monkey mind

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

ghostest with the mostest

I should be working, transcribing, paying the bills. But I'm too excited. I couldn't sleep last night, and I think I was visited by a ghost. That's not the reason for the excitement - just another of the "side effects" of it, I guess, so I'll write about it first.

Just as I was falling asleep, I was dreaming of two necklaces, beads - like prayer beads - hanging from under a staircase. I was reaching and at the same time a woman was coming up from the other side of the stairs reaching for the necklaces. Our hands reached them at the same time; they fell to the ground. I was awakened by the distinct sound of something falling in the far corner of my room, maybe my earbuds, I thought. I had been trying to go to sleep for awhile, but had lots of thoughts in my head, thoughts about my performance earlier that evening, thoughts about chapter 29, which I'm slowly but surely piecing together; I turned on the bedside lamp several times to write things down; I thought perhaps the earbuds plugged into my laptop might have been bumped.

I'm not often spooked (although that picture gave me a chill when I first found it!). I didn't turn on the light to check or anything. I just continued my journey toward sleep. It wasn't coming easy, but the time before when I had fallen asleep (before the falling beads woke me), I was going through the six sections of chapter 29 in my head:

1. The Black Man rises from the ashes.
2. August & Lorax on a plane to Houston.
3. Paul meets the Black Man.
4. August & Lorax decide to drive directly to his boyhood home.
5. Dar arrives home late from work; dinner is burned; Paul says the Black Man is upstairs with the children; she ignores him because he is drunk as always.
6. August & Lorax arrive at the smoldering remains of the house.

And then there was the tapping of the cat door in the window on the other side of my bed. I'm gonna fix that right now... (Done.) The cat door is unused now, since Timmy's passing. I have a curtain pulled in front of it, but it has a little tab to keep unwanted guests from entering. When the wind blows, it taps. I didn't think it was a ghost, actually, but it woke me up. But now it's fixed, I think - I stuck an eraser between the door and the tab - if it taps when I go to bed tonight, I will think it's a ghost!

I started working on going back to sleep again, then there was a distinct, single knock on my bedroom door. That's when I decided a ghost was in the house. I didn't feel afraid. I was just a tad annoyed that I was being kept awake, as much by the ghost as by the pot I'd smoked when I got home from the performance, and by chapter 29, which seemed to be unfolding because of the pot.

But anyway, I was excited and unable to sleep mostly because of the improv performance I did. C+T are out of town on tour, as are several of the students who were invited to perform, and it ended up being just me, L and K. It was at the Hideout, the scene of the crime, as it were, the place where I did my first, dismal improv show, that 2 a.m. embarrassment a month or so ago.

Well, I don't have words to describe the show without a boring play-by-play (as best as I can recall) description of it. But we were well connected. It was impressive. S and P1 were there, and they loved it. It was really great fun. And I keep thinking back on the few moments when P1, S and I were leaving, walking down the sidewalk toward her car behind a foursome, one of whom (a cute young man who was obviously in the audience) kept looking back at me and grinning real big. I guess that's what it's really all about!

The other bit of excitement is that, except for chapter 29 and a little bit of tidying up, I am done with august chagrin! I have begun posting the chapters on the august chagrin blog in order. I had previously been posting them in chronological order, but took everything off and put chapter one up. Chapter two will appear on Friday, and chapter three the following Monday. That's the plan. I've already got several of them scheduled to appear on the upcoming Mondays and Fridays. There's a link to the novel blog on the upper righthand corner of this blog.

Okay, I really should do some work now.

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.

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.

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)

death and rebirth

C called me from his car, on his way to Sunday morning dance. I had plans for lunch with G after dance, but I wasn't planning on going to the dance, but since C was going, and since he called me, I decided I would go. And I'm glad I did. I didn't dance with C for more than a few seconds, but I got a big hug and that was ample. I did dance with a lot of other people, people I haven't seen in a long time. It's nice to leave it behind for a while sometimes; it makes it more special.

