social obligations

The date with (C) was a bust for the most part. He's very cute, very sweet, and not very interested in me. Have I already written about this? I feel like I have. Maybe I haven't blogged about it. I hope not. That would seem obsessive, and I'm really not obsessive, or don't like to see myself that way. That was last Wednesday. I had a little cry over it; nothing big, just a little flushing, and I felt better, and feel better.

Wednesday was kind of a weird double-whammy on the emotions. Wednesday evening was my second improv class at the new place. It's a level one class. I've taken a couple of each level up to level three, but I wanted to get a different perspective, expand my improv knowledge. I mentioned it to T and she approved wholeheartedly. (It's weird, it felt like a confession. I had mentioned it to a few people in the community randomly and hadn't mentioned it to her, so I felt like I had to make a point of telling her, which I guess is why it felt like a confession. But anyway...)

The teacher is a nice guy, if a little clueless. Or at least it feels that way to me. I don't want to make a deal about it, but there were a couple of things that got under my skin. Which makes me thankful that I'm back in therapy - twice a month. The first class, he made a completely innocent comment about the fact that we plan what we're going to do before we go on stage based on fear, wanting to be accepted, cool, funny, "attractive to the opposite sex so we can procreate." Maybe it sounds a little biblical, now that I write it out. I just had a feeling of "he doesn't mean me, he doesn't 'accept' me." I'm really not all that political about identity, but my religious and suppressive upbringing kind of makes it similar to a political feeling. Now that I write it out.

Anyway, so I had therapy the next day, and I was able to get over it, whatever that means. Truly, I'm only bringing it up because I'm writing about it. It's been so long ago now, the fact that I haven't written about it yet should point to the fact that it's not all that important to me. Same as with the date. I'm a little buzzed so I'm feeling eloquent, in the movingly expressive sense of the word.

In the more recent class, the second class of the six-week session, the class that followed soon after the date, the teacher told everyone to find the person they felt had the most in common with them. I went to the big dyke with the piercings and black rock T-shirt on. We were instructed to find three things we had in common. We both had spacers in our ears (mine a "2," hers an "0," which is bigger, natch), so I pointed that out. Then I said, "And we're both gay." It seemed to take her by surprise. Maybe I'm projecting. She said, "What?" I said, "You're gay, right?" She said, "Oh-- yeah," which sounded like she hadn't heard me the first time. Maybe I slurred it out nervously. I have a tendency to do that. The dreaded G word. But I'm facing it, I'm getting closer to an understanding, I think, slowly but surely, one day at a time, sweet Jesus...

We then had to choose the most interesting thing and write that on a strip of paper the teacher had passed out while we were all rumbling in our two-person teams. He said, "Not the most obvious thing; something that would make everybody in the room go, 'Ooh!'"

My partner said, "What do I write, 'We're both gay?'" I said, "Put 'We're both homos.'" Which she did after a smirk.

The strips of paper were put away and forgot about for the rest of class - almost forgotten completely. As we were about to leave, the teacher stopped us and said he had to read them. Everyone froze. They were probably all wondering if what they had written was good enough, I know I was. Had I tricked this poor 20-something into doing something she wasn't comfortable with? Or did the notion that we needed to point it out seem unnecessary to her? That could be the case, I guess, if she believed there was no need for distinction other than a way of dressing, if the need to define yourself publicly was/is passé.

What am I even writing? Did I say I was buzzed. Have you seen those billboards that say Buzzed Driving Is Drunk Driving? Well, Buzzed Writing Is Drunk Writing, Too, then. But I'm not so much drunk as I'm high. Not drunk at all, actually. I didn't have enough money for a beer tonight. I was at a film party at the Art Alliance or Art Authority or The Place Next to Spiderhouse - whatever they're calling it these days. I digress.

The improv teacher read through all of the strips of paper, some interesting, some funny, some just fine. "We're both homos." was the very last one. When he read it, he stopped on the word "homo" and read it carefully, then said coyly, "Well, okay, that may be true-- And that would be okay..."

It doesn't seem like much. It didn't seem like much when it happened. I felt a weirdness in my center. My partner didn't seem to react, and everybody else just kind of laughed or ignored it, as with the others. When I mentioned it to S and others, though, I started feeling a little more isolated by the experience. It drives me crazy that I can't see these things in the moment, can't work with them. I know, I know, recognizing it at all is a step in that direction (Thank you, Pëma).

I had therapy the next morning, and when I told the story to L, he stopped me a ways down the path and said, "I'm sorry. As a straight man, I didn't even realize that was what you were saying." I love L, he's a wonderful therapist. What he said made me realize what I suspected: A doesn't even realize it; he is speaking only from his own experience. That's good to know, but it may make me judge his teaching efforts differently. I hope this isn't truly the case.

Thursday, I took S to the airport and he flew off to NYC for forever (not really, he's back on September 20th, driving back from Indiana in the car his parents are giving him). I'm going to NYC on the 9th and his rock opera (I guess that's what it's called) Lizzie Borden opens on the 10th, and I'm gonna get to see it!

I didn't do a lot else on Thursday or Friday. I had a barometric pressure headache (I don't know if that's a clinical term or my own); I get them sometimes when rain is coming. It feels like a hangover and/or a minor migraine. Sometimes the migraines get full-blown, but this one didn't. I felt feverish. And then I realized that my window unit was frozen over and blowing outside air in, and it was in the triple-digits! The rain came at some point in the afternoon, and amazingly, the headache all but disappeared.

I was thinking about going to see a movie on Thursday evening, but the a/c episode butted into my schedule. The foam over the cooling intake part of the a/c had frozen to the iced over ribs, and in trying to remove it, I pulled a hole shaped like Africa about 2 x 3" big. So I was thinking I needed to get a new one of those. I also needed to go to the store for candies, and it was almost time for the stores to close. I carried the foam thing to Home Depot, and they didn't have anything like it! Then I went to Target (because I had to go there for the candies anyway) and carried the muddy foam thing in with me in case they had one. They did not.

