked the old man how to go about deciding on who to see. He said he and his wife pick one tent and sit there all day. He pointed out a few acts that he said I should not miss. He's an old Service Man, could be a Bush fan, but his was the only advice I had to go on. He said, "Some of 'em are average, but a whole lot of 'em are outstanding."

John McCutcheon was in the Midnight Cabaret last night. I wish I'd known that; I would've paid the extra $15 for that one instead of tonight's. Not that I think tonight's show won't be good. It's a Cuban woman named Carmen Deedy. I'm sure it'll be spicy.

I'm wearing my yellow Crocs. People can't help but look at 'em.

I spent the night in a parking lot in Johnson City. Big Blue was very comfy and cozy. Well, I could stand to make the bed cushions a little more comfy. But I slept well.

There is non-stop chatter. A woman behind me just said "--compromising position!" and laughed. Earlier a woman screamed out a name and the din of noise abated for a moment then rose up again. When I first sat down, I heard an old man two rows back. He said, "How are they gonna get the elephants in here?" I guess he didn't get a response because a few moments later he said, "I don't know how they're gonna have a circus in this tent with all these people here!"

Krispy Kreme came on as the official sponsor of the festival this year. They have a 10-year contract, so I heard. People are carrying familiar little half-dozen boxes around everywhere I look. The couple next to me just gave the man in front of us a bottle of water. He insisted on paying the $1.50 he knows it cost. Then they offered the chubby boy next to him a donut. The boy tentatively nodded, then took the box. The man offering said, "Just one."(!)

I guess it wasn't as close to 10:00 as I thought it was. I sure am glad I got here as early as I did. I parked in the Kiwanis grass lot next to the fire station. It cost $10 to park, but it's within walking distance so I'll save the $2 round trip shuttle fee to/from the $5 parking lots, and I'll probably be able to go back and forth a lot more. I'm glad I brought cereal and rice milk with me. I had that and an apple and so the donuts aren't calling me like they would've otherwise. I would've been walking around with one of those half-dozen boxes like everybody else.

A church on Main Street is offering "Free Water from Jacob's Well." I wonder what that's about, and how free it really is.

--

Must be 2:00 o'clock now. I decided to get a little lunch and get out of the tent for a while. My stomach hurt during the last hour because I had eaten a bunch of trail mix and needed to go potty.

It's been raining on and off all day. Fortunately, I've been under cover every time. Across from the table where I'm sitting is a little Toyota pickup with a gay-identifying rainbow under the cab back window, and on the passenger side it says in bright orange shoe polish:

HEY, YA'LL
and
JUST HITCHED!

friday, october 1 (2004)

9:30-ish

I'm in Johnson City. I got here at 7:30, had to shit real bad and went to see a movie just so I could. I wanted to see Life of Brian - that would've been fun - but it had already started (well, actually I don't know, what with all the previews; but I didn't know how long it would take me to shit...). I watched The Forgotten, only because it starred Julianne Moore. It had Anthony Edwards in it, too, which might've swayed me away from it, but I didn't know that. It was all right, that's all. Sort of an extended "X-Files" kind of movie. All right.

I realized on my way eastward today that I was sort of taking Big Blue on a test run. To see how she did/does long distance. Today was a 7.5 hour drive. It could've been shorter, but I didn't push her. I stayed behind slow-moving 18-wheelers on the long inclines.

I told R on Sunday that I want to go to California by the end of next year. He didn't say much until Wednesday, his first day back to work after a 5-day weekend. I was in the home office transcribing. He came in and was putting on his shoes. He looked up at me and his face was all wet and his eyes were all red. I still tear up when I picture his face, even here in the Olive Garden (all-you-can-eat soup and salad - old habits die hard!).

I knelt in front of him and we cried for a while. He said, "I don't want to lose you." Up until Sunday I thought all I wanted was to get away from R, away from that relationship. But after I thought about it some more, and after Wednesday, and after I put my thoughts into a 6-page letter, I realized that it isn't what I have or don't have in my relationship with R, it's what I don't have in my life. Namely a creative collaborator. And that is something I could never have with R. The fact that he's not an artist (although he could be with his photos) is one of the things I love about R. I was ready to get away from that part of my life. And I did. But I couldn't stay away from it forever. I tried to convince R in my letter that we should have this relationship for this next year, that we should continue to work on it and ourselves. And when it's time for me to go to California we can have the satisfaction of ending a relationship that is not a failure.

