it's not a nipple, it's a butthole

And now I'm home again. I went out for dinner and to write. My first choice was Mandola's Italian in the Triangle not far from here. The food is good, but what I really like is the atmosphere; well-lit outdoor tables and good people watching. But the line was out the door and I was starving so I drove over to Magnolia Cafe on Lake Austin Blvd, which is what Sixth Street turns into at MOPAC. There was a wait there as well, but I pulled out my big cumbersome novel, removed the writing tablet from the inside pocket of the three-ring binder, found out what I needed to work on next, and dove into it.

This isn't writing, this is rewriting, revising or whatever. Whatever you call it, I haven't been doing much of it lately, so it felt good to get to it. For some reason, this part of the process feels less satisfying. The fuller versions, I would write a chapter at a time, for the most part; it was easier to get into the groove than it is when I'm just reworking a paragraph or two, or adding dialogue to a scene, which seems to be more often than taking dialogue out. I guess when things are cut down, whole chunks are usually pulled out, dialogue, narrative and all.

My first few attempts at rewriting were frustrating. I didn't think I was saying what I wanted to say, or felt like a lot more needed to be written, or that I didn't know how to get to the end of what I was writing and reconnect it with the existing manuscript. I read a couple of these to S, just to point out my frustration and illustrate my failure, and he liked what I had written. In the case that I couldn't find the end, he suggested I leave off the last partial sentence and leave it at that. He was right; it worked!

We joke that I'm writing this book for him. But he is my audience. He's a super-smart person, and knows me and my work better than anybody ever could, since we've had such a long acquaintance and because we've worked together creatively for a big chunk of those years. He's my first editor; these are his changes, for the most part, that I'm making before I consider the novel done and start the even more thankless job of looking for an agent or a publisher.

A few other people have also read the first draft. My mother is one of them. But I think she might have abandoned the project. She read the first chapter online, requested more (which meant I just had to tell her what buttons to push to get to the other chapters), and then asked if I minded if she printed it out, so she wouldn't have to sit in front of the computer the whole time. I gave her a copy. I visited there a month or so ago. It was an interesting visit. Not too traumatizing. But anyway, things get a lot more graphic by chapter four.

Another person who read (or is reading - she hasn't reported on her progress lately) is my old improv teacher. She had my favorite thing to say about the novel: It's not a nipple, it's a butthole! Perfect. She was referring to the graphic nature of my writing. My friend P1's then-boyfriend read it and sent me an amazing, descriptive, well thought out and useful critique by email. Ultimately, I didn't take his overriding suggestion - which was to change the more intimate details - but I did take a pause, as I have more than once over this, before proceeding. S was a big part of the decision not to change the content. A childhood friend of his, who is now a long-time friend of mine, is an editor and and she read it and had a similar reaction as P1's boyfriend did. She said up front that she has a hard time with graphic sexual content; I think the description of semen was particularly noted.

A lot of my writing of the novel took place at a time in my life when I was watching a lot of movies. Sometimes I would start writing late in the evening after watching a movie that inspired me. The inspiration totally fed into the august chagrin storyline; not that I stole anything from the movie, just that the inspiration that created the movie charged the inspiration that was creating the novel.

I have the hardest time explaining the channeling thing. P1 seemed to think I wasn't giving myself enough credit. But that's not what it's about. This is what I love about writing, tapping into a part of my brain that works on this completely different plane; it's there but isn't always reachable. It comes in its own time. Of course, putting myself in the proper situation to let that part of my brain work - a well-lit outdoor table at a nearby Italian restaurant perhaps - has a lot to do with it too.

I think I would have spent more time at Mandola's writing; I felt a little rushed and distracted at Magnolia. But I am happy with what I got written. It's still longhand, but I think it's going in the right direction. I just have to type it up.

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.

rockwell stockwell

I've been confusing Dean Stockwell and Sam Rockwell for a long time. Their names are similar enough that I convinced myself it was the same person. I think it happened around the time I started watching the TV show "Quantum Leap," which I didn't watch when it originally aired, but rather when it went into syndication. Whenever that was, I guess Sam Rockwell was in something that I liked, and then I saw another episode of the show and saw Dean Stockwell's name and convinced myself - even though Dean Stockwell is 32 years older than Sam Rockwell - that it was the same actor. I probably even muddled the names when I was talking about "him" to someone else, enough so that I didn't get questioned on it.

In the last week or so, S and I watched Long Day's Journey Into Night, with Katharine Hepburn, Ralph Richardson, Jason Robards, and Dean Stockwell. The play was written in 1942, was very autobiographical - Eugene O'Neill put it in a vault and said that it should not be published until 25 years after his death (but his third wife went against his wishes, and it was published in 1956, three years after his death). The film was made in 1962, but was filmed in black and white, which S tells me was the way they did things back then - dramas in B&W, comedies in color.

In the movie, Katharine Hepburn plays a woman going mad essentially (helped along by morphine and some bad memories), and the actress was just starting to get the shaky head which she said she inherited from her grandfather, not from Parkinson's disease. So, it was a little confusing to see an aging Hepburn in a B&W film. And there was young Sam Rockwell-- er, Dean Stockwell, playing her young son.

And now Moon just came out, starring Sam Rockwell. I went to see it last night with M&J. It's a very good movie, but I'm not here to issue spoilers. When we were getting into the car after the movie, I made a comment about the fact that Sam Rockwell was in Long Day's Journey (which J watched a few minutes of with S and me when it was playing at the house), and J was like, "No way! That couldn't have been him, that movie was from like the '40s or something!" And I was confident that I was right. "Strange as it may seem, it's true!"