I needed the candies - mini Snickers, Twix, 3 Musketeers, etc. - for a Christmas Tree I was making for T's surprise birthday party (with a Christmas theme!) on Friday evening. I popped popcorn on Wednesday and it sat in my room getting stale, which I eventually told myself I intended. Friday morning I strung two strands (12 feet maybe) of popcorn and mini candies. It was quite lovely. The tree I got last weekend at a garage sale; it's a 4-foot tall fiber optic tree, so it didn't need lights. S&E put up other Christmassy decorations and the three of us made collage cards for T. I wish I had taken a picture of mine.

C had no real plan for getting T to the theater after their show at the Hideout. They were heading to East Side Pies, she thought, then somebody in the car said, "Let's go to the theater and drop off these fliers." T is easygoing, she said, "Sure." She was the one with the key at the door; I stood peeking out of the door curtain after we got the text. I saw her arriving, shushed everyone. The door was unlocked, so when she turned her key in the door, she thought it had finally happened, they had gotten broken into. She had a quick succession of dreadful thoughts - We don't have insurance; they took all our shit! - and she turned to run away, not wanting to go inside in case the bad guys were still in there. C grabbed her and pushed her into the room; she stumbled onto the stage and fell laughing. It was the best party she's had in years.

Last night I saw my friend M at Cafe Caffeine doing a monologue (with several other good storytellers) on the theme of "Clerks." M's bit was very funny, as was another guy, who read a story about a fat kid (him) trying to slide a 64-ounce Coke across a movie theater countertop Western movie style, only to hurl it onto its side sending sticky liquid flying on everyone in the lobby except him. I had tears flowing!

After that, I went to S's regular hangout, the Chain Drive. I've gone there a few times, but I'm not much of a bar person, and the times I've gone haven't been with S, and I've had some social anxiety issues there. But I got a notion to text S's friend G and see if he would be there. That was where S met G, I'm pretty sure. He indeed was going and we met up after the show. It was nice getting to know him a little better, as well as D, his ex-boyfriend best friend, who showed up. A weird thing happened, though. There was an attractive guy possibly looking at me, "cruising me," as it were. (He could have been cruising G, but I'm pretty sure we were making eye contact.) G was content to just sit there and chat with me, and I was trying to decide if it was rude to excuse myself to talk to a stranger. I'm pretty sure I know the answer to that. I don't think he would have considered it rude. D did that very thing when he showed up and the three of us were talking.

The young man went inside and back out a few times, and when G, D and I were talking, I was thinking to myself that that would be a good time to excuse myself and make my feeble attempts. But I couldn't figure out the wording for it. So I just became anxious and eventually had to leave. I did do one "Fruit Loop" as D called it (a walk around the square bar with the seating lining the walls opposite it). It was during my Fruit Loop that I realized my potential suitor had left, so when I returned to G and D, I told them that I had decided to do a "Fruity Pebbles" and "rock out!" (Weird, I know.)

Today was Sunday. I started working on some minor revisions to my manuscript - woo-hoo! At 5 I had book club at BookPeople, this month discussing J. M. Coetzee's Nobel Prize winning novel, Disgrace (Wow.), but I left the house at 2 and stopped by P.Terry's for a #5 and a double-chocolate shake. That was good, of course, the book club was good. After that I met up with M at Spiderhouse to hang out before HomoScope, the film party that was going on at the place next to there. There were a lot of really weird but pretty interesting films. I saw a number of people I knew and so felt socially relaxed. I snuck out in the middle of the after party right after telling someone I wasn't going home, that I was just going to my truck, which was the truth, because I was thinking I would roll a cigarette and go back to the party and join them where they were all smoking cigarettes, but I'm not much of a social smoker, I have realized. I like to smoke alone. That's a good thing and a bad thing. Good because if I'm busy I smoke less. (I guess that's what I'm supposed to say; I actually like smoking.) But if I'm lonely I smoke more. (Oh, that's not really true. I've smoked three or four a day for the past couple of days - two or three more than my usual daily intake - and I'm feeling indulgent.) When I got to my truck, I decided I did want to come home. It feels good to be home, particularly when I left a party feeling good and brought that feeling with me as opposed to the opposite.

sunday, january 9th (2004)

9:21 a.m.

Will I make it to meditation today? Something inside me really wants me to, but something else is holding me back. What's holding onto me? Why can't I persevere?

Today, we're supposed to be going to brunch with the ST's. By "we," I mean "they," the clique. I don't really want to go. Or do I? I probably shouldn't be spending the money.

Last night, R and I went to the Sutler to see Pinmonkey. Apparently, they haven't played out in a long time, perhaps even since they lost their record deal in 2002. I didn't enjoy them as much as I remembered enjoying them. Maybe they're different. Maybe it's me. Maybe it's because R was with me. Maybe it's because their fanbase (their "fan forum," as {lead singer} Michael kept calling them) is a bunch of high-pitched, screaming, drunk females. Maybe I was jealous. Maybe I am. Of what? I don't know. I guess the fact that they're doing "it." Doing something anyway. And I feel like I'm doing nothing. I lack inspiration...

Or do? Perhaps what I'm lacking, really, is motivation.

8:56
I needed to write to you. There are a lot of things on my mind. You're on my mind a lot, and I sincerely hope for the right reasons. But because of the state of my life of late, I believe we must both approach this with great caution. I would love to be in a relationship. Lately, I feel like that's what I'm most interested in in my life. It could be you I'm looking for, or you may just fit the bill at the moment. And I'm not looking for that; I wouldn't want to put either of us through that sort of a thing. I'm tired of love du jour; I'm interested in the kind of love that they talk about in romances, the kind of can't stand to be without the other kind of love. I don't think either of us are feeling that right now. There are no signs to contradict this. But I think something real doesn't necessarily have to happen instantaneously. So I would like to be near you and have a friendship that I know we can have--already have--and see what develops. I don't want to move in with you, I don't want to spend every waking moment with you. I don't want to commit anything to you--or anybody, not just yet.