I dropped the letter in his lunch box today. He left a message on my voice mail while I was out of range in the Smokies. He said he'd already read my note (I'm assuming before he even left for work). I'm glad I told him last weekend. I told Dr. C I wasn't sure if I wanted to tell him before I came to the Storytellers Festival or if I wanted to use this weekend away to ponder it. As it turns out, telling him on Sunday and not getting a response from him until Wednesday, and then taking the past couple of days to gather my thoughts and deliver them to him, turned out to be best for all of us. I have all that heaviness off my mind and can concentrate on the festival. And since I'm out of range, he'll have the weekend by himself to ponder the mysteries of me!

tuesday, september 28th (2004)

10:27 p.m.

For the last four nights at least, I've looked at a clock when it read 10:27. I wonder if RM still sees "1027" like he used to all of the time.

I'm under the tin roof of the carport, with insects singing their night song. (or) with the night-song insects playing away. (!)

We saw John Waters' latest tonight. E said the other day in the dog park that Chris Isaak would get R to that movie.
I said, "Oh, really?"
He said, "Don't you know about his Chris Isaak thing?"

I'm smoking again; killing myself. For what?

Sc from the dog park was there at the movie with his friend M - who I thought was H because I didn't remember his name. R and I were the first in the theater. Sc asked if they could sit with us. Our arms and legs touched now and again during the movie. I don't think it was all me (oh, god, what a pervert!). I'd plied R with a pot brownie. We stopped at Chez Jose because he had a coupon. I'm so tired of eating at places just because we have a coupon! R didn't say a word to me the whole meal; didn't even look at me, I don't think. He had eaten the brownie before we got there; I didn't know it. I thought he was just being hateful. I asked him if I'd already told him that JT from our bridge group is in an upcoming production of Sweeney Todd and he just shook his head and looked off into space.

I enjoyed the movie. The last time I enjoyed a movie that much was when we saw Sordid Lives for the first time - when we were on the "ski trip" last February in West Virginia. We were on pot brownies that night, too.

When Sc and I laughed, we leaned into each other. When R laughed, he pulled away.

I left R a note recently that said: I've been struggling lately, in case you didn't notice(!).
He wrote back: I notice, anything I can do for you?
I wrote back: Don't pull away.

Since then, he's pulled further and further away. Poor thing, I know he's stuck, but I can't help him anymore than I already have. It became clear tonight and ended with him vomiting in the compost pile and clambering off to bed.

RB was at the movie tonight, too. He and his friends sat behind us. When they arrived, he kissed me on top of my freshly shaved, buffed-looking shiny head. He told his friends I was the only bigger fan of John Waters than him.
I cawed back, "I've got an award with his name on it, and I got a postcard from him!"

What kind of monster must I sound like? I was just playing the part with RB like I always do. But I probably still sounded like a braggart to some of the people around me. Hopefully Sc and M saw it as me being confident and wealthy of acquaintances(!). [I keep putting parenthetical exclamation points because I like the way that came out. And I only explain that because I love the word "parenthetical!"]

There's a gas can clicking in the garage; I'm having a hard time including it in the symphony.

RB said he and his friends were going for a drink and invited us along. We didn't commit. I was willing to go if R wanted to have a drink. (He often does - that's the way of his people. And I often do too, of late, because it seems I've become one of his people.) Turns out R was too high to go out, but not too high to stop at the liquor stor for beer.

When we got home, he said he was having a hard time getting out of the car. He was way-high by this point. I lit candles in the carport, opened beers, gave R an excellent dark chocolate bar, put the plastic Cape Cod chairs on the carport. R came out and said, "This is perfect!" He was content and I was enjoying the moment.

It didn't last long. He was at Ida last night, and said tonight that the last time he was at Ida, he and E and JV went together, and they slept in one tent, and he slept alone. (R was so in love with E.)
I said, "That's a drag."
He said, "Yes, it was." He looked into my eyes and I could see his sadness. This is what made me fall in love with him.

Is that sick? I fell in love with R because of his sadness. At the time, I was lonely and insecure. He was lonely. We fell in love. Me with his sadness, with the need to help him; him with my desire to take care of him. I'm his caretaker, I'm not his lover.