G and I ate a macrobiotic lunch at Casa de Luz, after each buying a box of Girl Scout cookies from three persistent girls and their stage mother out in front of the yoga center where the dance happens. We scarfed down a few Thin Mints and Samoas (the two most popular GS cookies, according to Wikipedia) on the way and had a nice high fructose corn syrup buzz going before we ate the deadly nightshades, ginger sweet potato tahini soup, etc. All good. Intense conversation.

I've decided to just be who I am around the men I love. These are the soft, straight men who are as attracted to me as I am to them. Naturally, the attraction is different for each of us, but it is strong and it is nice, and I'm not going to shy away from in. I'm diving in. Clench your fists! Hold your horses!

Life's too short. I had a realization today at the dance while L and I were locked in an embrace on the floor sobbing, her likely for her recently passed father, me for my recently passed cat, both of us for the other's broken heart. (I had an image of her heart, a cartoonish vision of it, broken in two by a jagged line, coming back together and the line disappearing as my left ear then right lay in the middle of her big bosom.)

C saw us embracing. He later commented that he saw us, but he wasn't aware of the tears, just the embrace. He was at the same moment that he saw us locked in a metaphorical futuristic embrace with a thin woman he had met at this very dance. He told me about it; he shares deeply with me, and I with him. Recently we had a very deep conversation and I fell in love with him, right there in his pecan shell colored eyes. I told him so. He smiled. I don't want to get into his pants, but I love him. We have become very close in the last couple of months. Since Christmas, I guess, when he came over for our Orphans' Xmas Brunch.

Maybe I shouldn't post this online for the world to see. I've been bruised by my candidness before. (I've gone back and "changed the names to protect the innocent.") But I also have been having a hard time blogging. Since Timmy. I haven't been completely warped by sorrow, but I have had my moments. I'm in mourning. I noticed in the midst of this that this feeling feels very specific; it is not similar to the feeling I get when I am depressed. It is pure sadness. It isn't attached to any deep hole that depression is. Timmy is very real; and now he's gone.

I've been distracting myself a bit. Or trying to. During these exercises I did a bit of writing again. I've been stuck on chapter 10. But it seems to be cranking up again. This is a very good feeling. The summer before I turned fourteen a great calamity pulled me from my gritty sheets to the door across the hall from my bedroom. The summer before, my half sister, newly pregnant, and Marco, the Cuban who had done the deed -- the man who supposedly belonged to our mother's best friend -- left Black Lake in the RV named Lady Liberty. She sailed out quietly like a houseboat under the full moon, left lot number ten empty except for the succulent weeds and a rusty barrel barbeque pit. Now the sun was in place of the moon, just as full but many times hotter, and another boat-like creation was floating into Black Lake, much bigger, like a brown and white ship, pulled behind a noisy truck on big wheels belching blue smoke. I stood in my underwear and watched the commotion until mama stirred coughing on the sofabed, still asleep, a hand reaching for a cigarette. The TV was on, playing music to accompany the cartoons I normally would find myself sitting in front of.

S says he likes it -- I read a bit to him last night. Maybe he's being gentle so as not to discourage me, but I think not. I don't think he would lie to me. Definitely not about this.

I wrote what I wrote at home, on the front porch. I had tried -- and may try again -- going to a nearby coffeeshop (20 minutes by bike) to write. I have been trying to create a schedule for myself. I carried my entire novel, all 35 chapters and some notes in the big European bicycle basket to the coffeeshop. But I was distracted. I had gone hungry, and then overate. It wasn't even four o'clock and I wanted a cigarette. And J called to ask if I could pick P up from school. I couldn't. --I could've, but he didn't want to pull me away from what I was doing.

I wasn't doing anything.