But you can't get away with anything these days. We both pulled out our iPhones and started doing research, and before too long at all, I realized my mistake: "It was Dean Stockwell," I said. To which (in my defense) M said, "Oh, my god! It's his son!"

Very confusing. But anyway, Sam Rockwell is not Dean Stockwell, he's not even his son. The only thing they have in common is that they're both actors, and they have big eyebrows.

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.

changes

There's been a change in me. Two weeks ago last night, I had dinner with a friend (whom I'll call P1 'cause she loves it when I call her P1 for some odd reason!). On the way home, I lit up a cigarette and it didn't go down so well. The next day, my sore throat was worse. I had a cold. I got acupuncture and Chinese herbs and chased the cold from my throat to my head to my chest. Today is the first day since then that I haven't felt "sick." I also stopped drinking coffee and alcohol, and smoking pot for the most part (I took a hit once to inspire my writing and another right before S and I went in to see Carrie). And oddly, I stopped masturbating for the most part, just once a week and without looking at porn.

I finished writing chapter 10, which had been plaguing me for a while.

I ordered a new, longer yoga mat and will restart my Mysore practice again on Monday.

I started once-a-month therapy.

I became very close with an old neighbor and we have spent an inordinate amount of time together, talking, eating, crafting, meditating, crying. It's the very first relationship of its kind for both of us; he has never had a close friend who was gay and I have never had such a deep relationship with a straight man before. We are both healing a lot of old wounds. It's pretty incredible, and at times feels like being in love.

It is also scary for both of us in our own ways. We've talked about going to therapy together (since he recommended the therapist I started seeing).

This all came to me because I had dinner at P1's again last night.

(photo "Buddha Tears" by Blue Perez (c) 2007)

a $2.50 problem

Dear Alamo,

On Monday, December 29, 2008, I visited the Alamo Ritz to see Wonderwall, but couldn't enjoy the movie because I was distracted. Earlier that day, I had looked on your website to confirm the time of the show. While there, I saw this:

Music Monday Specials: Free large popcorn with purchase of a bucket of beer at all Music Mondays! Free large soda or $2 Alamo Ale w/ purchase of a pizza!

I have visited most of the Alamo locations numerous times in the three years I've lived in Austin (in fact, I just looked at my bank account and see that I spent $543.94 in tickets and food at the Alamo in 2008 with my credit card, and another fourth or third that amount in cash); I became a member of Austin Film Society because of my love of Alamo...

My waiter that night was C. I wrote on my order card: WATER / WILD AT ARTICHOKE HEARTS PIZZA / ALAMO ALE. When C picked up my order, I commented: "That's the $2 beer special, right?" She said, "Oh, I don't think we've offered that special in a while." I said, "I saw it on the website today." She said, "Well, if it's on the website, of course I'll give it to you, but I'll check with my manager."

When C returned, to my surprise, she said the manager told her to tell me "Because the offer is so outdated and we haven't been doing that in such a long time, he isn't going to honor it tonight. But he would be happy to give you a complimentary soda, if you'd like." (As an aside, I had to reorder water before I got it.)

I couldn't decide how to respond, and was thinking about it throughout the movie. My final response was to give the waiter a less-than-normal tip (I usually tip 20% or more, but left 15%, which I know is acceptable by many people's standards, but not my usual). Over the course of the past few days, I can't get this experience out of my mind, so I decided to write to you.

I'm writing to let you know, number one, that the "Music Monday Specials" offer is still on your website; and secondly, to let you know that I have already declined two offers to go to a movie at the Alamo since then (four days ago). I'm not saying I'm boycotting your theater forever, but that warm fuzzy feeling I used to get whenever I heard "Alamo Drafthouse" is definitely a little less warm and a little less fuzzy.

Sincerely,
JDJB


--

JDJB: I sincerely apologize for any confusion regarding our specials. Since my tenure began here at the Alamo we have offered specials for our discount programming (Music Monday, Weird Wednesday and Terror Thursday) which have been a free popcorn with purchase of a beer bucket and a free soda with purchase of a pizza. The later is the special I told the server we were offering. Only later during that night did i see the special you were referring to. While this is in fact an outdated special had i known it was on the website I would have honored the print. We are now in the midst of correcting this issue. We would love to get you back in a seat at the Ritz on us! If you would send me your address I will mail out some passes and card for a couple of free beers. Our customers always come first here and it really bothers me that we have some diminished our image in your eyes.. We want that warm and fuzzy feeling back. Best,

last day, first night

A couple of days ago, it got up to the upper-60s. I sit in a corner of my room at my desk with a window in front of me and a window to the side of me. I sat there all day thinking, As soon as I finish this, I'm gonna get out there and enjoy this weather. But I didn't get outside until 4:30.

I didn't want to repeat that "mistake" yesterday, since it was going to be in the mid-70s, and then the temperature was going to drop for a while. So I blew off work in the early part of the day and spent several hours raking the yard. I got warm and took off my shirt and had on shorts. It was very nice.

The rake scooped up the pig and dog and cat poop in the yard (most of which I couldn't see because of all of the leaves). The first day, I raked a small third of the yard, and yesterday another third (a larger third). I thought I would get through the whole yard, but I was already feeling the muscle aches, so I relaxed, left the lines of leaves in the untreed third of the yard where they were. They're probably blown about a bit now because it's kind of windy out there.

I'm working this morning. Still feeling a bit depressed. I can't decide if I want to try to talk myself into going to First Night tonight. I got a request from a friend -- who's kid I'm an Official Uncle JB to -- to meet them downtown and hang out with them. That's at 3:00 p.m. That's a possibility. But she told me to not dare try to drive there, since they did last year and it was insanity. Another friend is DJing tonight, which I would love to go to. But dancing outdoors in the nighttime? It makes me uncomfortable just to think about it!

There are vegetables in the fridge I need to use, bok choy and kale, cauliflower, carrots, beets. S went over everything he was leaving undone (much of it washed and cut, I just have to throw it into a pot or pan or some sort of cooking device). I found a recipe on 101 Cookbooks for Garlicky Greens, which sounds good, but I couldn't inspire myself to cook anything last night. I'm thinking maybe that's what I'll do tonight instead of going to First Night. A soup would also be good and would last a while.

Last night, I ordered some empanadas from the pizzeria/empanada shop down the street. I had a mushroom, a bean, a spinach, and a pear enpanada last night with a Guiness while I watched the movie that came in the mail, Soldier's Girl. S had already seen it, so I don't think he will mind that I watched it without him, even though he said he would watch it again. Dang! I would watch it again, too.

I put it on my Netflix queue because of Lee Pace, who is the male lead in The Fall, my favorite movie from last year, one of my favorites of all time, I think. He plays a transgendered woman in Soldier's Girl who falls in love with a soldier, and vice versa. It's based on a true story; it doesn't turn out well. Another intense movie viewing!

motivation...

...or lack thereof.

I'm struggling to find routine in my life. Not that I don't like living in this new place; I love it. But there are more chores to do here -- taking care of animals, which includes cleaning up messes, doing laundry, cleaning the kitchen. Maybe it feels a little too much like vacation here, possibly because our friends -- our current housemates and future landlords -- are in Panama, on vacation, and it feels a little bit like I am, too, or should be. I don't know.

I need routine to work on my book. I finished the first draft in November, which I'm proud of, but I'm not ready to show it to anybody outside of S, and not really even ready to show it to him, because I've got some work to do on it as I'm going through it "one last time" before I give it up.

I only worked 20 hours the past two weeks (I usually work at least 30 a week), so my paycheck tomorrow is going to be small. Fortunately, this is a three pay period month. I've worked close to 25 hours already this week, but am currently transcribing a call by a Swedish ESL guy, which just makes me want to take a nap. I just did.

Also, S just finished his last finals yesterday, so now he's around all the time (though he was away for most of the morning), and that tends to make me want to just hang out, get stoned, watch movies, eat. We're going to movies at the Alamo tonight and tomorrow night. Tonight, we're going to the one on South Lamar to see an Argentinian film called The Swamp (La Ciénega), and tomorrow we'll go to the Ritz on Sixth Street to see In A Dream, which I saw at SXSW and really want S to see. It's a documentary about the man who has done mosaics all over Philadelphia. It's a beautiful movie, and my treat to S for finishing his semester (any excuse...!).

Speaking of the animals, we were having some problems with Tinkerbell the potbellied pig. She was seeming a bit aggressive, butting our legs when we were in the kitchen, chasing us around, making kind of scary grunting noises, etc. She got into a six-pack of root beers (likely with the help of Bones the boxer), chewed off the lids, and made a mess of the main room! They drank up most of three bottles of root beer, but there was still a mess, and it was easy enough to clean up, but I was frustrated by all of Tinkerbell's cries for attention. I wasn't sure we were feeding her enough, so I sent my friends in Panama an email asking "Is Tinkerbell starving?" I got an email yesterday letting me know that once a month, Tinkerbell gets "what we call FRISKY." Oh... I was a little more understanding of her last night and today, let her chase me around the yard, and didn't yank my foot back so fast when she went to bite my Crocs, and it really doesn't hurt. I don't know if it's her form of affection or frustration, but she's pretty harmless. I spent some time combing her, which she sometimes likes, and rubbing her belly last night, which she always loves.

We're also doing a lot of entertaining, which S and I both love to do, and since we have this great house to ourselves we're upping the occurrence. This coming Saturday, we're having a Solstice Soup Party (with 45 expected); on Christmas Day, we're having a Orphans' Xmas Brunch (with eight people, more or less); and then on January 11th, we're having dinner for the three people who run biRDHOUSE Gallery, from whom I recently bought some art and endeared myself to them. One of the two guys gave us a postcard for the opening of the gallery when we were at one of my birthday dinners, S and I went, and we hit it off; I like them a lot, have stopped by the gallery for a beer and have gone out to another opening they invited me to The woman who completes their staff (who is more the administrator, I think, while they are the actual curator/owners) as it turns out, is having a birthday on January 12th, so I'm going to make a cake and we're going to kick off her birthday season. That'll be fun.

I'd much rather think about these things than work, but work I must.

the jury's still out

Last week, I biked over to the LBJ Library to meet up with S for a movie I had seen listed in the Chronicle called The Gift. It's about "bug-chasers," or people who actively seek out HIV. I don't know if it's a doc or a narrative, but that doesn't matter right now.

There was a lot of construction going on around the library, so it took me longer than I thought it would to find my way to S, and he was in a disappointed state of mind already because he had planned to wait for me on the deck overlooking the beautiful fountain below, but couldn't because of the construction.

When I arrived in the lobby, he was on the courtesy phone and I thought to myself, "I'm not that late, am I?" He was calling UT's information line, trying to find out where the movie was showing. Everyone was puzzled. The problem was the room number I had: 3-14.1

That's a crazy room number, isn't it? We tried our luck at the communications building, or whatever that building is called that's actually in front of the LBJ Library (I always thought it was the LBJ Library). We took the elevator to the third floor, but there was a printed out sign on the bulletin board just off the elevator: THIRD FLOOR CLOSED

So we went to the ground floor; I went into a student planning office or some such place and asked the woman at the desk and the other woman standing next to it about the room number, and then about a possible movie showing in that building or anywhere on campus. But I didn't know exactly what program the movie was part of, so I said, "HIV Awareness Week, or something like that," instead of, "I don't know."

A third woman in an office with glass walls put her hand over her phone receiver and started making suggestions. She had somebody pull out the building directory. We went through it sort of together and found rooms like 311.1, but the dash apparently is important. There was no Room 3-14.1 in that building either.

Long story short: we missed the movie. I came home and put it at the top of the Netflix queue, not because either of us is dying to see it (no pun intended), but just to get it out of the way, you know?

I looked for the listing in my Gmail All Mail box, searched Trash, but the only reference to the movie that I could find was the email I sent to S with the date, time, and room number, 3-14.1. (I had forgotten I saw the listing in a newspaper and not on some movie listserv I'm on, such as from the Austin Film Society, to which I am a dues-paying member.)

Okay, long story not-so-short, but I'm getting there. I dug the old Chronicle out of the recycling crate and found the listing for the movie at the LBJ something-or-other Center on the UT campus in San Marcos, Texas, which is 31.7 miles from Austin!

Anyway, The Gift arrived today and we're gonna watch it.

(That picture is so beautiful; the HIV virus would make a beautifully tragic holiday ornament.)

add this to your queue

The Bicycle Thief, directed by Vittoro De Sica (1948)

The IMDb summary describes it only "A man and his son search for a stolen bicycle vital for his job." But, oh my god, it is about so much more than that. The attention the director pays to every little detail is striking throughout, from the lighting choices to the way music works its way into the film. There are extended laugh-out-loud moments and jaw-dropping moments of devastation. This movie rocked my world from the first frame to the FINE in the last one. Enzo Staiola, who plays the nine-year-old son, was a naturally amazing actor; his power onscreen reminded me of Cantica Untaru, who starred in one of my favorite movies of all times, 2006's The Fall. This was Enzo's first film, and apparently he was pulled off the street for the role because of his walk. But whoever made that choice got a lot more than they bargained for because he is the emotional power of The Bicycle Thief. Not that the man who plays his father and mother aren't equally good, but he seemed to push the emotions of the story to the forefront.

I don't want to say more about it because I don't want to give anything away, and because I couldn't really do it justice. I don't speak Italian, but Ladri Di Biciclette is sometimes translated as "The Bicycle Thieves," but I much prefer the singular translation, The Bicycle Thief. Once you see it, I think you'll see what I mean.

birthday season update #3

birthday season update #2

I spent last evening with two of my favorite people, S & A. (Too bad S's name doesn't start with a T, 'cause that would be funny to say I spent the night with T & A! But anyway...) A picked us up at 6:15 and we headed over to South Austin, to Buenos Aires Cafe, which doesn't look like much, a divey little building under a billboard nestled between a pawn shop and a beauty parlor. It was probably a house once upon a time, and what used to be the front porch has been enclosed by tall wrought iron fence bars and thick clear plastic. And it's small. Only room for maybe 30 people tops, inside and out. And it was packed. But as my birthday luck would have it, there was one table available, right in the middle of everything.

The three waiters -- two male and one female -- worked the room together. They were all beautiful and sweet; I wanted them all and they seemed to want me, too, which is part of the reason I've been contemplating becoming celibate for a year starting on my (actual) birthday. S asked me what more that meant besides what I've been doing lately (not dating really, not having much sex) and in my mind it means not having any sex, not masturbating, not looking at porn, and not sexifying every moment of my life, every person I see. I want to stop wanting every personal (and not so personal -- i.e., seeing people at the grocery store, etc..) encounter I have to become sexual. I'm still thinking it through and will write more about it on Tuesday.

A ordered a bottle of organic white wine and then we ordered our meals. While we waited for our food, she ran out to the car to get what she said was my "trinket," but which was actually a cool recycled material shopping bag from Whole Foods Market with eleven gifts in it. I had told her about this being my Birthday Season, and she went with it! She made a card that said "Happy Birthday JDJB!! Tonight we start your BIRTHDAY FESTIVAL!!" Inside was a longer (lovely) message and a suggestion to open one present per day. So I opened one right then. It was a kid's Count Dracula Halloween mask. Fun!

My meal:

Spinach salad - A refreshing blend of organic baby-leaf spinach, feta cheese, Fuji apples and spicy roasted pecans in our sweet/tart vinaigrette.

Gnocchi Quartet - A unique combination of our wonderful homemade flavored gnocchi consisting of pumpkin-cinnamon, sweet potato-chipotle, cilantro-jalapeno, and potato-herb tossed with roasted red peppers, artichoke hearts, mushrooms and haricots verts in an olive oil, finished with specialty sauces and fresh parmesan.

I couldn't decide between the Quatros Leches and the Flourless Chocolate Cake special, so S had one and I had the other. The Flourless Chocolate Cake wasn't on the menu (but was fantastic), and the Quatros Leches was described thusly:

This traditional Latin-American sponge cake has a distinct Argentinean touch that includes multiple sauces and dulce de leche liqueur for a truly unique flavor!

Amen to that!

One of the waiters had a cool tattoo on his arm, a negative space tattoo, a black circle with a peace dove in the middle. I'm very tattoo-aware right now since I just got my St. Francis tattoo. We chatted briefly about it, and then a little later into the meal, he came over with postcards for all of us announcing a gallery opening he and another waiter from the cafe are having. It's called Birdhouse, and it's not far from our home. The East Side is so cool and getting cooler. The card says "Just For You/New Work By..." and on the back:

To Whomever Finds This
thank you for taking the
time to find this. First
life is all electrity = No god
Its the most beautiful
thing to be a human
so
drink
fuck
love
cry
spend
save
none of it Matters

As planned, we went to see The Order of Myths after dinner. The Order of Myths is one of (in fact the final) "Mystics" organizations that marches in the Mardi Gras parades and throws out the beads and -- in Mobile, Alabama -- Moonpies! The movie broke my heart. It's beautifully told and so pertinent to what we're going through right now in the country

In Mobile, there is a white Mardi Gras organization and a black Mardi Gras organization; they each have a king and queen, and they each have a parade (same day, different times). It is one of the last hold-ons of segregation in Mobile. The documentary examines both sides of the centuries-old coin; there is a lot of joy and sadness on both sides, and a lot of yearning, particularly from the younger generations, to not be so segregated. This year (it was filmed in 2007), the king and queen on both sides made steps to integrate just a little bit, and it was this effort, this compassionate effort made by all of them (but particularly by the black couple) that had me crying through the last quarter of the film.

A, S and I went to Clementine Coffee Bar afterward for beverages -- A had a cappuccino, S had a beer, and I had hot chocolate -- to talk about the movie and other things. I got to bed at 1:00 a.m. and slept so soundly...

The first thing I did this morning was open my #2 gift from A:

a box of Ak-mak 100% whole of/the wheat stone ground sesame crackers!

birthday season update #1

Fest Africa was fun last night, though I had a bit of a headache and the performances got louder and less interesting as the first act went on. It wasn't bad, just the headache. I was thinking maybe it was a hunger headache. There was food, which wasn't vegetarian, but instead of making a stink, I gave the smiling young lady at the cash box my $5 and enjoyed the meal: a chicken leg on rice, half a savory fried pie, some fried plaintains and a Mountain Dew.

All that fried had me hankering for dessert, so S and I walked down Guadalupe looking at the menus of the mostly Asian restaurants, and finally walked on home then rode our bikes over to Blue Dahlia for dessert. He had bread pudding, I had cheesecake with chocolate sauce, and we both had decaf cappuccinos. It was all yummy. S complained that the bread pudding didn't have any kind of a sauce, though where I grew up (not too far from here), bread pudding wasn't served with any kind of sauce. Still, it was a tad on the dry side, which isn't right.

My slice of cheese cake was twice as big as it should have been, in my opinion. I finally stopped eating it when I was pleasantly sick to my stomach and asked for a piece of foil to wrap it in for the bike ride home. But I forgot it on the table, as well as my phone, which another patron chased out after us with. (Why didn't she bring my cheesecake, too?!)

A couple of nights ago, I went through the first part (seven chapters) of august chagrin, getting them ready for the next phase, whatever that means, and I wanted to do the same thing with the next part last night, but I was just as sleepy as I could be when we got home. It was only 10 o'clock, so I lay on my bed and listened to one of the dozens of This American Life broadcasts I haven't gotten around to listening to. It was the one called "I Got You Pegged," or something like that. It offered several laugh-out-loud moments. And then sleep.

Tonight, A is picking S and me up and taking us to eat for my birthday at a restaurant I've never even heard of called Buenos Aires Cafe. She's a restaurant fanatic, so I asked her to choose, and she chose it for its many vegetarian options. Hooray! After that, she got tickets for a movie I want to see, a documentary called The Order of Myths, which just came out. It's about Mardi Gras in Mobile, Alabama (the first city to have a Mardi Gras in the US) and race relations then to now. A says it's gonna be a three-part birthday celebration because we're going somewhere after the movie for a drink.

low hangers, too...

S and I watched this movie Killer of Sheep tonight. It was made in '77 and released on DVD earlier this summer. I saw it at I (Heart) Video several times, but never picked it up. So I put it on the Netflix queue and it arrived yesterday.

It's an amazing movie, beautiful, touching, about the harsh realities of being black in mid-70s LA. (I guess that's what it's about!) As I watched it, I kept getting inspirations that I had to write down. We were in S's room watching on his computer and I didn't want to stop the movie so I grabbed what I could, a brown Crayola brand marker and post-it notes.

During the course of the movie I wrote six post-its, one on bright pink, the rest on bright yellow paper:

• THIS OLD MAN
• 2 Robbers @ once
• golden afro
• letters to Sun
• devil screwing his wife
• We live like niggers

The movie had a wonderful soundtrack, including an amazing version of Dinah Washington singing "This Bitter Earth," first when the main character and his wife were dancing in their apartment (very sexy) and then again when the main character was at his job at the slaughterhouse (I closed my eyes). There were also great sounds of the kids in the movie, playing and fighting and singing. The main character's wife and six-year-old daughter are singing together at the beginning of the movie, the woman forgetting some of the words, the little girl following the structure of the tune but not the correct notes usually. They weren't onscreen which really enhanced the starkness of what was onscreen in grainy b&w. Later, the little girl was singing along with Earth, Wind and Fire to her dolls.

Somewhere, children were singing "This Old Man." S and I smoked before we sat down to watch the movie (natch), and it struck me that "This Old Man" could be funny with different lyrics, i.e.:

This old man, he played one,
plugged my knickknack with his thumb...

and the lyrics get more and more rude and/or bizarre as it goes along. I was thinking this might be a good thing to do at CampCamp, the talent show next week (which will be the penultimate CampCamp, sadly, so I really feel the need to be involved). So I wrote THIS OLD MAN on a post-it note to remind me to do that.

In the movie, two guys show up at the main character's house having devised a scheme that they want him to be in on. I think it has something to do with killing somebody. Oh yeah, and right before that, the main character's son saw two dudes jump over the fence in an alley with a TV they'd obviously just stolen. I got to thinking: I wonder if there's ever been a story written (or a movie made) in which two robbers or groups of robbers happened to hold up a liquor store or a bank at the exact same time. What could happen? They could shoot each other, or they could work together. Mayhem ensues. It seemed like an idea worth writing down, but then again, I was high. But anyway, that's why I wrote 2 Robbers @ once.

Just before we watched the movie, I took a shower, my first shower of the day; I was feeling grungy and my glasses wouldn't stay up on my nose (because my head was greasy) and a cold front was blowing in (not to mention I was high) and a hot shower sounded nice. While I was in there, I got a brilliant idea but I don't wanna share it just yet. (I'm still a little high, so it might not seem like such a great idea later, but I'm gonna sit on it for now, just in case.)

The movie was full of beautiful little black kids, sullen boys and sassy girls. I got to thinking that something that could really make my character Rich White stand out was if he had a golden afro, since his mama's white and his daddy's black. It would make him stand out and give him power.

The little girl asks her daddy where does rain come from and he says, oh, it's 'cause the devil's beating his wife. When I was a kid, we used to say the devil was beating his wife when it was raining and the sun was shining. I don't know where that came from.

I was wondering out loud just this very morning how the word tally-wacker came to be known as a term for penis. My stepfather uses it, and it's in that movie Sordid Lives... I just Googled it and got a link for a beer called Arbor Tally Wacker, a link to an MP3 download of a song called Slappy the Tallywacker, and a online personal ad for tallywackerattacker, all with obvious connections, but no historical evidence of where it came from. Maybe S said he thought it was Scottish or something.) Anyway, I thought that it would be an interesting thing for a character to say, that rain was caused by the devil screwing his wife.

And then I got more into thinking about Randy Reardon's upbringing and his mother Mona's racism. I could imagine her saying, "We live like niggers," making some reference to Rich and his family moving in across the trailerpark.

heads-up

I'm not working today. I'm getting ready to go to Nashville. I'm slightly anxious. Who is this guy I'm going to visit? What will we do for the next four days? Will we have sex a lot? Will we have sex at all? I'm still not sure. I don't know why I've gotten so paranoid about things all of a sudden, but I'm not sure it was really all so sudden. Buying a ticket to Nashville a couple of months ago has given me lots of time to think about it. I'm excited about the trip, about the possibilities. But I got a phone call from B last night saying he wanted to give me a "heads-up" on a possible development. His grandfather is sick in Georgia and he might have to dash off at a moment's notice. He wanted to be sure I have another place to stay if it came to that. I do.

S and I got high and watched a pretty bad movie called He Was A Quiet Man starring Christian Slater. And then I tried to write, and then I tried to journal. It was no use. I started wondering if perhaps the story about B's grandfather wasn't true, if he was just trying to find an out in case we didn't hit it off. I'm wondering how much weight I've gained since I saw him, what kind of shape I'm in since then (which is silly because I never exercised when I lived in Nashville, and although I'm not exercising now, but up until a couple of months ago I was daily). I wonder if he'll notice my gray pubic hairs. I trimmed my wild weed patch of pubes today in preparation for a weekend of sex.

I don't know why I've become so insecure. "Become?" Let me take that back. I don't know why my insecurity has become so pronounced of late. Oh, even that isn't true. I know why.


A couple of nights ago, S and I went to see a movie called August Evening and then I met Br and G at Bouldin Creek Cafe. We had a great time. I wrote this in my journal when I got home:

Br thinks I'm this way with everybody. But I think I have discovered the kind of love affair I can have with him, a straight man. "Humor is my weapon." He laughs at that line (because I said it with a humorous flare) but it is true. In a deep way humor is my talent borne of my insecurities. He's not the only one. I have lots of these lovers, men (straight, usually) and women, our intercourse is laughter. Sometimes it's just masturbation on my part, and they like to watch as I prance around and take their thoughts and spin them into "funny." I know I'm funny. But sometimes they join in, they make me laugh, too, at them and with them and it's done right there in the open and anyone can watch and enjoy it if they want to. But I don't necessarily notice anyone around me. It's just the two of us and our laughter. Sometimes it can be a three-way or even an orgy--

That's all I wrote. I got sidetracked, started doodling on the page. I was trying to say it was wonderful, it was satisfying, this relationship I have with Br. He even called me the next morning and I felt like a blushing bride. Not that I expect or even hope that it will eventually become a physical thing between us; I don't think it will, and I really don't want it to. What I was trying to say was that the laughter we share is special, it's like the best sex.

I tried to write about it again last night, starting with my reaction to having gotten the call from B, the "heads-up" about his grandfather:

about a boy, part whatever
If this doesn't happen there's going to be some kind of a shift, there's got to be. I don't know what that means, but I know something's going to change. It's like some kind of a sign. It is a sign. Because that's what I want it to be. I choose to know. D from the Dance always used to say that; instead of "I don't know," he would say, "I choose to know," which doesn't always work. If you asked him what time it was and he didn't know, he'd say, "I choose to know," and it kind of made sense, but if you asked him something like how does it feel to suddenly be forced into fatherhood by his girlfriend's ex-boyfriend's dead-beat-dad-ness and he said "I choose to know," it didn't make much sense. To me. That's true hippieness, that narrow view of the universe, and it isn't all that different from the narrow view of the universe my fundamentalist grandparents had, so I didn't care much for it.

(Did I mention I was high when I wrote that?)

I'm sad and I'm rambling, about nothing really. B called tonight to say he may have to dart before I get there or sometime during my visit because his grandfather in Georgia isn't doing so well. He called to give me a "heads-up." But if he doesn't call, I'll see him at the airport tomorrow night.

I was really avoiding voicing my fears about him making it up. I don't really think that's the case, so I don't want to state it as fact, but I want to point out now that I was avoiding writing about it. I continued:

If worse comes to worse I can always stay with L and C -- L said "my room is always available." I wonder if I could just stay at B's and take care of his animals if he has to go away. I'm thinking I'll take my book, all of it (maybe on disc) and make a writing weekend of it. That would almost be better than a fucking weekend. But then again, maybe not. We'll see.

Night before last I met Br and G at Bouldin Creek Cafe after they got out of the Dance and I was home from seeing a movie (locally filmed, etc.), a preview. Br did the warm-up music at the Dance and maybe I would have gone to that if I wasn't going to the movie, but I don't know, something happened between me and the Dance and I can't get it back.

At the movie, a woman sitting next to S was holding a piece of paper and writing a list on it. I was intrigued and copied what she had written:

1. Copies
2. Grades on books
3. Grades on reports
4. P. development
5. Drop downs
6. Comments?
7. Conference forms
8. Call parents for conferences

It went on but the movie started and she put it away before I could get it all. (I know, I'm snoopy for no good reason, kinda like that college student who hacked into Sarah Palin's email account.) More journaling:

There are several restaurants in Nashville I want to go to. Family Wash for their vegetarian shepherd's pie; that pizza place on 12th St near L's. I asked L if maybe we could all have pizza together on Saturday night, but I haven't mentioned it to Br yet.

And then I tried to write a poem:

We are not lovers
But we laugh like we're in love
The only two people in a crowded room
The woman with you
Laughs at us and at our jokes
But she can only watch from the outside
As I touch you
And you touch back
Eyes wide open
Screaming, throbbing, slobber and tears
Our raucous laughter
Thrusting out and sucking in
Begging for a truce
A moment to catch our breath
Before we wind up again
For another round

I know, it sucks. The first two lines were in my head for a day, and I tried to turn them into something, but I think I failed.

I figured out a way to continue putting entries on my blog while I'm away, the outline of my book, anyway. They're all in there and scheduled to show up, one a day, so it'll look like I'm around, but really I'm not, I'm in Nashville, hopefully in a bed, hopefully with some part of my body buried in some part of B's, or vice versa.

movies, movies

Amitodana is a large black dyslexic woman ex-Southern Baptist turned Buddhist pothead who comes off older (in her letters) than she is in reality. I got stoned and figured this out while editing a version of chapter twenty, the third of five letters by Ami's hand.

Tomorrow is my regularly scheduled writing night but tomorrow night is the second presidential debate and S reserved us seats at a viewing of it at the Long Center, and I wanted to get my hour of writing in for the week. Next Tuesday evening, I'll have just arrived back from Nashville (where, coincidentally, the debate is taking place), so I'm not sure I'll be writing that night either, but I'll have lots of time to write on the plane, or potentially will, if I take advantage of it.

Wow, my mind just wondered. I was thinking about C, whose name I can't remember, only that it begins with a C but doesn't resemble a name that would start with a C. The young model/actor friend of M's (from the dance) who told his father to say hi to me when he was visiting from California. There's nothing more to that.

S and I watched The Graduate a few nights ago. At the beginning, when he's on the plane, I got very claustrophobic feeling. Then I remembered I was high. Later, when he's in the pool in the scuba suit, I felt claustrophobic again. Why am I so claustrophobic as I get older. Of course it has to do with the pot, but it didn't always used to be that way. Is that the way I picture death coming? Feeling closed in and then slipping away? If that's what I think, it's a good opportunity to get comfortable with the feeling. When he was on the plane I was thinking about Paris, about my trip to Paris in March, my loooong plane ride to France.

Randy Reardon is supposedly afraid of flying but I don't feel like I've captured it yet. I've decided I will journal all the way to France, write about my claustrophobia if it strikes, describe the panic attack if I have one. It could be very useful for the book.

If my fear is based on death, I think I've approached my fear of death already and I don't really fear it in a fundamental way anymore. If the plane crashes and I die, that's the absolute worst thing that could happen, so there's nothing to worry about, right? I just hope it happens on the way home and not on the way there, if it's gonna happen!

I guess a bigger fear would be being paralyzed. So I'll state right here and now that, yes, you should pull the plug on me. Whomever, however, I don't want to be kept alive on a machine. (I'm glad I go that out of the way.)

I went to see Man on Wire a couple of nights ago. I had wanted to see it for some time, and I was afraid it was going to disappear from the movie theater by the time I got around to it, particularly since I'm spending next weekend out of town. S has become drastically conservative financially, will only go out if someone else is paying (except when he goes out for his Saturday night beer or two at the Chaindrive, but maybe somebody buys for him there -- he does have that charm or whatever it is that makes people want to treat him). I don't mind sometimes, but I like to go when I like to go and don't want to have to coordinate.

That's the best thing about our relationship, I think. We aren't boyfriends or partners or whatever; we don't have to get permission from each other. We don't have to answer for ourselves unless we want to, but we don't have to. I think it makes for a more comfortable and realistic relationship.

Man on Wire is a film about the man who tight wire walked between the World Trade Center towers in 1974. It's an amazing film. I'm not usually afraid of heights, but for at least a third of the movie my knees were jelly and my stomach was in my throat. It was exciting. It's a very well-made film, very stylized. I loved it.

Last night, M and I went to see a friend of hers do a reading at BookPeople, and afterward we talked about relationships, hers and my lack of one. In many ways I want a relationship, a "significant other," but it just doesn't seem to be happening for me, and I'm trying to come to terms with that. Then again, I'm going to Nashville for a boy, so we'll see what comes of that. I know I'm not moving to Nashville, so it has limitations.

Last week, S and I watched Carnal Knowledge. I had never seen it (nor had I seen The Graduate). S's writing a paper for his history class on Mike Nichols, or on his films, rather, or at least on those two plus Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf? It's for his history class, so he's writing the paper from some sort of historical perspective, the late 60s/early 70s, something like that.

Great film, Carnal Knowledge. The Graduate, too. But I liked Carnal Knowledge a little better. I love Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf? I hope that's in the queue. I've seen it at least once before, but would love to see it again.

the letters of amitodana

I worked on the letters of Amitodana last night. Letter number three. One and two are already written but I went back to them thinking I would rewrite them then caught myself and moved forward. They're short chapters; the first one is two pages, the second one is four pages. Chapter three looks like it'll be six or seven pages. They each get longer because Amitodana is writing to a stranger, and opening up as she goes, telling the stranger about the main character's condition. He is in a hospice far from home and she is the only person who knows him, but she doesn't know him very well -- she only knows him because of his illness, or because he's her neighbor who is ill -- and she is trying to let the stranger know where his sick friend is in case he wants to visit.

There are five letters in all from Amitodana to August. The third one (the one I wrote last night) implores him to visit or at least make contact, for the good of the patient. The fourth letter is a letter of resignation and disappointment that August hasn't yet made contact. And the fifth is a compassionate description of the patient's last hours. Or will be.

***

Sunday night, P, A, and R came over for dinner. It was P's birthday. S made a delicious meal and I made a delicious cake. A brought wine; R brought an appetizer. P brought flowers from her yard (we think they're pink oleanders) and I made two arrangements from flowers in our yard, bougainvilleas and flame something-or-others and another bright red flower that the hummingbirds love along with live and dead weeds and rosemary stalks.

P was going to bring a guy she's dating so we could get to know him better, but she changed her mind that day because they've been getting to know each other a lot since I made the invitation a few weeks ago and they needed to take a break. That was why I invited R. I saw him driving up to his house while I was cutting flowers and invited him. He's a good neighbor that way. He's hung out with P before, too, and likes her -- she reminds him of someone special -- and so it was fun to have him there.

P had requested S and I sing to her ("serenade" was the word she used), but we didn't have time to rehearse and didn't want to rehearse (we don't like to rehearse together), so I offered to read to her since I used to do a lot of that and haven't in months. I read to all of them chapter thirty-one, "Journey Home," which I'd written a few nights earlier, stayed up until 3 a.m. writing. I hadn't even typed it up yet; S hadn't even read or heard it yet. It was fresh.

S liked it a lot. They all liked it. I was quite proud of it. Am quite proud of it. It's the fifth installment in the five-installment Houston section of the book, so I felt a certain amount of explanation was in order, particularly for R and A, since neither of them have read or heard any part of the book. I stumbled through explanations of the preceding four sections but decided the next night to write out as brief as possible explanations of each chapter so I'll have them for later similar occasions.

It took two hours and ten pages to write out all thirty-four chapter descriptions, but it charged me up. I really didn't have to write the fifth segment descriptions -- since these were intended to be "preceding chapter descriptions," but I was on a roll.

***

Last week I went to the movies with MV; we saw a great movie about the last days of Bertolt Brecht's life. I dropped her off at MN's where she was staying afterwards and went up to say hello. MV sang us a new song she had written and I read a dream from my journal that I happened to have with me (because it has drawings of my cobbing plans that I wanted to show MN). Then MV sang another song and I read another something.

I decided that night that I want to have a salon for my birthday. A Soup Salon, I decided. A dinner party in which all of the attendees offer something they're working on, or something they've created previously, or somebody else's work that inspires them in their work. It could be a song, a story, a poem, a journal reading, whatever. S's offering will be the soup (though he might sing or read something; I hope he will but won't pressure him). He wants to keep the event fairly small because of his busy school schedule, and I want it to be a diverse group, so I'm gonna have to do some thinking and planning.