I do love taking care of R. But in the bargain I've neglected to take care of myself. Two weeks ago I told my shrink I was content with my relationship and what I'm getting from it. Yesterday afternoon, I told him I was unhappy, that I need a change. I said I realized that OK wasn't good enough for me.

After that session, I decided I wanted to move to California, to be with S. Since then, I've decided I will move to California by the end of next year.

I decided this would be a good time to break the news to R. I didn't just decide on the spur; I considered the decision carefully.
R said, "I'm so high!" He was enjoying himself. Then he brought up the sadness he felt about E and JV closing him out. About E closing him out throughout their relationship.

It seemed to me that he was in the state of mind to deal with my issues. But before I got the chance to say anything, R said he had to pee and I helped him up and sent him on his way. While he was gone, I sat back in my chair and thought about what I would say and how I would say it. The insect symphony was joined by a single cop siren, up and down, as the candelier with the beautiful ceramic ball in it swung gently over my head, hanging by black chains and metal rings.

I'm not happy. I haven't been happy much lately. I'm not happy in this relationship, and I've realized I once had a goal to live in California, and I want to continue to pursue that goal, that dream. I'm not leaving you. I'm still here for you. For now. I plan to be in California by the end of next year.

When R came back from peeing and plopped back into his chair next to me, after we'd exchanged a few pleasantries, and after a silent time had passed between us, I said, "I have something serious to talk to you about."
He said, "Nnnot nnnowww... I'm not in the right mood for that."
I said, "What kind of mood would that be?"
He didn't answer. He bent over, almost in a fetal position, eyes barely open.
I told him to lean back, to relax, "We don't have to talk about anything."
He leaned back in his chair, sprung back into position like a rubber band, locked his fingers together between his knees. "How's this?" He was defying me, refusing to communicate, flaunting his defiance.
I decided to tell him anyway. But he beat me to the punch.
"I think I have to go to bed," he said.
He didn't need help getting up this time.
I said, "All right." (Still practicing patience...)

I leaned back and looked up at the gently swaying candelier. The wind picked up as R walked away and the deep, dark windchime rang its three tones in a new variety of patterns.

I had to hear him heaving a third time before I realized R was vomiting. Still, I wasn't sure. I got up and carried my beer with me. He was leaned over the side of the compost bin. For a brief moment, his heaving sounded like deep, dark cries of pain - heart pain. But he wouldn't cry over me like this. Maybe he was feeling like a failure at this relationship, and any failure reminds him of the biggest failer in his life, and that was his love for E.

As I helped R into the house, poured him a glass of water, put toothpaste on a toothbrush and handed it to him, I thought, God, he's such a Tennessee Williams character! I should call him Tennessee Williamson. I should base a character by that name on him. I mean, how perfect was it to avoid having a serious discussion by getting sick enough to vomit?

I had to find my jounral while I was in the house taking care of R. I kept saying to myself throughout the evening, Remember this; write this down.

How perfect was it that I was sitting between R and Sc at the movie, sitting between What Is and What Could Be? It was very telling.

natural excitement

I had a brand new experience this morning. I went to check the mail, then noticed quite a bit of garbage on the 3.5 acres on which I live, more visible because the property was mowed yesterday. P1 returned my call from earlier - she's coming over tonight for dinner and to have a beer on the porch with S and me - and so I had the phone to an ear, the other hand full of bits of paper, plastic, foil, etc., and the mail tucked under an arm. The dog and pig were following me along the inside of the fence; I noticed lots of baby figs on the tree by the road, and then a sprinkling of bugs flying in the air. As I trained my eyes on them, I realized it was more than a sprinkling, it was a cloud - a swarm! - a swarm of bees. I came out of my shoes as I ran backwards toward the more open area of the yard, my head hit a low branch of a tree. I cut P1 off in the middle of a sentence to tell her what was going on.

After we hung up, I discovered a moving lump on the branch of a pecan tree hanging over the fence into the front yard. I called P1 back to tell her of my discvovery She asked if I could take a picture, which I tried to do after we hung up again, but iPhones are not made for close-up pictures of bees in the shaded limbs of a tree.

It was exciting, but my second thought was one of regret. Other than P1, there was no one who would likely share my excitement about the bees. S is afraid of them. Little p would love to see them, probably, but then her dad would likely go after them with pesticide; the thought of it bummed me out.