The day before, Inauguration Day, the first day I didn't feel like crying since Timmy's death, I took my truck to the mechanic, and thought I would find a coffeeshop and sit while it was being worked on. I carried my entire novel in its bulky three-ring binder, plus other necessary items, with me. But I needed to stop by C's work for some Chinese herbs. C is an herbologist. He recently gave me a salve that markedly reduced the spider veins on my right ankle (caused mostly by my 11 years as a transcriptionist, relentlessly pressing a foot pedal), so when my shingles scars -- I had shingles when I was six years old -- started flaring up, I thought to ask him his opinion. He rattled off a list of Chinese words that sounded like a song. Pills and another salve. I told him I was taking my truck to the mechanic a few blocks from his office, and he told me the hours he was free, so I carried my entire novel the many blocks (more than I thought), and I've had a crick in my neck since then.

I got the meds and headed on to a coffeeshop and ended up at a cafe next door to his office. We wound up spending the afternoon together enjoying inaugural events, visiting a shop where he bought herbs and I bought white sage, which I used to sage my bedroom, the house and yard, and cried even though I didn't think I was going to that day.

At the cafe, I did what I'd been trying to make myself do for a while: I put the chapters of my novel in chronological order

3, 10, 17, 24, 31, 4, 11, 18, 25, 32, 2, 9, 16, 23, 30, 1, 8, 15, 22, 29, 6, 13, 20, 27, 34

which is the story of Randy Reardon, then the story of the title character's parents

5, 12, 19, 26, 33

then the performance art pieces that the title character writes (supposedly)

7, 14, 21, 28, 35

S finds all of this numerological stuff boring. Or at least my fascination with it. I think he understands that it's important -- and necessary -- for me to play with the order of the chapters (which directly affects the story itself), but when I start talking excitedly about it, his eyes glaze over like I'm talking in depth about the latest features of a Texas Instruments calculator.

But now I only have to carry around five chapters at a time with me.

I dressed, made my way to the kitchen and carried a box of Fruity Pebbles out the front door with me to watch the new home being backed into lot number ten. Several men, darker and skinnier than Marco but with the same oil black hair spoke their foreign language over the noises of the truck and the complaining parts of the trailerhome all morning until I reached the bottom of the cereal box and was sticking tongue-moistened fingers down in to the bottom for the last bits of multi-colored sugary dust.

A day or two after Timmy died, P came home with the head of a gray felt cat she was working on at school. I don't know if the project started before Timmy died or if the opportunity to memorialize him came about suddenly, but I was definitely touched by the final product, and particularly by the fact that she insisted on naming him Timmy.

The top picture is the headstone for Timmy's grave. I liked the quote by Anatole France so much that I used it on his stone (though I didn't give credit to the person who said it).

sitting with desire

S left for Indiana Sunday morning and I've been feeling a bit depressed. I hate to put those two things in one sentence because I don't like to be defined by my relationship with S. Or I should say I don't like other people to see how I'm defined by that relationship. We are not a couple. But we are closer than I think I can expect to be with another person in my life. We are not lovers, but we share more about ourselves and know more about each other than anybody else does. Our relationship is hard to define. It's not enough to say he's my housemate or my best friend. Both of those things are true, but sound limited. I've used both of those words when talking about him to new people because I don't want to have to explain our relationship, because the explanation always confuses the truth.

So why am I feeling depressed? It could have to do with S being gone and now I'm all alone (except for a cat, a dog, a pig and a turtle). It is easy to plan my day around something we might do together, like eating meals, watching movies, or just getting high and sitting on the porch rambling or in silence. I got more work done yesterday in his absence than I've been able to do in a while, since we moved to this new address.

But I don't think it all is about S. I feel like my relationship with someone on whom I have a crush (likely straight) has met its end. It's an odd, somewhat icky feeling. I was talking about my attraction to this man to another (straight) man, a friend on whom I once upon a time had a crush. That crush evolved into a good friendship; it feels stronger now than ever. But the other one, the new one, seems to have met with some sort of barrier. He knows I'm gay, but he doesn't know I have a crush on him. At least I don't think so. But maybe he feels uncomfortable with the attention I pay him. Or perhaps his ex-girlfriend with whom he works (and who I know almost as well) has pushed him into a corner about his attraction to me and so he has decided to leave that corner.

I do believe there was some sort of attraction to me on his part. A crush, perhaps. Straight guys seem to do that a lot in my life. It's a weird thing; it's been going on since high school, I would say, long before I even could admit I was gay. I think it might have something to do with the way I was raised, the religious anti-homosexual stuff that is a big part of who I am. I'm a non-threatening homosexual, I guess in part because I was raised to believe that being gay is just about the worst thing one can be (it leads to child molestation, drug use and other illegal activities).

So, back to this straight guy. I have very recently being trying to come to terms with my attraction to straight men, to accept what it is I get from them, what they get from me. Ninety-nine percent of the time it doesn't become a sexual thing. The desire is certainly there on my part, and sometimes I get the sense that it is there in a small and perhaps confused way on their part, but only rarely has it turned into anything, and not because of my pushing. I had a brief fling with a straight guy a couple of summers ago, a man about half my age. He told me up front that he was straight, "always have been," but that there was "something about me." We hung out a few times, eventually gave each other blow-job,s but it ended in the middle of that. I kidded myself that I was just going along with this as experimentally as he was. But the moment he said, "Okay, that's as far as I can go," I realized that I had already gone a lot farther; it broke my heart. I blubbered like so many girls whose hearts he had likely broken. In retrospect I imagined he thought less of me because I was just like all the others.

There have been several instances -- most of them in the last three years, since I've been living in Austin -- in which I have developed very nice relationships with straight men on whom I have originally had an attraction. They transmuted into something better. I've tried to imagine how these men must feel around the women they've been attracted to but with whom they cannot have sex because the women are in a relationship or gay. I have conversations with these men about that, about the difficulty of maintaining a relationship that is different than the initial attraction, and they seem to think their struggle is very similar to mine. Perhaps. But I think there are additional factors that make my struggle more difficult. Particularly the fact that homosexuality is not accepted as normal across the board. And beyond that the fact that I was raised being taught that not only is it an aberration, but one of the worst sins a person can commit. Bring on the drugs, alcohol and minors...

S and I watched a movie called Cat Dancers, a completely surprising film about a three-way relationship. (The link has a schedule of when it is showing on HBO through the early part of January 2009.) The narrator of the film is Ron Holiday, a very beguiling character, very egocentric and odd looking. He wears wigs (different ones for different outfits, curly or straight) and seems to have poorly painted-on eyebrows. He is almost 70 years old and now teaches young people about working with exotic animals. I'm not fond of the idea of people exploiting wild animals, and that is one part of the effectiveness of this film for me; there are so many things about it that I had issues with and alternately with which I could relate.

One of the things I could relate to was how Mr. Holiday sees himself in his late 60s. He was an attractive man when he was a young dancer. He met Joy and they married and seemed to be a perfect couple; their life and their career were intertwined. They were the top adagio dancers in the country, performed at Carnegie Hall in their heyday. But when Ron felt he was too old to do the moves impressively, their performance changed from being just about Joy, and then, when they got their first black panther cub as a gift from a famous person friend, it became about their exotic cat show. They were doing stuff long before Siegfried & Roy (and apparently, if Siegfried had had his way, his show might've been called Siegfried & Ron, but Ron Holiday says Siegfried was not his type at all; "Too fem!").

Ron & Joy Holiday's show grew and expanded with more and more exotic animals, and eventually they needed help and hired a young man who eventually became their lover. The three of them were together 14 years, until tragedy struck. It's pretty jarring. But now all these years later (nine, I believe) Ron is living with the loss of both of his lovers, and he seems pretty content with not having a lover; I got the impression that he felt like he'd already had the best relationship of his life and that he didn't need another. Though he still seems to see himself as attractive.

I have to admit that I didn't see him as attractive at all. And that was the thought that stuck with me most. I see myself getting older, see my desire for younger, unattainable people, and I wonder why I keep doing this to myself. I've been asking myself for the last couple of days why I keep trying. I feel sexy, but no one else seems to. And that's not sour grapes. I feel like I long for (sometimes desperately) a relationship that is not available. As each day goes by, it becomes less likely that I will have another relationship. And I wish I could just give up on the desire. Where is that cord so I can snip it in two? It seems that I have a lot to offer people, that they are attracted to me, but then my sexual desire gets in the way and that confuses things. I hate that.

I want to find a way to release myself from this suffering, this desire that has no positive outcome. I won't make that my New Year's Resolution because I don't do those, and because, lordy, could you imagine what a set-up that would be?! But I continue to question this part of myself that plagues me. I would like to channel my desire into something more productive, something creative like my book. I planned on sitting down with paper and pencil as soon as S left town and creating a schedule for myself -- work, creativity, exercise, entertainment, socializing -- but I spent yesterday feeling sorry for myself, and finally got outside and raked half of the yard. It's a huge yard. I did this because I've heard that exercise is good for depression, and I can't seem to get myself to yoga class. Besides, I can't really afford yoga right now. I ignored my checking account for a few days and something horrible happened with my finances and I ended up spending something like $175 in overdraft fees. Fuck!

Oh, and that's something I meant to write about with regards to the latest crush that feels like it's coming to an end and isn't really turning into the friendship that it pretended it was going to be. This guy has opened an art gallery with his best friend and his ex-girlfriend. I think, because a friend of mine took me to the restaurant where two of them work, an expensive restaurant, he got the idea that I had a lot of money, that I might be a supporter of his cause. He gave us a flier for his gallery the night we were at the restaurant and then S and I went to the opening. I had some money saved up and liked some of the art and decided I would invest in a couple of pieces. Nothing extravagant, but a lot of money for me.

This guy was very attentive and sweet and really seemed to like me. He invited me to meet the three of them at another gallery opening; I dropped by their gallery with beer a couple of Sunday afternoons. I told him I wanted to hang around him (and them) more because I was inspired by them. He seemed to get it. I went to see a weird movie last night called Wonderwall (released in 1968 with a soundtrack by George Harrison); it was part of the Alamo's "High for the Holidays" series. I don't know that I would recommend it-- maybe if you're really high. I was a little high, and I enjoyed it enough. But while I was sitting with my bad service and my pizza and over-priced beer, I realized that my attraction to this straight guy has a lot to do with the fact that he reminds me of my novel, makes me feel inspired about it. He is similar to a couple of characters in different ways (one in a physical way, another in an artistic way). I thought I should write him a letter and tell him about this, but then realized almost as quickly that I was stoned and there was probably no way to make it come out not just sounding weird!

But speaking of letters, I think I need to write a letter to the Alamo. I'm working on a show with my friend M . Over the years she has written lots of letters to businesses (airlines to landlords to restaurant chain corporate headquarters) about dissatisfaction with service she has received. She is doing a performance of several letters in FronteraFest next month, and she asked me to write a song (which I did a couple of days ago -- depression is often creatively productive for me... hm, maybe that has something to do with why I keep leaning in that direction) and to perform with her in the show. Whee!

But anyway, yesterday when I was deciding on going to see Wonderwall at the Alamo, I read this on their website:

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!

So I was thinking, Mm, a pizza and a beer, how nice?!

I ordered the "Wild at Artichoke Hearts" pizza and an Alamo Ale, and when the waiter came, I checked to make sure that the beer would be $2, instead of the $4.50 on the menu. She said she had never heard about that offer. I told her it was on the website. She said she would check with her manager, but obviously if it was on the website she would honor it. I told her I wanted the beer either way, but appreciated her checking.

She came back and told me that the manager said no. He told her that since that offer is outdated and they haven't offered it in so long that they wouldn't honor it for me. However, he was willing to give me a complimentary soda with my pizza! I think I need to harness my emotions and write the letter right now.

s'experiment

I meditated for five minutes with my erect penis in my hands. I was feeling very distracted trying to work, and wanting to masturbate (because that sometimes temporarily dissipates the distraction). But really not wanting to masturbate.

So I tried something. I got the kitchen timer and my meditation cushion, plopped it in the middle of the living room floor, dropped my pants and pushed START on the timer and held onto myself. It wasn't masturbation; it wasn't even really much movement, I just wrapped both hands around my dick and balls.

Of course I got an erection. But I just held it, just let the heat of my hands go into it, and the throbbing of blood pulse back against the palms of my hands.

Five minutes is a long time when you haven't meditated in awhile! And of course my thoughts wandered. I thought about my yoga teacher on whom I distracting crush, I thought of the young straight guy who was experimenting and with whom I had a momentary sexual exchange a couple of summers ago.

When the beeper went off, I released myself, stood up still erect for the moment, pulled up my pants, put the timer away and came back to my desk to work, and then decided to blog. I think the urge to masturbate really has passed. For now.

birthday season update #4

When it's at its best, the Dance can be quite spiritual. And it was last night. It blotted out whatever else I did yesterday. A did the music, and she's the best. There was plenty of bump-and-grind and lots of fun rhythms. It's really hard to describe the experience, and particularly now since I'm anxious to get out the door and get on with my day, my actual birthDAY, but it was very healing.

I've decided to attempt a year of celibacy, starting today. That means getting rid of the links to the porn sites I sometimes visit; that means not having sex, not masturbating. But more than all of that it means a kind of change in my mindset.

I've realized lately that I put nearly every relationship I have into somewhat of a sexual context, whether it's somebody I want to have sex with, somebody I don't want to have sex with, somebody I can't have sex with, somebody I have had sex with, or if their actions make me feel sexual. All of this sexuality causes me a lot of suffering, I've realized, so my attempt at being celibate for awhile is really about freeing myself from the suffering. It sounds silly to say I'm taking a "vow" of celibacy, because I'm not a monk, and I'm not really even much of a practicing Buddhist. But I will say I'm taking a vow of reducing suffering in my world (though I typed "cow" instead of "vow" three times before I got it right, whatever that may mean!).

At the end of the Dance last night, as the music got more gentle and introspective, I found myself sitting on the dance barre and humming along with the vocals, and crying. I looked around the room at the beautiful people holding each other or dancing alone or around the room, and I said goodbye to my sexuality, I just let it go. It was like seeing a friend leave on a long trip, a friend I've had a sometimes difficult relationship with.

And then I lay on the floor face down and said a prayer for myself, to myself, and suddenly there were hands on me, people touching me, rubbing on me, loving on me. It wasn't a sexual experience, and unlike previous times when something like this happened in the Dance (and it can quite often), I didn't care if the hands were female or male, if it was somebody I might want to have sex with. It was just love.

I think this S'experiment might be difficult. I plan to blog about it and explore my thoughts and feelings regularly and try not to judge myself or others over the things that come up. But I will try to be as honest with myself and in my writing as possible. This could be transformative. I look forward to the experience. And I'm scared shitless.

the power of the prayer

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praise jesus' hellish name

Whenever I'm absent from blogging for awhile, it means I'm either busy or depressed or away. I'm not depressed lately -- fortunately -- nor have I been out of town -- unfortunately, though I do have a trip planned to Nashville in October, which I'm looking forward to. When I'm busy, it's either with writing or with work. Lately, I've been extremely busy, more so with work than writing. In fact I'd kind of taken a break from the novel because I was getting bogged down. But I managed to get down several pages of chapter eighteen, "august chagrin," the titular chapter, just last night. I never was completely satisfied with chapter sixteen, but I had to just leave it be and move on. S is my first editor, and this was his advice, and he's been reading through what I've got so far and has encouraged me to not give up and to not get stuck. The first draft of chapter seventeen was already done so I moved onto eighteen, and would say I got a third of it written down last night. That feels good.

I've been busy with work and busy with the housing project. Yesterday the concrete columns got poured. M called me at about ten a.m. to say the cement truck was on its way and to apologize that they hadn't given us a little more notice. The transcription queue at work is very full, and there were several "emergency transcripts" that had to be done this weekend, but I finished the last of those this morning, so we're in good shape.

I videotaped the pouring of the concrete; S probably would have preferred to film it himself, but he was out late the night before and still asleep when I rushed out of the house to get to M&J's before the cement truck arrived. As it turned out, I barely had time to get the camera out before the truck turned the corner. I think I got some good footage, but we'll see about that when S starts editing(!).

We spread the leftover cement in the driveway where the bigger dips were. And then J, Little P and B (J's friend who's helping him with the welding, digging, clearing, etc.) went for a burger and I came home to transcribe some more. M mentioned that she'd gotten the film Jesus Camp from Netflix and asked if I wanted to watch it with her. I'd already seen it -- though I was more than interested in seeing it again -- but S had not, he said he wanted to, so he and I put all the beer from our fridge into a canvas bag (so we wouldn't have to go to the store), picked up a couple of pizzas from East Side Pies (seriously the best pizza in Austin) and headed over at about seven. We ate then got super-stoned and watched the movie, which was a great way to watch Jesus Camp (really, it's the best way to watch any film!).

I was struck again by how reminiscent of my childhood Jesus Camp is, with preteen kids speaking in tongues and proselytizing to complete strangers-- I did that shit! While the others in the room were saying, "Oh my god" at the weird antics of the Christian families, I was feeling a little woozy about my life not all that long ago. When I was a kid, we said the Pledge of Allegiance to the Christian Flag, and back then, it seemed pretty routine. Watching in onscreen last night sounded a little more cultish, made me think that it's not all that different for Nazi youth who did their special pledges and prayers, etc.

It's an amazing film equally for those us who were raised Evangelical and for those who were
not. For those of you who were not, and think that perhaps some of the scenes were faked for the camera, I swear to god that they are very realistic, truthful representations of that lifestyle.

Since the movie came out, the camp that the movie was named for was shut down amid threats by locals. That's a relief; believe me, nine- and ten-year-old kids don't know what they're doing in the area of Evangelism, and the damage done because of that lifestyle will last for many years, if not their lifetime. I think I escaped because my father died when I was sixteen and because I'm a homosexual -- in that order. It makes me appreciate a little more my accomplishments in life.

missed opportunity

The Sun is my favorite magazine. It goes on the back of the toilet and I get through one before the next month's issue arrives. There's a section called "Readers Write," which is exactly what it sounds like. The editors give Upcoming Topics, (Deadline / Publication Date), i.e.,
Blood / June 1 / December 2008
Saying Yes / July 1 / January 2009
Instructions / (etc.)
The Dinner Table
Faith
Moving
and writers write something autobiographical.

While S was away this summer, I got inspired toward the end of June to write an entry for the "Saying Yes" topic. I didn't send it off, though, because I didn't want to do so without getting S's opinion on it first. And also because I was a little bit insecure about it. I changed the names, but that doesn't really change the recognizability of the characters, at least not to me.

But this is my blog. I can do what I want.

---

S & I didn't call each other "lovers anymore, though we played the happy gay couple onstage, singing silly and sweet love songs about and to each other for Unitarian churches, retirement homes and folk audiences all over the country. Our bond was strong onstage, but offstage we had a hard time communicating and hadn't had a physical relationship for about half of the eight years we'd been together.

Then we met R, a charming, good-looking transient who happened upon one of our performances in a California desert town. S and I both fell in love with R almost immediately. