s.e.x.

I'm not sure where it came from, but lately I feel sexy and desirable. I've been putting myself out there more lately, kind of as an experiment, and it seems to be "working." I went to a gay bar that I've never been to before on Friday night and met a handsome black man (not "boy," as my friend P pointed out, and it's true, he was easily my age or older). We talked a lot, flirted a little; he bought me a beer. I guess there was the potential to go home with him, but I didn't feel it. I mean, I felt the vibe, but I didn't feel like it, so I said I was going home; it was 1:15 a.m. He became a little whiny - not too annoyingly so - and walked me to my car, where we kissed lightly (I realized we were in the street and there were straight people around, but for some reason didn't feel in danger). He said, "I wish I could see you again." I asked if he wanted my number. He said yes, and we exchanged numbers. By the time I got home, I had a text from him, saying he enjoyed meeting me and hoped to see me again. I wrote back: Ditto. Have a good night. I wasn't truly sure I wanted to see him again, but didn't want to rule it out. I figured it would have to do somewhat with how he "acted" toward me. I assumed he would be calling me the next day, or soon. It's Monday, and he hasn't called yet, which I'm fine with. If and when he calls, I'll see how I feel then.

Saturday, I did some manscaping, with the planned intent of going to the gay bathhouse that night. I don't know why; it was another part of my attempt to get myself out there some more, just to see what vibes I'm giving and receiving. I've been reading a book on improvisation and theater (Impro, by Keith Johnstone), which I'm finding very helpful in my improv, but also in my life. I recently finished reading a section on "status," and decided to utilize it in my visit to the bathhouse. For instance, Mr. Johnstone writes about how looking at someone that you pass in the street determines status right away. If you and the other person stare each other down, you are having a struggle over high status/low status. The person who looks away first is low status. If the person looks at you, looks away, then looks back very briefly, that is also low status. If you are high status, you don't look at the person at all, or hold the stare until they look away, or look briefly then away, but don't look back. There is also a section about how one passes another in the street (on which side of the sidewalk, etc.) and other instances of status. I decided to do some "homework" at the baths, and it was quite effective! I won't go into exactly what I did, or whom I did (or who did me!)...

I've been dealing a lot with my desire to kiss-and-tell, my impulse to write graphic sex scenes. I'm speaking here specifically of august chagrin. A friend of a friend read the manuscript and I got an email from him last night with some of his thoughts. He likes my writing, likes my ability to draw the reader in and keep the interest; he made a few comments about specific things that made him laugh out loud, commented that the balance between sadness and humor works well. What he had the most criticism about was the graphic nature of the sex described in the book. He said it felt like it went into the realm of "pornography," and he felt it was a distraction and was happy when it "got back to the novel." He's straight, but he said he thinks his feelings would be the same if the sex were heterosexual.

I've had a lot of thoughts about this. Just before I finished the current draft, I wondered if my work could be taken as serious literature with all of the graphic sex, and specifically gay sex in it. S says there are lots of instances of graphic sex in literature, however this other person who recently commented on it said that he wouldn't, for instance, have wanted to read about the characteristics of Anna Karenina's privates, or Vronksy's, or the positions they may have enjoyed, even though their affair was what led to her downfall. Very interesting fodder, indeed.

in and out

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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.

tuesday, november 30th (2004)

10:03 pm

I went to the post office today during a full day of work. Re was out sick. We had a birthday breakfast for Ca. I made a fantastic fruit salad. LW and Ra were in Memphis; it was a small crowd today (T was out sick, too, and L showed up late, andy {sic} Ci wasn't there).

I went to the post office under the Frist Center (the Center used to be the post office - our post office when S and I first arrived in Nashville). It's all modern now. But in an artsy retro way, so it's cool. It was on the way to the bank. It was a nasty, dark, coldish rainy day (it got less cold by this afternoon; it was odd). It had rained all through the night and I was feeling particularly down - I was gonna say "disenchanted" - starting yesterday sometime, and it was before S told me by email that LIAB had been turned down {by the Sundance Film Festival}.

I was also feeling the realization that I am broke: $1 in my wallet, just over $2 in the bank, and $59 in savings (after having to withdraw $140 to pay my BofN loan). What the hell!