Just yesterday I said to S that when we move into the containers I would like to get a beehive. He didn't show much excitement - I guess because of his fear - and said, "That'll be nice for you."

I didn't know how this cluster of bees in the front yard was going to act, if it was going to grow and grow until we were overrun with bees and even I was ready to see them gone. I came inside and got online. Apparently, when a hive gets overcrowded, the queen lays eggs that will become new queens - I guess those stay behind for the existing hive, but didn't read much about that - and then the worker bees engorge themselves with honey and leave with the queen to find another suitable home, sometimes resting on a branch for a few hours or a few days (with the queen in the middle) while scouts go out looking for their new residence.

I was relieved, and intrigued. I started looking online for beekeeping supplies, thinking that I could keep these bees as my own personal honey-makers. But there are no beekeeper shops nearby, and I'm strapped for cash currently, and I would "definitely" need a bee suit. The whole process started sounding daunting, especially as I'm sitting at the computer waiting for work to come in.

I found one of little p's cameras (I thought it had a video feature, but couldn't figure it out) and went outside and got pretty close to the cluster (the websites all said that the bees weren't likely to be dangerous - unless they were the aggressive African bees, which are in the Southern half of the country from California to Florida, which is where I am, but I felt at one with the critters for some reason). When I first discovered them, they were stretched along two or three feet of the limb, thicker in the middle; when I returned half an hour later, they were confined to the size of a ball smaller than a volleyball.

I took some pictures, which didn't come out very good, and I don't know how to transfer the pictures from the camera to the computer, so I cheated and grabbed a random one off of the web. The tree limb in this picture is smaller than the actual one, and the bees in this picture look larger than the ones on our tree, which Wikipedia says describes the African "killer" bees - but it also describes harmless Egyptian bees.

Well, anyway, I'm still alive, and I just went out to look at them again for an update, and they seem to have reduced even more, to about the size of a toupee. Or maybe my memory of them was enhanced earlier by the excitement.

sunday, september 26th (2004)

12:17 a.m.

I'm kind of in a daze. Not because of the movie, though it was good. I decided today (or yesterday, technically) that I'm gonna move to California within the next year. Most likely, S and I will live together. Now the question is how do I tell R? And what do I tell R? And when? He's at Idapalooza tonight, maybe till Sunday.

Dr. C pointed out three times that I said I was glad today:
1) Glad that R was going to Ida without me;
2) Glad that I was going to Jonesborough next weekend without him; and
3) I can't remember what the third glad was.

S dreamed a "Peace. Love. Y'all." logo for the documentary. (A peace sign. A heart. A lucky green dress.) He and C finished the submittable edit of the film (2 hours) in the nick of time to get it to FedEx to send it to the Sundance Festival committee.

I'm wired. I think this is the right decision. Perhaps one year will be a good goal for being off of antidepressants as well...

2:56 a.m.
There's an old tale about a woman who cut the ends off of roasts before putting them in the oven... I heard that when I was young; maybe that's why I came to despise my mother's Sunday roasts.

hotne$$

I believe I am having an identity crisis. I feel slightly afloat, unmoored. It is not a completely bad feeling, just awkward. I'm used to that. I haven't gone to yoga in over two weeks. I was supposed to have a therapy session tomorrow (I've been going once a month), but I canceled it. All to do with money. I kind of miss the yoga, but I really miss the therapy, even though I won't have missed a session until tomorrow. I feel the need to tell someone in The Profession that I'm having an identity crisis. Well, not someone, him, my Therapist. He's good. I like him. I was afraid that if I quit going to yoga and therapy, it would be hard to make it back. But I long for both of them.

Financially, I feel okay. Things are tight, but for once in my life I'm handling things pretty well. Except for the $28 I spent on two groovy 1950s chairs from Goodwill on Friday, I think it was. Retail therapy. They're in very good shape. I put them on the front porch.

Today I moved the logs to the side and the trunk to the front of the porch next to the (for now) unused chimenea. We now have seating for six out there. I don't know if there are six people I would want to be around at the same time. Not right now. I have been feeling very anti-social lately. I enjoy my friendship with S, and my other housemates are easy enough to get along with, though I don't spend a lot of time with them - I don't think I've ever sat on the front porch with them. P1 is a good friend; I feel close to her. She makes time to come over and sit on the front porch with me.

Last night, I had a performance with M, her one-woman show in the Ladies Are Funny Festival (LAFF). It's the same show I did with M several months ago as part of the FuseBox Festival. I screwed up the last line of my song (and therefore the grand finale of the show) that time and had a lot of anxiety about it happening again, even though I never missed the last line while rehearsing the past couple of weeks at home.

Plus I just didn't feel like doing it. But I did. And I didn't screw up the last line, but nobody noticed anyway because they were clapping for M through the song. I was just glad to be done, glad the stress was over. As soon as the applause ended, I unplugged my keyboard, walked offstage and out the backstage exit, to my truck and home.

Nobody was here. It was 8:45 pm on a Saturday night and I had nothing to do. Oh well. I read.

I'm reading Edmund White's States of Desire, the whole thing. It's a good read, published in 1980, and so written right before the AIDS pandemic. It is research, inspiration really, for my novel. I'm trying to get a handle on a character who speaks more eloquently than I, who is more educated, more sophisticated, more wealthy, more gay. Sitting on the front porch last night, I wrote this:

Charles talked incessantly using words I didn't know the meanings of, but which he used so convincingly that whenever he asked if I knew what he meant, I invariably said, "Yes," and was able to respond in some (albeit brief) way that kept the conversation going. The cocaine helped.

I didn't become addicted to coke because I couldn't afford it, but whenever it was offered I partook. Somehow our talk found us in bed together, having sex, not because Charles was attracted to me - as he said numerous times during the act - but rather to "catch me up," as he put it, on all I had missed in my eighteen years. My boyhood crush on Rich White, who fucked me without regard, and my "adult" experience with the famous drag queen in Las Vegas were inconsequential, according to Charles, who was three times older than me, and admittedly a very good lover.

His tastes were more toward buff Chelsea Boys, whom Charles met at the gym (where he regularly went to keep himself physically and mentally youthful), and it was almost a relief when I was set free to pursue my own sexual interests after living in his guest room for a month-and-a-half.

I myself feel inadequate much of the time. When I read Edmund White - who is an intellectual elitist - I have waves of embarrassment thinking of people reading my writing, because, like Randy Reardon, I've always felt that if I surrounded myself with people who were smarter than me I would naturally soak up some of their intelligence. But most of the time I just feel inadequate.

One place where I don't feel inadequate (most of the time) is in my improv troupe HOTNE$$ IN A PO$E, which is CG and me. We had our first rehearsal with T today. I've already learned so much in just an hour-and-a-half (besides all the other hours of class I take every week, because they're free for the most part). Here's a rundown of the scenes we did/characters I played (mostly for my own edification):

• silent scene; me eating, elaborate process of opening basket, taking out food/drink; CG arrives, offers me a flower; I pack up basket, set it down, take flower, say thanks, drop it to the ground, pick up basket, repeat elaborate process. This happens three times; third time, I eat the flower. It went on from there, but T said that should have been the edit.
• I'm father in mother's dress; daughter arrives... The scene went awry because I showed shame for being in the dress instead of it being normal or fun... (T's note: MAKE THE PLAYFUL CHOICE).
• I'm a happy bride (absurd) who wants a wedding dress made of clovers, want to be married in a barn by a crow; CG is the wedding store worker who tries to play it straight but falters a little.
• I'm crying against the wall. CG arrives, says "Mr. Smith, you have to come down; we have to do your taxes." This scene went on too long (T: need to recognize natural edit) but there were some fun things happening. I had spent all of the company money turning my office into a castle; I was up in a tower with a Rapunzel wig and dress; I had long curly fingernails and couldn't sign the company over to CG's character...
• Quails. I had pet quails in the house; CG said we had to eat them. The scene turned into a Yes-I-am/No-I'm-not scene, got stuck.
• Two characters folding laundry. CG: Your brother's coming home today. Me: He was denied parole; what happened? CG: He's coming home; you have to move out of his bedroom. Me: But he killed all those people... The scene turned dark and (worse) mundane. (T: MAKE THE MORE PLAYFUL CHOICE.)
• I played a gay man (ha) feeding a girlfriend odd foods he's prepared in hopes of luring a mate: Quail that I caught in the park with a butterfly net (but couldn't figure out how to get the "claws" off so I tucked them under), grated sponge that "acts (and looks) like rice" (!), gravy made from mold, biscuits made from powdered cow hooves, alcoholic beverage made from fermented olive juice. (Pretty good scene with me doing most of the talking, CG responding physically.)
• Housewife on speed (me) after husband's death, rearranging petunias, drinking champagne, in love with her doctor. CG played the daughter who couldn't get a word in edgewise. Tiring scene for me, but funny.
• Transaction Scene (T: Sweet!) - I'm the moving man, ask for payment. CG: Checkbook is in one of the boxes. The scene was, according to Tami, well-paced at keeping the transaction from being completed, which you don't want to happen in a transaction scene.
  