9:10 pm
I meditated today. I mean I actually went to P&J's--the Shambhala Buddhist Group of Nashville. R said something about going for a walk to the grocery store and invited me along, and I said, "I can't, I'm going to meditate at 10:30." It just came out. So I did it. I took it as a sign.

It was good. A 23-year-old guy named J was there. He's a curious young man. He's big all over. And he's uncomfortable socially. He kept apologizing for speaking out of turn, or for changing the subject or whatever. But at the same time, he was at ease asking for water and asking questions about Buddhism and always ending requests or gratitudes with "my friend." As soon as I saw him, I recognized him. I had seen him on my way to meditation walking toward the Eastland Kroger (that's where Paul picked him up so he wouldn't have to take a bus). And, I think I saw him a couple of days ago at Five Points wearing a big orange poncho in the rain and walking toward the bus stop by the post office. I thought then that he might be mentally disabled, and I still think so, but not to the level I might've imagined previously. I gave him a ride home from meditation--he lives close by, on 17th between Eastland and the next street over (it's not Stratton up there, I don't think). I gave him my phone number and wrote under it "RIDE to meditation" and told J to call me if he needed a ride.

january 8th (2004)

4ish, taking a cigarette break from cleaning.

There's a para. on the faerie website I need to quote for a story. It's all about what a faerie is and/or isn't. Is and/or isn't, that would be a good title (if nor for that, for something).

I heard about a writer on NPR recently, maybe he's dead, maybe that's why they were talking about him. They were talking about proliferance {sic} as a writer, and said he wrote a (or some, or "many") of his books in complete dialogue (or maybe "almost entirely in dialogue"). I was thinking that might be a good way to approach the faerie story--my faerie story.

It could start with the joke about the Indian (Native American) naming system with the punch line, "...so now you understand, Broken Rubber?" While telling that joke in West Virginia last year, stoned out of our minds on a ski resort weekend," I discovered my faerie name, Babbling Brooke. I don't know if I even finished the joke - but I'm an entertainer, so I'm sure I did - but when I said "babbling brook" in the telling of the joke, I stopped and said, "I think that's my faerie name, R," and he said, "I think you're right."

nerves of steel (alloy)

It's on. (C) called as promised and we have a lunch date at 12:30 today at the Blue Dahlia. My choice, since he asked, because it seems to lend itself to a little more intimacy than, say, Magnolia Cafe or a Thai restaurant. Not that we're looking for intimacy...

Just for the hell of it, last night I Googled "first date questions," just to give me something to think about, not necessarily things to ask (C), but just to occupy my mind as I was sitting here stoned and starting to get into the realm of thinking about nothing but the date.

I Googled the phrase again this morning and found a different list, 20 questions, which I thought might be a more manageable list to look at (because the first one I came across went on and on), but these 20 questions are too much:

1. What is the sort of relationship you are looking for and why?
2. What do you think is the biggest mistake that men/women make in relationships?
3. What are the qualities of your ideal relationship?

Are you kidding? Who wrote these questions? I guess the most important thing to remember about this date is that it's just a lunch date. (C) "recently started seeing someone." I could take that to mean he's only looking for friendship (so the pressure is off) or that he is interested in me regardless of the fact that he recently found someone he wanted to see regularly and - I guess - exclusively (which would mean the pressure is way on). But those are not the sort of questions I would consider asking him.

Here's some from the list I found last night, from the "Random Questions to ask a Guy, your Boyfriend":

1. Do you have any siblings?
2. Where did your family go for vacations in the summer?
3. What jobs do your parents do?

Again, I have to ask, who wrote these questions? (But not with the same shock, just sort of a scrunched up face because of the weird wording.)

Or how about these, from "Interesting Questions to ask a Guy, your Boyfriend":

1. If you had a lot of money, where would we go on vacation?
2. What are your major goals in life?
3. Have you ever lied to me, and if so, why?

I guess these are for people who have been together awhile, people who are "seeing each other."

From "Personal Questions...":

1. How many times in a day, if at all, is it normal for people to have sex?
2. Is taking a pen or scratch pad from work considered stealing?
3. If you found someone's wallet and there was a $100 bill inside, what would you do with it?

And "Good Questions...":

1. Do you have any plans for tomorrow?
2. What was your first impression of me? How accurate now do you think it was?
3. On which counts do you think you were totally wrong, and on which do you think you were right?

#1 made me laugh; #2 is two questions; and #3, is that an additional part to #2? I'm confused.

"Nice Questions...":

1. Which is your favorite season and why?
2. Do you like to travel and where have you been?
3. What place would you like to visit that you haven't been to yet?

Zzz...

"Weird Questions to ask Someone":

1. What's the color of your toothbrush?
2. Are you left or right eyed?
3. What CD is in your CD-player right now?

"Really Weird Questions":

1. When you looked in the mirror first thing this morning, what was the first thing you thought?
2. How much cash do you have on you?
3. What's a word that rhymes with TEST?

My answers to those:

1. I have no idea.
2. Are you going to rob me?
3. PEST

"Philosophical Questions":

1. What is the meaning of life?
2. Is there life after death?
3. Why is the sky blue?

You're kidding, right?

So, I guess I'll just have to play it by ear...

friday, january 7th (2004)

6:23 a.m.

It seems early, but I went to bed at 9 last night. R, too. He left work at about 7 because there was nothing to do and no one around.