I haven't gotten any work from NY since Thanksgiving (Ca pointed out that that was just last week, but then I realized that it must've been longer than that because I really had to struggle to pay that bill - and more are on the way, approximately $400 a week).

I've started working a full 20 hours at Co a week, but that just started a couple of weeks ago, and it was represented on the check I got today. Gulp! Thank goodness I made $150 from Ra & B for dog sitting Sophie last week.

ANYWAY!!! I didn't intend to get into all of that, but it was hard to avoid because I was thinking last night about what-the-fuck-is-next.

R & I watched a so-so movie last night called... I can't remember the name of the movie, which is okay since I don't have too much good to say about it. Two guys were set up by their straight friend. (It was All Over the Guy - and I feel okay naming it since the movie seemed to go out of its way to dis' that Kevin Kline movie In & Out.) One thing I liked about the movie - or that affected me deeply - was the fact that the two guys were clashing because they seemed to want different things. It made me feel a whole {sic} in my soul (to accompany the one in my heart caused by my little Crush I got on Thanksgiving at G&M's (that is a treat that needs to be written about)).

So, as I lay in bed last night, feeling sorrowful, I asked myself what I really want. Sometimes, I feel strongly that its love. I want the chance to have a significant relationship with someone unencumbered by all of the things that S and I had in our relationship except for the knowledge we gained. That's so sappy! But it's true...

And I keep going back to A. I know that he is interested in a relationship with me, and the sex we've had has been wonderful. So I was thinking about Denver.

11:00 p.m.
Upstairs in bed now. Jesse is lying next to me, her head buried between her back legs...

I got the idea last night to look at the Denver classifieds online. So I did this morning. There was an ad by the Unitarian Universalist Church looking for a youth and teen coordinator of some sort. Coordinate schedules for programs and replacement staff (I'm assuming volunteers from the congregation) for days the coordinator is not inhouse. They have Sunday, Wednesday night and Thursday night activities. The pay is only $10 an hour, just like Co, but it's 30 hours a week (guaranteed), unlike Co. It hit me as one of those meant-to-be things.

I told S I was thinking about it. He seemed disappointed. I just don't want to spend my whole life struggling financially. S said he couldn't imagine not being an artist, and I said I could because I can't live in this state much longer. He said he would kill himself if he couldn't be an artist; I said I've considered that. He said, "Don't do that." I said, "Most likely I won't." That seems like a weird thing to say...

I went to the post office and forgot to go to the bank and had to go back. I discovered while at the post office that I'd left my shaving kit at the Y the night before and went to get it. (I forgot it because I'm such a letch.)

S said I disappoint myself more than anybody else, and I agreed with him. I had said I feel like I'm spending my life disappointing people lately. S asked who and I told him, "You, R, Ro..." AND IT'S ALL ABOUT MONEY!!! Money is ruling my life.

I'm gonna start meditating; I set up a chair for it when I cleaned house last week (all week long {I haven't meditated} because I didn't feel good... a cold or something - and this blasted darrhea is still with me, since the Friday follow the election. That's a month now!).

I also saaw a cutie at the post office. He got there the same time I did, threw around hundred dollar bills - well, one anyway. He has a p.o. box there. He glanced my way a couple of times. That's all it takes lately. I putzed around in the p.o. and felt like he was too, both of us waiting for the other. This is my fantasy, my creative imagination (who needs to make money at it when it's so much more rewarding doing it in your head for your own and your closest friends' entertainment?).

I had to putz around a little longer in the car before he came out. He walked close by the Suburban and then just passed up his SUV and went to the Union Station Hotel. I contemplated it for more than a few minutes - we were both parked in the POST OFFICE 15 MINUTES parking spaces - but went ahead into the lobby. I convinced myself it was a good idea since I've never been in there.

And I was right. The building is beautiful - I've always thought that - but it's much more beautiful inside. The ceiling, three or four stories up, is made of stained glass. The faux sunlight behind them was bright and wonderful. A fountain trickled in the middle of the room not far from the baby grand piano, which I didn't realize was even being played at first. I heard the music, beautiful - gorgeous - music. But then in a one-two punch, I realized the piano was being played, and was being played by the guy I'd followed in there. The dark-skinned Greek or Italian man was playing the hell out of that baby grand. That was why I wrote all of this, I didn't want to forget that.

11:27 p.m.

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!

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.

just shoot me

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

message in a dream

I had a dream this morning. I was walking through an area with warm, low Frank Lloyd Wright type buildings, live oak trees were abundant and old, their limbs like hundreds of big strong arms hovering near the hilly ground and high into the sky. It was a sunny day but it was cool and shady where I was.

I heard someone say my name. I recognized it as being C's voice, a friend with whom I've recently had the third and what seems like final falling out (in the course of our short and very intense relationship). I turned to look and saw someone who looked like him but wasn't him.

"Did you call me?"
"No," the stranger said, "That was just C pointing you out. He went inside."

That sounds about right, I thought to myself, considering what we've been through recently. I turned to leave the area and saw litter on the ground. I picked up a clear plastic bag and put the litter in it as I walked toward the exit. I dropped the bag in a big trash barrel. There were bottles and cans in it, but I didn't see a recycling bin, so I didn't bother separating them. At the end of the sidewalk, there were several recycling bins, organized for the different items. I went back to the trash barrel to retrieve the recyclables. There were ants coming up from deep within the barrel. And then there were bees and wasps hovering around. Every time I looked away and back, the ants, bees and wasps had multiplied exponentially.

I tried to pick out the bottles and cans, but the flying insects were thwarting me. I saw a shovel on the ground, it was covered with the bugs as well. They were flying in my face, scaring me a little. Finally I put down whatever was in my hands, said to myself, "Better to just leave it alone," and walked away.

Better to just leave it alone.

It was one of those message dreams, pertaining no doubt to the stuff I've been going through with C. I was the one who instigated the separation, but it wasn't really what I wanted; it was what I felt like he wanted. I expected my email to sting a little - I was in Paris, feeling very alone, feeling like he was responding to everything I said from a very selfish place, not seeing what I was going through, not being the friend he had been the previous two months. I expected to get a response from him the likes of when I canceled out on a meditation retreat after our second falling out. That time he had written, "It makes me me very sad to hear that."

Apparently, this was exactly what he wanted to hear. His response to my "Letting Go" email was, "I think this is for the best." He went on to tell me that our relationship now "brings up confusion and an agitated heart" for him.

Maybe it was foolish of me to write that email saying "I feel like I need to let go of this relationship." (Be careful what you ask for, comes to mind.) But I was in a really sorry place in Paris, and I felt like the focus had been on him in our recent interactions - and come to think of it during the whole relationship, I decided in the moment before I wrote the email. I kept it on my phone a whole day, rereading it, editing it a very little, making sure it said what it needed to say, before I sent it.

He had never had a close gay friend before me. (Whenever I repeated that back to him, he was always quick to correct me, saying that he had never had a close gay male friend before; he had lots of gay women friends. Whatever.) Suffice it to say there are things in his past that make him a bit leery of male companionship at all, and particularly with a gay man.

But that was what this relationship seemed to be about in the beginning, about him working on getting over some of his issues. It was about that for me, too. It has long been my desire to be friends with a man in which sex is not a consideration. We discussed very openly (at first) all of the things that were coming up for us; it wasn't hard, but we were determined to press on, to figure things out. We even had a therapy session together!

And now I'm left with my own confusion, agitated heart, and a softball-sized pain in my belly. The only difference is I'm still willing to try to work it out.

I've outlived my father by six years so far. He seemed so old when he died at 39, so grown up. I know he had his problems, but he didn't deal with them in the big way that I feel like I am dealing with this loss. I cried all day long yesterday and the day before. Not constantly, but when I went outside to deal with the laundry or turned the corner into my bedroom, or somehow the wind changed, a great sadness would suddenly descend upon me and I was unable to move for a few moments, except for the movement of my insides, my pounding chest, my pounding head, my tears, my gasps, my anxiety. I don't feel like a 45-year-old man; I feel like that same boy in the eighth grade who cried in private and had no one to understand him or help him figure things out.

All of this is not C's fault. --Okay, is any of this his fault? We got a little too close to his edge; he got very scared; he ran. I understand that need sometimes.

But he said he wouldn't. Over and over again, I expressed my fears of being abandoned; again and again he said he would not do that. He said he was there for me. He said "I love you," he called me his "dear, dear beautiful friend"...

What do I do with all of this? Where do I put my sadness? C came strong into my life shortly after Timmy my cat died. And now for some reason, the sadness of Timmy is back. Day before yesterday I was drawn to his grave and just sobbed uncontrollably for 10 minutes. C was a nice substitute for the uncomplicated love I had for and from my cat. The love C and I shared was always complicated, but it was as deep as any love I have felt for a man, and special because it was not sex-based.

There were trust issues on C's part because of my sexuality. He seemed more sure and confident of my sexuality than even I am. He seems to have some stuckness around what that means, what it means to him, what it should mean to me. I've tried to work through these things, have tried to process all of my fears and anxiety through him. He said he was open to that, said "bring it on" in so many words. And so I did.

And then he pulled away. And now I feel abandoned. I've printed out our email and text correspondence - 43 pages of 10-point Arial typeface. I'm trying to figure it out. I wonder if one last therapy session with him would be possible or even a good idea?

fagophobia

I have been enjoying my comedy improv class, feeling confident, feeling capable. I took this class a year or so ago (Level One), and felt pretty out of place. The experience made me feel like a GOB (Gay, Old, and Big - so I stood out). This time around, it has had a different feeling right from the start. At first, I attributed this to the fact that my classmates were a more diverse, more talented group of people than my first time. I think that at least the diversity thing is correct - previously they were mostly straight white male 20-somethings. This time there are more women, there is more ethnic diversity (black, Asian, Indian), so the straight white male thing is balanced out a little bit. They're still mostly (or totally) straight - except for me and my lesbian friend M who I talked into taking the class with me, but who hasn't been going much lately (not because she feels like a GOB, though, I don't think).

I also thought my comfort level had something to do with one of my teachers, the female one. And that may be the case as well, but halfway through this eight-week session, she and my straight white male 20-something teacher from last year got kicked out of the company for irreconcilable differences between them and the three other members of the company (all SWM20s). The female teacher was there on Tuesday nights; my Saturday teacher was/is a performer I've never been particularly impressed with; not like her, whom I think hangs the stars in the improv sky. But I liked their two teaching styles together, and since I could and can go to any class my level or lower for free, I found myself going to both.

Then, when she got ousted, my Saturday teacher took over the Tuesday night classes as well, and I didn't go at first (in a sort of silent protest of what was "done to" my favorite teacher). But then somewhere in there, a shift happened. I realized I was "getting it," and I realized that my Saturday teacher was doing me a lot of good. So here's the dilemma: Do I take Level Two at this theater (I'm not sure who the teacher is; I don't think it's him, and I worry that it might be one of the theater company's SWM20s, whom I have never had much of a connection with, and don't think much of two of the three's improv stage work), or do I go over to the ousted two's new company they're starting, and take a Level One class.

The bonus about that is that it would be free, and I like that idea since I've had a 25% cut in pay recently and I've gotten one-and-a-half checks reflecting the cut, and it hurts! I'd also be taking from this woman, whose teaching style I really love. Or, I might be taking from her company partner, whose teaching style I don't particularly love.

This came up for me last night because I went to see a sketch comedy show hosted by these two people. They were doing tryouts for a scout from the Montreal Comedy Festival. I didn't realize the show was going to be all sketch as opposed to improv, but when I found out (after the show had started), I was game.

I stayed for maybe six of nine or 10 acts. And in four out of those six, there was some sort of comedic gay play-acting going on onstage. I tried to remain open, but somehow it felt rude to me. I don't identify so strongly as a homosexual (maybe there's the rub), but it struck me that if they were pretending to be black - actually, in one of the six, they did address that - or if they talked about boobs or sex a lot - actually, in another of the six, they addressed that as well - it might have been different.

The difference was, in the act where a guy wiped fake shit on his face to pretend he was black, it seemed like a strong statement, or if not a statement, certainly safe territory in the context of what they were presenting. In the graphic sexual content scene, one guy was supposed to be telling horror stories and kept telling pornographic stories instead to a group of "fellow children" they were playing, and the others were all offended by his stories. His inappropriateness was, in the end, funny.

But with regards to the homosexual stuff, one group of two guys had a "robot" onstage which kept announcing that they were "gay" and "faggots," etc. (It was a malfunctioning robot which also said "I Hate Black People" when they asked about the president.) But then they went on to call each other homos behind the other's back, and then did a musical number in which they professed their heterosexuality, and then one ended up jabbing a sword up the other's ass. And then there were hidden videos of each other "masturbating," one to porn, the other to "The Golden Girls," and then the first one again masturbating to a video of the second one masturbating to "The Golden Girls."

In another scene, two guys needed a third, a stranger, to sit between them on a plane as a "gay buffer," which was a pretty funny scene. When the stranger got mad and left, they were inextricably drawn to each other in their pink polo shirts... But then they ruined it (in my opinion), by going on and on about how they're not really gay, they're just playing characters. It sounds kind of benign to write it, but there was something about their attitude (and the audience's reaction) that was a bit hurtful to me.

It made me wonder if this is a good outlet for my creative talents. I don't see myself doing "gay" comedy - though I do think it would be fun (and have suggested it to M) to do "cover" versions of old Nichols & May sketches. When I suggested it to M, she said, "We can add some queer elements," which kind of annoyed me. But then I realized that my intention was that we would switch roles, she would play the Mike Nichols characters and I would play the Elaine May characters. So, I don't know, maybe the lady who doth protest too much is me!

But I wonder if this is the type of performers my "favorite" improv teacher and the other one draw to them. Maybe I'm projecting too much. I've obviously got some more growing to do, and some comfort level and clarity still to find in certain situations.

artist emerging

I'm not going back to the gay men's chorus. It's not for me. I was doing the math -- amused that I even had to be doing math for such a thing -- and the numbers just don't make any sense. First, dues are $120 a year. I've been told that this money goes to pay the two co-directors' and the piano player's salaries and rental of the rehearsal space.

The first concert opportunity coming up is in the middle of the day, so I would miss a minimum of two hours of work(...$170); plus I would have to buy an outfit for the concert (casual dress attire, long sleeve shirt, slacks, tie; another $20 at best). (...$190) I don't have any of those items in my wardrobe and I don't really want any of items in my wardrobe. And on top of that, there's only one more rehearsal before that concert, and I don't feel confident with any of the songs (one of which I haven't even received the sheet music for, even though I paid my $10 music fee). (...$200)

The next concert opportunity is something I likely won't be chosen for, and I'm not sure I want to be anyway. It's the "Midnight Cabaret," an event for which the audition is this coming Thursday evening, and the director gets final say over the pieces, whether they're too risky or not bawdy enough. Those who don't perform in the cabaret are encouraged to volunteer but must be in full costume regardless of the position you volunteer for. I don't think I would get selected because I've seen a song or two that some of the men intend to audition with, and they seem boring to me, classic piano bar songs. Oy!

And then there's the Christmas concert. I'm somewhat opposed to singing songs about the Christchild any ol' way, but the costume for this concert is a tuxedo! Someone said you can get one at JC Penney's for around $100... ($300)

And I really have no interesting in inviting friends to come see the concerts (tickets for which I hear cost $140!) But mostly it's about the fact that I'm an Artist.

S and I went to see the Patti Smith documentary last night (Patti Smith: Dream of Life), an excellent, inspiring film. I had been thinking about quitting the chorus before we saw it, but was completely sold on the fact that I need to quit afterward because the movie is all about being an artist, being true to the artist that you are. I wasn't a big fan of Patti's back in the day because I really wasn't exposed to her. I don't know if I would have been transformed had I experienced her in the 80s when I was confused and stupid and living in Houston, but I was certainly transformed last night.

Although I am often lonely, I realized I don't need to search for community to fulfill me -- because I haven't found a community yet that fills that need. What I need to do is create art; I need to be proud of what I am creating. My art might bring me closer to a community of like-minded people; or maybe that won't happen until sometime in the distant future. Patti read a Walt Whitman poem in which he imagines all the poets to come after him; he was describing what he saw in the trees and the water and nature for the poets to come after him. She said it has always been important for her to do that. I like the way that sounded.

I keep making excuses not to write, not to get in there and cover my hands with papercuts in order to organize and work on this fucking big-ass novel. But last night, glowing from having just seen the Patti Smith movie, burning from the excitement that is New York City as I haven't since I left there ten years ago, I decided that I just gotta do it. So, I made a promise to myself. At the very least, I will spend the two hours of rehearsal time expected of the men in the chorus working on my novel. Every Monday evening, 7-9. There may be other hours as well, after I get into the groove of it and things start flowing, but right now I'm promising myself that much. Even if I just sit with the manuscript on my lap smoking cigarettes and staring at the space in front of me, I will be totally involved with my novel for two hours every week night. No special outfit required.

I was so charged when I went to bed last night that I had a full night of dreams, most of which I can't remember, except for one: A crowd of tall people talking at a party separates and a boy with breathtaking light blue eyes, pushes through, points at me and smiles, saying, "You! You!"

going to the ghetto

Last night was the first rehearsal of the gay men's chorus that I now belong to. I wasn't sure how I would be received or if any of my inner alarms or dialogs would get the better of me, but the first thing I noticed about the whole night was that I could wear whatever I wanted and not worry about what others might think. I mean, sure, if I wore my one-piece over-the-shoulder green thong, I might have gotten harassed for wildly inappropriate fashion for choir practice or for a church (even a gay Methodist church). But I didn't wear that. I got a new pair of striped light blue cotton slacks at the tax-free weekend on Sunday, which I trimmed just below the knees, then I had my dark blue T-shirt with the odd drawing (in light blue) of a long-haired man with no face) and a red striped number 11 in the upper stage left corner. I wore my Simple hemp slip-ons and red socks. I paused a moment before I put on the red socks; then remembered I was going to the gay ghetto and I could wear whatever I wanted. No matter what people might say, I didn't have to worry about anyone thinking I was gay because of what I was wearing. This is something I go through on a regular basis in my life. I like bright clothes; I'm a tall person; I stand out. It's just who I am. But sometimes I get out somewhere and get an uncomfortable feeling that I'm being judged.

I told S when I got home and he said this is why people are proponents of the Gay Ghetto. I hadn't really thought about it much. I have always felt kind of out of place in gay-specific places like gay bars, but I've decided more recently that it's because they're bars and that I don't really care for bars.

There was a little awkwardness last night, but it didn't cripple me. For one thing, a guy I'd seen the week before kind of gave me a short answer when I asked him what section he was in; it felt a little off-putting. He was a bass and didn't seem too interested in having a conversation with me.

But there were plenty of men who did. And I let go (as best I could) of my judgments of who was "too gay" or whatever and just tried to enjoy the experience. And I did. I only know a couple of peoples' names so far, but there's one guy named L who is such a flaming Irish queen; he's got strawberry blond hair and a bright face -- and I think he's lost his eyebrows or regularly plucks them away -- and he makes me laugh. He's kind of ditsy, which I think is his natural way, but he plays it up for comic effect. Homosexuals can be so funny; there's a lot of good material to be mined in the gay ghetto, I'm finding. Or I'm remembering. It's not like I've never been to a gay bar (or never had a good time in one) or that I've never been to a bathhouse or piano bar or gay rodeo. Okay, I've never been to a gay rodeo, but I think I'm against that more for the animal cruelty aspect than the desire to not see men in tight-fitting Brokeback Mountain duds...

To start off the rehearsal, we did what the director called a "Group Grope," which was a little weird. We all turned to face the right and did "whatever the person behind us was doing to the person in front of us." As far as I could tell, it was all neck and back massage. And we did some vocalizing all the while. Then we turned around and did it to the person behind us. Everyone seemed to be pretty concentrated in this part of the evening. As for the rest of the night, it was like being in junior high band again, with the person at the front of the room having to constantly shush one part of the room while he worked with another.

Masculine appearances aside, I'm not sure I'm suited for the baritone section. There are two baritone parts, and in my welcome email, I was told that I would take the higher baritone parts whenever available. But I felt like I was screeching and straining my voice. And the music was hard. I'm not complaining about that. I'm glad the songs are difficult; I know it'll all come together by performance time and be pretty impressive. But I wonder if I shouldn't be singing bass. It seems a little weird that the director decided so quickly in my tryout that I was a baritone (with forty or so other guys in the chorus) and they only have eight or nine bass singers and seem to be hurting for them. I've always sung bass -- and though I said before that I think I'll like the baritone section better, I'm not sure I'm up for it.

We'll see; I'll give it a little time and then go talk to somebody if I still feel like I'm in the wrong place. However, it's comforting to know that even though I feel out of place (as per usual), I know that there's a place somewhere in there for me.