thursday, september 23rd, 10:30ish p.m. (2004)

I'm in such a fucking quandary right now. For the last day or so, I've been thinking I need to do something about this relationship I'm in. I don't feel like I can leave, for so many reasons. I love R, but this isn't the relationship I wanted; this isn't the life I wanted.

I saw Sc at the park a couple of days ago. There was flirtation. I invited him to see Maria Full of Grace as we were packing the dogs in the cars. He said he has a big job this week, but took my number and said he would call. He did. He couldn't go.

I didn't go to the movie either. I found out it's playing through the weekend. He was at the dog park again tonight, with his friend who was with him the first time I met him (when R was in Wisconsin, because I didn't have Bayne at the park with me then). I felt a little weird around Sc.

When I was first courting R, L commented to S that I was going in fifth gear, and S told her I always do. What's that about?

I was trying to think of all of these things Sc and I could do together. I did mentioned the other night that I have a "partner." Tonight I found myself wanting to take that back.

My attraction to Sc isn't what's making me contemplate and reassess my relationship with R, but it is making the fact that there's a problem in my relationship with R all the more clear.

I called A last night - he had a short-lived relationship with R and then lived with him for five years as a housemate - I figured he would be a good shoulder to lean on. He was. But he complicated matters a little by telling me I could come live with him. I don't feel that's at all an option, but it's tempting - or it is on occasion.

The fact is I do need to reassess my relationship with R. Well, we need to reassess, but I'm pretty sure I'm the only one who'll be taking part in the reassessment (though I'd love to be wrong about that).

This whole thing started yesterday or the day before when I was thinking about how I shouldn't be going to the Galapagos Islands {with R}. I can't afford it. If I go, I'll be $3,000 deeper in debt. I really have no right going off on an expensive

no, really, i'm okay

I found an hour's worth of work to do this morning. Not much coming in these days. It's the annual slow period for satellite workers while the New York City home office prints out graphs, binds them, and sends them to clients. Not many phone calls being made, not many interviews, not much call for transcribing.

The fact that I got a 25% pay cut a month or so ago makes it worse; the fact that, along with that, my cushy minimum 20 hours a week also disappeared makes it horrible.

Fortunately, I'm not paying rent right now.

I canceled therapy. I stopped going to yoga. I canceled my monthly massage club membership (which admittedly was a weird thing to have anyway). I'm down to the bare bones. Watching my lap top for incoming transcription work while working on my novel on the desktop Apple behind it. It could be a lot worse.

Things are going well with august chagrin. I finished chapter 31, "Christian Wall" and am now working on chapter 4, "Hell's Kitchen" (which chronologically comes after chapter 31). Christian Wall was a brand new write; Hell's Kitchen is just a rewrite, but it's really being rewritten; the structure of the story remains, but the characters are being changed.

S checked out a book from the library for me that he read 25 years ago, Edmund White's States of Desire. He thought the section on Houston would be useful, and it may well be when I get to the section in my novel that deals with Houston. Right now my main character has just moved from Florida to New York City. The chapter in Mr. White's book on New York is amazing, perfect, basically a blueprint for the character I had already started writing, the Manhattanite Charles Hatch, a wealthy homosexual who (sort of) befriends Randy almost from the moment he arrives, gives him a job, an apartment, fucks him, all the things Randy really needs after what precipitated his hasty departure from Florida (chapter 31).

Right now, my longhand notebook is a mess of beginnings, endings and middles, and even reminder notes for the next two chapters in this section, chapter 11, "Anita Cox," and chapter 18, "August Collins." This is the most exciting part of the work to me.

monday, september 20th, 7:39 a.m. (2004)

I go through these periods where I don't know what I'm doing here. I feel like I need to get out to save myself, but I feel like I can't because I have a certain responsibility to R. He is non-communicative, emotionally unavailable and sexually disinterested 100%.

10:30 p.m.
I'm a lost boy. I'm unhappy. I don't know what it is. My life is not becoming what I wanted it to be; it isn't anywhere close to where I hoped it could be. I have no energy, no inspiration. I felt like I was gonna fall asleep at work today. Or cry.

Sophie has the ottoman against the front window with a blue tones Indian blanket on it to keep her from ruining it. She likes to lie there and look for something to bark at. We've already gotten into a ritual, and it's only been two days. I walk over in the morning, take her home until I go to work, then pick her up after work with Bayne and Jesse on board, and we go to the dog park. Then it's back to our house for the evening, and then back home for Sophie.

R&B have such a well-appointed house. They have a happy little life here. I'm not saying it's what I want, but I can certainly appreciate the appeal. Of course, I'd have to have a filthy rich boyfriend to live like this because I am 40 years old and haven't made the choices in life that would allow me such luxuries.

Handsome S who works for Sony was at the dog park tonight. The last time I saw him there, I put a note on his car door: Call me if you're heading to the park, I'll meet you there, or something like that. He never called. That's been about three months or so.

He's disgruntled with his corporate life. I think he is fascinated and slightly appalled by my life. I take his fascination as flirtation and I'm right there, even tonight, despite myself.

J said from the stage Saturday night, "Weve got a local celebrity in the house tonight. He's part of the Hey, Y'all Group." Oh, brother.

I imagined saying to him in our fantasy life together somewhere down the road, "I can't believe you said that! I hated you for saying that! But really, that was the only thing I could find to not like about you that night, and now look at us..."

Oh, brother!

R left me a note tonight: Where have you gone? I seem to have lost contact with you again. Or something like that. I hate that note. The last time he left something like that, I poured out my heart in a multiple-page letter to him and he barely responded to it, if at all. I don't recall anything. Why would I want to keep opening myself up like that for no return? I just simply can't. I love R, but I'm not getting what I need, and if I don't just tune him out sometimes, medicate myself more than I normally would, I'm afraid I would begin to hate him for his inabilities. And the fact that they are inabilities - deeply ingrained inabilities - makes me feel so much sadness for him and for us.

sunday, september 19th, 1-ish (2004)

I don't know what reason I have for feeling down today, but I do. I've been thinking a lot about my life here lately. What am I accomplishing? Where is this going? L and I went to see some singer/songwriters last night; one I know, one she knows.

His songs moved me - I cried at the one about his friend R's cancer treatment. I wonder if it made me cry because of Pamela, or because it was that beautiful.

Or was I just longing for a different life for myself? One with him? He smiles a lot, he's very gentle; not at all like what I've got now. I find myself wanting to leave this relationship, wanting to run away. But I feel trapped in it, too. Mostly for his sake.

I've always called his anger a good lesson for me, for my cultivation of patience. But have I learned enough? Is that what this feeling is? Is my relationship with R the reason I'm disgruntled with UU? Or is that another issue altogether, another factor contributing to my funk?

Or is it the medication? Is it wrong for me?

Today is ST's birthday lunch. I don't want to go, but I don't want to say anything. I don't want to eat; I don't want to spend the money. And I'm thinking it's gonna cause some kind of funk on the group. So I feel like I should say something to R. But at the same time, I feel like I should stand my ground. It's my right to go and not eat and just celebrate his birthday, right? But then why am I avoiding signing the card for the present R bought ST?

Does it all go back to my pulling back from this relationship? From that church? From this life?

I daydreamed about just pulling up and going to California. But that doesn't feel right at all. First, S doesn't even have a place to live, and he won't for some months. I know he'd be happy to have me at that point, but it's not something I'd even consider right now.

So I think to myself, How many months? But that's so irresponsible. I have enough jobs here and the living situation to support getting myself out of debt. That's a good and noble goal, I know that. But I fantasize about a relationship with poor artists like singer/songwriter J, and try to arrange sexual encounters with people like that older swimmer dude at the Y who flirts with me with his huge dick. My sexual life beyond that is pretty nonexistent.

Party time...

5-ish
Novel idea: Big Blue. Starts off with my depression and switches back and forth between that and the Suburban Big Blue.