I was watching the last third of a movie called Going All the Way with Jeremy Davies and Ben Affleck, and R watched the tail end of it with me. I think Jeremy Davies is a wonderful actor; that's why I could watch one-third of a movie, just to see him. He was in Solaris which George Clooney, which I saw not too long ago. I didn't recognize him in that (unless he was one of the guys I saw in the movie about computers I saw a long time ago).

I was hoping to wake up at 5 and go to the gym. But I didn't. I was probably awake at 5, tipping R's pillow to get him to stop snoring and breathing hard for a short period. I woke up at 2 and got up to pee. The house creaks like a bunch of old bones. You really couldn't sneak around in this house.

Night before last, R got home at about 2:30 in the morning. He went to the Gas Chamber, Tribe, the Chute, and then the Hermitage for a bite to eat. I wanted to ask him if he saw D out, but lost my nerve--or thought better of it. He was happy to tell me about the places he'd gone, but if I press him about particulars he gets put out sometimes. He doesn't want people (or me, anyway) prying into his affairs. And I guess I don't have any actual "right" to pry, since we're not a couple.

The funny thing is, that's the only thing that changed, the title. We're not a couple, but we sleep together. I jerked off the other morning (because he wasn't really interested in doing anything, it seemed to me), and he "helped" me. But I think we're happier and more comfortable in whatever capacity we're in now than when we were an official couple.

I managed to call F yesterday. I was reluctant, and he was very nice about it all. I told him I wish I didn't have to ask for his help, but there was no other option.

This morning, I need to print out the lyrics for the C&D songs and get them ready (put chords on them?). I also still have some highlighting to do for Co., and I picked up an application at Bongo East yesterday. It's one of those philosophical applications: "If you could spend an hour speaking to anyone dead or alive, who would it be, and why?" Seriously, that's one of the questions!

8:03 pm
I'm having a bowl of borscht. Boiled eggs don't hold up well to freezing and microwaving. The soup help up better than the guylas after being frozen, and I didn't even microwave it. No, wait, that's not true. I did microwave the guylas. I took it to work two days ago and I microwaved it and I couldn't eat more than half of of it. It's still sitting in the Co. refrigerator in its little blue-lidded Tupperware.

Jesse sure did like the boiled egg. It sat Easter egg red in the confetti of redded {sic} vegetables, carrots and onions and potatoes, from the matching shreds of beet. Boiled eggs are so beautiful just out of their shell, glistening like little alien pods. They are as delicate as they look. They are easily banged up in the freezer. The vegetables {sic - probably should be "yolks"} must get much harder than the whites can, and they press little pockmarks in the skin of the boiled whites. I bit off the end of the egg and the yolk had turned to mush and burst into my mouth. It's not nearly as pleasing as, say, a ripe strawberry bursting on contact with your teeth.

The toast makes up for the missing egg. Great Harvest, Nine Grain flavor, my favorite. I put some butter on it, just to put the icing on the cake. I notice {Jesse} hawkeyeing me now. It's like she thinks she has an "in" to my generosity now. I sit as the small chunks of butter are heating up and getting spreadable on the steaming toast. I lay it on the stone counter and a cloud of perspiration forms around it on the black stone. This counter top is always cold; I have to wear mittens when I'm writing at the island or else my pinkie finger gets numb.

I shoo Jesse away. Bayne heard something with his old ears when Jesse was chomping on the ruined egg. Now he's worked up a hunger, and since it's such an effort for him to get up on all four legs anymore, he hobbles over to the dog bowls and munches out of the full one. Jesse stands beside him looking pitiful, her head hanging over the empty bowl. Bayne tries to turn from the food bowl to the water bowl without shifting his weight off of his front legs. His back legs totter, like they're bouncing lightly in reduced gravity. Jesse moves in to finish what's left in the bowl. Bayne hobbles off; his over-developed shoulders exaggerated by his shrunken back end.

I wish R would show up right now, at 8 o'clock, like he did last night. And I wish he'd show up wanting to go out. But neither of those things is likely, since he shipped out early last night, and since he went out till 2:30 a.m. the night before.

I guess I'll eat the remaining jelly donut, make some tofu egg salad (for lunches) and highlight.

next up

I've got an idea for another story (novel?). Mostly I guess it's so I'll have something to do with my creative energy now that I'm not working on the big novel. S has that (and M up in Indiana); they're giving it a once over; they're two people I trust implicitly. S knows me, knows my work, and he's very smart; I've never worked with M in this capacity, but she's very smart as well, and has done editing work for some time.

The new story I have in mind is of a middle-aged man who arrives at an intentional community after having suffered some life trauma (a dead partner, perhaps) and is at odds with what to do with his life. He is a photographer, and perhaps his partner was his muse, most of this man's artwork and whatever success he has had is tied up in the dead partner. So, he's dealing with depression and loneliness. And then he meets a boy who changes the course of his life.

The community they live in is modeled after the treehouse hostel I stayed at in Southern Georgia a few times. It's a wonderful place; all of the sleeping arrangements are literally treehouses, but big ones, big enough for a bed and a little bit of living room. In my story, they each come outfitted with a bed and a table and chair.

I would love for the story to be a musical, or rather a description of a musical (as S put it). I have a lot of ideas swimming around in my head as to how this would be captured. One thing I picture is that the residents have little songs to teach them and get them through the chores around the commune.

I think it'll be a short novel. I want to write a short novel. November is National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo, it's called); it's an organized thing, worldwide, in which people attempt to write an entire novel from beginning to end in 30 days. When I was working on august chagrin, I thought that was a silly notion, but now I need something to do, and I'm liking this idea that is in my head, so it might be a good way to get it out in some form. Whether or not I'll have an entire novel (whatever size) by November 30th remains to be seen. I'll see that as a loose goal.

wednesday, january 5th (2004)

9:40ish pm

Smoking on the front porch. I was gonna go to bed at 9, but I got caught up in this PBS documentary called "Do You Speak American?" It's fascinating, but it's three hours long! I finally just pulled myself away.

I'm in this weird place lately. I don't feel depressed but I'm having a hard time doing anything. I finished a "new, improved" Regenbogen board on the back of a Chinese calendar yesterday and I was anxious to pay a game (by myself, the only option, I felt). I came home from work at 5 and sat at the island and played a round. I let Jesse in the back yard and turned around to set up the board for Round 2, but one of the green raindrops was missing. I took it as a sign that I needed to get highlighting - in front of the TV, which eventually led to getting high.

I was thinking earlier today that I need to go on a habit hiatus. My plan (resolution, if you will) was to meditate more and write more this year. I guess I am writing, but I'm not meditating at all, and I'm not writing in a way that I feel is moving me toward something. Maybe that's not true. Maybe all of this journaling is good enough for right now. I just don't feel like I'm able to do anything, that it takes a great effort to not just be lazy.

I spoke with a woman from the Vital Theatre group yesterday (or today maybe) and now I need to call F and ask him to help me further on the C&D project, and for some reason I'm hesitant to call and ask him. But I have to call him. There's no way around it. i don't know if it's the fact that I don't want to ask him for a favor, or if I just don't want to have to do something. I'm protesting my creativity.

Or, no, that's not it. In the middle of working on the Regenbogen board I started coloring some xerox copies of a xeroxed picture of one of the clients from Co., and then I found myself working on a larger version, drawing it then coloring it with markers. I have such a fun collection of colored markers; I rediscovered them while working on the game board.

So I'm not lacking creativity, I'm lacking discipline. And I guess that's why I was thinking I need to stop smoking put and drinking so much alcohol. But what about cigarettes? I know I could stand to lay off of {sic} all of it.

I was thinking today that I should go back to meditating with the Buddhist group on Sunday mornings. I was thinking today that I want to try improv. Well, I was thinking last night - or recently - that I'd like to be able to take a class in standup, and then I was reading through The Scene this morning and there was a listing under the auditions section for an improv show called "How We Met," or something like that, and I was thinking I should audition for that. I wrote the number and email address down on a piece of paper, along with a not to call F.

I didn't do either of them. I didn't get much highlighting done because the highlighters I need are either missing or dried up (I'm talking about orange and purple), and the how I was watching was so interesting, I put down the highlight work and got high and that was that.

I was thinking today that I really want to start going to the gym again. I've been thinking about that for a while, and I went so far as going last night after work and just sitting in the steam room for awhile, for my back. But I didn't go back tonight after work. That's how I've worked myself into going to the gym before, just going in and steaming and/or shaving and showering. I like going to the gym. I like working out.

I like writing, for that matter. I'm just having major issues right now with discipline. I guess at least I'm not depressed.

is this offensive?

(It's supposed to be.)

Sunday afternoon, I dressed up in "yellowface" to do a spoof on Asian stereotypes and 1-900 phone sex lines for the Austin Asian American Film Festival trailer. I put scotch tape on my eyelids then covered my face with white paint (not yellow - this is a sepia tone version of the picture I took on my iPhone; interesting that blackface is done with black paint, but yellowface is done with white...). The Fu Manchu moustache, or as it said on the package, "Mandarin Moustache," came in a package from the costume shop, as did the Oriental robe I wore.

It was a short shoot, and lots of fun. The director of the AAAFF is a friend, it was quick and painless, for the most part. The only painful thing was the heat in all that makeup and the polyester "silk" robe.

It was a little weird though arriving in the house where people waited (the filming was done at another house in the neighborhood, my old neighborhood) one of the rare Caucasians - most were Asians or Indians (whom I know are Asians as well, but just for clarity) - all of us there to do stereotypical characters. Being raised in a family where "Chinaman" still isn't considered derogatory, and where Vietnamese is sometimes pronounced Vietmanese, I felt self-conscious. But it was all in good fun, and people were quick to praise my look and my bad Asian accent: "Herrro..."

The guy in the film shot directly before mine passed the bathroom a couple of times while I was trying to figure out how to attach the tape to my eyes - pull it across the temples and over the ears? vertical across the outside edge of the eye? (Eventually I discovered putting the tape on the eyelids worked best.) He seemed interested in my process, and he was cute-- handsome...sexy. When I got home, I looked him up on my friend's Facebook page and requested his friendship. Before too long, he accepted. I perused his photos - very handsome - and noticed that his profile said he was "Interested in: Men" and that he was "Single."

I wrote a silly note, making references to his character (the successful Asian business man who couldn't get the girl, even with his "large stock options") and mine. I made a comment about the fact that I supposedly had special powers and was trying them out... then asked him on a date. I stared at my message to him for a few hard minutes and literally had to talk myself into hitting the SEND button. But I did.

Then I decided he would probably never respond (that was Insecurity's whispers in my head). My "protection" was to tell myself I'm gearing up for rejection, getting used to the idea, since I'll likely be receiving a lot of rejection (or what will feel like rejection) very soon concerning my novel. I had it in my head that this could free me up to take more chances, throw caution more quickly to the wind.

A day later he responded. Not exactly a rejection. "Yes, it was nice meeting you, too," his note started. And then, "I should tell you I just started dating someone..." Ah! There it is; gentle, but rejection nonetheless. I was happy enough with that; at least he responded. He could just as easily (or some could) have ignored me, and the rejection would've gone into my bloodstream, into my brain, and fed the Insecurity that lives there.

He continued, "...but that doesn't mean I couldn't go out for lunch, etc., and get to know you."

Hm... Not really rejection at all, just an explanation of the situation. Because really, you can't monitor attraction. --Well, you can, but it still happens when it happens. I find that I can't help who I'm attracted to. It's actually rare that I am attracted to someone anymore (in that way), and oftentimes they turn out to be straight or too young, which causes me a certain amount of suffering. That was the reason I decided to stop pursuing a partner, because the attempts (and the rejections) caused me so much suffering.

S has suggested I "lower my standards." But that doesn't seem right. My standards? I don't have standards. I don't see two boys on the street and think "I'm attracted to this one, but that one isn't as cute, so maybe I'd have a chance with him." I'd rather be alone than take what I can get.

So here I am with (C), as I'll call him. There must be some attraction on his part - that's probably part of what makes him so attractive to me, that mutual attraction - or else he might not have responded to my note (or might not have even befriended me). We had a little back and forth on Facebook, he said this week was good for him (lunch, not dinner and/or drinks as I originally suggested; a demotion, but I'll take it), I said Thursday is good early or Friday anytime. The ball is in his court. I guess there's still a chance he'll back out or blow me off (shut up Insecurity)...

I put the Fu Manchu picture as my Facebook profile picture for about half an hour. (C) responded with "(!)" to the picture shortly after he befriended me. And then another Fb friend who I know from improv and don't know that well (and frankly find a little annoying) wrote, "Great picture; not racist at all. ;)" So I removed it, for fear that it did seem racist out of context.

monday, january 3rd (2004)

after 7pm

I like Cymbalta. I had a panic attack the first Sunday night I was on it, but I knew what to expect and it didn't esclalate. I had been watching too much TV and I had a headache, and when I went to bed the headache was stressing me out, and then suddently the attack was on me.

It's very frightening, I felt disoriented and started sweating profusely. I rolled onto the floor next to the bed and lay there sweating for about five minutes. After that, I was exhausted and couldn't get back into bed for a while, until the sweat started making me chilly.

It was cold out then. It's warm now. It's been warm for a few days. It's odd.

R came back from Galapagos last Thursday. I'd made Marseilles Spinach Stew (with kale and chard instead of spinach) but he wasn't hungry. He'd had a bout of food poisoning or something early in his trip and was slowly recovering. The stew was supposed to be served with an egg poached in the broth placed on a piece of toast and surrounded by the greens and potatoes.

I was hungry. I ate, and the eggs looked good to R, so I made him a couple. I'd also made an organic chocolate banana pie in a graham cracker crust. I had a piece of that, but R didn't touch it until the next day. I can't believe there's still one piece of pie in the fridge.

New Year's Eve, R and I went to Family Wash and then came home to get ready to meet up with Ro for a night out, but I thought better of it and stayed home, smoked a bowl, watched some TV, and was in bed by 10.

R came home at 1:30 - later than he'd planned - and fell asleep on the floor with Bayne, then on the couch a while longer.

We're getting along pretty well. I don't know if it's the Cymbalta or what, but it's nice.

While R was gone, I got real comfortable being by myself. That's definitely a change in me. I'm enjoying my own company more now.

I also don't know if Cymbalta is the cause (or if it was R's absence) but my diarrhea is gone. Yay! One bad thing about being off of the Wellbutrin (I think) is that I'm smoking cigarettes again. I'd like to be able to have one now and again, but it seems I'm quick to start picking them up even when I don't crave one. Like tonight.

I like smoking when I'm driving and with a beer, but I don't want to limit myself to smoking only on those two occasions because I'm afraid I'll take to driving and drinking more than I need or want.

I started futzing with the Regenbogen rules a while back, and then LW and I were at Mafiaoza's and the waiter recognized me as the guy who "invents games" that he'd met a long while ago (possibly the last time I was there) with R. I thought I had emailed him back then and he'd never responded, but he claimed he never heard from me, so we agreed to chalk it up to a breakdown in communication. He gave me his info again and I emailed him when I got home and he wrote back.

Again, I don't know if it's because of the Cymbalta, but I feel like I've been able to focus on something (Regenbogen) more lately than before.

I haven't had much luck focusing on creative writing, though. I bought myself a new notebook to be creative in in the new year - one hour a day at least was my goal. It's only the 3rd, but the first two pages seem like nothing more than trivial doodles.

Actually, I did (do) have an idea that I think could be a good set of short stories called Neighborhood Association. The name doesn't bowl me over, but the idea does. I drew out a little diagram like this:
I didn't have them numbered the same as this, but I just smoked a bowl and it seemed like the better thing to do right now. I had numbered them in the sequence that I thought the stories would be in, but it might be a good exercise to try to explain them in this order. Briefly.

1. is a halfway house (I believe) for three black men and one white one.
2. is a yuppie couple in their first house.
3. is a rednecky sort of house (in my imagination - I don't really know what's going on in any of these boxes). The husband is the son of the widow who lives in 4. She's a longtime citizen of this once very liberal neighborhood. She rents the house next to her to her son and his family. The son's wife is a Rush Limbaugh radical. She smokes long white cigarettes and espouses religious views (on notes that she places on cars, screen doors and in mailboxes) while she busses her kids without even one seatbelt in use.
4. The old liberal widow.
5. A pair of old maid sisters. One spies on the gay man in 6. When her sister catches her, it causes a strain in their relationship they don't know how to deal with. For the first time in many years, they start sleeping in separate beds. They're not sexual, not really - not in their own minds, at the very least - but they are very affectionate with one another; that's how they have managed happiness when passed over by the love of a man. *A good story would be that in their youth, a handsome man came into both of their lives and tried to drive them apart by forcing them to decide which one would be his one and only, and they decided to just go on without him.
6. is the two gay men. Their lives mirror the sisters in 5. in weird ways. They aren't lovers but they sleep together; they have a most unconventional relationship, a strange marriage of convenience. Or a marriage of strange convenience.
7. is a recently widowed man and his middle-aged "bachelor" son. The wife was a good friend of the woman in 4. Her husbad died long ago, shortly after they'd moved to the neighborhood, and he never had an opportunity to really make any friends. The woman he left behind was in a perfect position to make friends. The young wives in the neighborhood came to her aid. She had a small boy. But her husband had a good job and she had a good head for business and she managed to carve out a pretty good life for herself, if not for her son.

thursday, december 23rd (2004)

7:26 a.m.

I have a bit of a hangover. My shrink suggested a medication change; I'm all for it. I'm still looking for a pill that's gonna make me feel good for no reason at all! I saw him on Tuesday, and I have to see him again next Tuesday to see how the new med is doing me. Actually, I am coming off of Wellbutrin and working my way onto Cymbalta, a new drug that works on all three of the neuro-transmitters that are figured to be connected with depression. So I went down to 150mg Wellbutrin and started at 30mg Cymbalta. If all goes well, he'll take me off Wellbutrin and up my Cymbalta to 60mg next week.

You're not supposed to drink a lot with any of these drugs - and I've given up red wine because it has tended to make me have bad headaches, sometimes migraines - and I usually don't drink that much at all, but for some reason last night I had two strong Southern Comfort and Sprite, and I felt the hangover coming in the middle of the night. I don't know which was waking me up more, the hangover or the storm.

It rained and snowed all night last night and I couldn't get the gate open this morning. I had to climb the fence to go get Sophie! I almost didn't get the driver's side front door open on the Suburban, but that's the only one I did get open.

I'm not even gonna think about cleaning up this house till all the visiting dogs are gone! Sophie is done Sunday, and L comes back to get Maud on Tuesday. That's the 28th. R comes back on the 30th, so I'll have a couple of days to really clean...

When I arrived in his office, my shrink said, "Are you filled with the Christmas Spirit?"
I said, "Achh!"
He said, "It could be worse; you could be filled with the Holy Spirit!"
How true, how true.

Lu's coming over tonight (with cookies, I hope) for soup and smoke and Regenbogen. I better get to the Leek and cheddar soup.

monkey mind

I meditated today. First time since Paris. What was that, March? Thoughts of C came up - the reason for quitting (or one of the reasons) - but it was a short sit, 15 minutes, and I think I need it.

Since I finished the novel, I've been wandering around feeling like a newly retired old man. And yesterday I felt kind of down. I don't know if that's the depression a couple of people have asked me if I've been experiencing because of the completion of the book.

I don't really feel complete. I guess I'm a little anxious about the next part. There's a lot of rejection to ready myself for. I had this idea yesterday that I should just self-publish the book and not worry about working so hard to get a publisher interested in the work. But I told S and he seemed to think it an odd choice. He said I would have to do the "business" side of it (the part I told him I wanted to avoid) if I self-published in order to get people to know about the book. My point was I didn't care. I spent four years writing the book, not thinking about publishing deals, not thinking about the what-ifs of fame and fortune. And I don't really feel like getting into that world now.

But I guess I really don't want to just put it in the closet and forget about it. I don't guess. Part of me does. Another part of me really just wants people to read it. That was the reason for the idea of self-publishing. Spend my own money, set my own price; give it to people to read, just to get them to read it. If something happens with it in some big way (the odds are against it), so be it, it'll be there anyway.

There's also the idea of some publisher coming along and saying they like it and then telling me I have to change this, that and everything else. I guess if it came with a big check (or even a medium one) and I didn't have to do my regular job for a while, and I could just go off to some cabin somewhere, or a studio apartment in a big city somewhere, it wouldn't be so bad. But I've opened myself up to S and M (no pun intended), two good friends who are the first readers with a critical eye. And no money involved. So here goes.

I've been uploading chapters onto my august chagrin blog, which feels good. And I've been putzing with the blog page (adding books that I read while writing the novel and/or books that are mentioned in the chapters; adding a section of links to songs, sort of a soundtrack to the story, if you will). That's what feels a lot like being retired, all this putzing.

I haven't been sleeping well. Or I should say I sleep okay, but I have a hard time getting to sleep nights. I've been staying up until 2:3o, 3:00, even later some nights. I'm exhausted, but then I lie down and all the thoughts kick in. It's only been a week. I guess I need some time to enjoy the achievement. S is in his last week of school, so I feel like I'm all alone waiting for him to have his achievement so we can celebrate together.

I rearranged my bedroom a little bit. That seemed like a good thing to do. I moved the desk from right beside the bed to the opposite wall, and pulled the meditation cushion out of the closet and put it there so I could stumble to it first thing in the morning and/or perhaps last thing of the day. I did that Tuesday morning, and this morning, I finally sat on the cushion and did a little meditation.

monday, december 20th (2004)

9:23 a.m.

I took R to the airport at 7 a.m. yesterday then came home, watched a little TV (I don't know why), made a grocery list for six kinds of soup(!) and the basics, watched a movie (Kinsey... eh!), went back to Wild Oats and got a back massage (ah!!!), came home and had a Southern Comfort eggnog and started cooking.

I couldn't find a couple of items I needed at Wild Oats and I forgot one or two others, so I could only make two of the soups (probably a good thing) - S said I made him think of Sally Field on ER because I'd been so depressed recently and then called him and said, "I'm gonna five soups! No, six!!!"

I made Hungarian Vegetable Guylas and Mashed Potato Soup. Both yummy. I have yet to make Annabella's Oatmeal Soup (a Mexican, not-sweet soup), Marseilles Spinach stew, Hot Borscht, and Leek and Cheddar Soup. Oh, and Tofu "Chicken" Salad.

I'm actively saving money - even though I spent most of my housecleaning money and the bonus yesterday.

I talked to S on the phone a while, and then my mom called, and later, Su. Although my mom didn't have any praise for Life in a Box ("It certainly wasn't what I expected it to be..."), that wasn't the reason she hasn't called. She put in her resignation at school around Thanksgiving - the last time I heard from her - and her last day of work was last Friday, and between those two dates she's "just been trying to get to the end."

She retired once before and went back to it (she got bored), but this time she said it's for real. She got tired of the kids not listening to her. She said, "When I say, 'Shut up and sit down,' I expect them to shut up and sit down!"

saturday, december 18th (2004)

9:09 p.m.

My back is killing me, and I don't think it's mostly from 8 hours of meditation, yoga and chanting. It was mostly sitting - and then walking - meditation, and we took several breaks, but still, it was a lot of Shambhala and it was great.

I'm in bed. I was thinking I was gonna write a whimsical schedule for myself to get into while R is gone, or write a short story about the swinging wall at Plowhaus last night (art exhibit), but I'm too tired.

I've seen a couple of good movies lately, though, that I want to remember:

• The Five Senses, starring Mary-Louise Parker, and tonight
• Bread & Tulips, an Italian film about a bored housewife
  

oh, good lord!

oh, shit! I wrote a book! I've been stumbling around all day in a stupor. I was up until 3:00 AM and got up around 11. I went to the blue star for the best pancakes in town and to do a second draft of the epilogue.

I also had "cheese grits." they used to be really good, really cheesy, kind of down home cheesy, and today they tasted like garlic and salt. not altogether bad, but it's 8:00 PM and I'm still thirsty.

I didn't work on the epilogue. I read through the versions I have (so I guess that's considered work), but the people around me were more interesting, and I was too interesting to them, sitting there looking the way I do (somewhat shabby compared to the others), so I ate and listened, and looked.

maybe I'm just being paranoid, maybe they weren't looking at me at all. I guess I feel like they should be looking at me, 'cause I wrote a fucking novel!

I threfted {sic}, found a cool cap and another pair of khakis which were supposed to be short-makin's for S, but they didn't fit him, so I traded him for a pair of cutoffs I've been meaning to sew the inseam on, but he didn't seem to mind them the way they are. In fact, his words: "They're perfect."

After that I picked up the produce, and I'm now stuck on remembering if I went anywhere directly after that or if I came home after that. --well, more recently, I got high and masturbated, so I'm in a special way with myself right now. that and the fact that I printed out my 113,363 words today, then copied them four times. It cost me $100. It felt like money well-spent.

I smoked a cigarette in the truck with the windows open. the air was dry but the 100°+ sun was beaming down strong on me. my b.o. smells different, rare, strong; skunky. I like it. I think it's the chemistry with the pheromones in it that makes it smell that way and/or makes me react that way to it. sexy...

oh, I smell different in different situations, don't you? (And aren't I a witty writer!)

I also went to the grocery store to return some antifungal lotion I inadvertently bought. I picked up a video of a popular standup who I won't name because it would date this entry (and I haven't watched it so I don't know if it's good yet), stopped for half a dozen plain glazed donuts from the nice Indian man at Mrs. Johnson's (who was Mrs. Johnson?). He told me the plain glazed weren't hot, suggested a variety of cake donuts they have - which were hot - and I hemmed and hawed and said okay, and he gave me four plain glazed in the box with the half dozen cake, "for the microwave."

S made breakfast tacos for dinner, I had a beer with mine. He had schoolwork so I got high, got inspired to write down "Holy Shit! I wrote a book!" or something like that (before the shower and video), and I'm sure it all sounded a lot better in my head.

And here I am.

saturday, december 18th (2004)

6:33 a.m.

The sky is just starting to lighten up; I've been awake since 4:30 or so. I'm having one more cup of tea (yerba maté) with a blanket over my shoulders before I head up for a long hot shower.

I've got a glitch in my left shoulder blade. That's what woke me up, the discomfort of that; that and the heat coming off of R's body. He smelled liked cigarettes and alcohol. I think it was shortly after 4 when he crawled in bed. We ate at Beyond the Edge and had a good talk, then I came home and went to bed and he went out.

He leaves tomorrow morning for Galapagos. I wish I was going but I'm glad I'm not spending all that money. I'm spending a big chunk of today meditating. P&J, who "run" the Shambhala group here, met a man at a recent meditation meeting and he offered up his home for a Nyinthiin (or something like that). It's basically an all-day retreat. We meet at 8, start meditating at 9, and except for breaks here and there meditate continuously until 7 pm. I think this is just the thing I need right now in my life, a little kickstart. And I'm glad it comes at a time when R is gonna be out of town. I'm hoping I'll be able to get a daily practice going and keep it going even after he comes back and the new year begins.

I spent the first part of my morning so far writing emails to people telling them I'm not going to be in NYC in February for the premiere of Cocus & Doot {the children's musical I wrote songs for}. I just can't afford it. LW was the one who convinced me (gave me permission?) to cancel it altogether.

And then I spent time online looking for events at the Shambhala Mountain Center in Colorado in the month of June (that's when I'll have relief from a couple of big chunks of my current bills, if all goes well). Then I looked at flight times...and then I found a website that compares cities' costs of living and all that.

I was surprised to see that Denver is actually slightly lower than Nashville. The unemployment rate is double what it is here, but hopefully that won't affect me too much since I have O.

I don't know if I want to go to Denver just because I want to try to have a relationship with A, but it sure would be nice to be near C and the St's and Estes Park and the mountains...and A.

I need a change. So much of the time R brings me down. I realize that. Last night was the first time in a while that I've been able to push past that. We had a good conversation (although I don't agree with the way he sees a lot of things in the world).

It's not all his fault. I've probably gotten to a place where I've just given up on him, and that's good for my peace of mind, but it leaves me open to feeling lonely and unloved. I think a lot of my crisis lately (besides the money thing) comes from the fact that I think my mother doesn't love me, that she really doesn't know how to.

R said, "Why does it matter?"
I said, "I don't know, it just does."
He said, "You just have to put it out of your head."

We had a long talk about that and his views on the planet and animals. Like I said, I don't agree with him on a lot of stuff, and that's okay.

Gotta go meditate...!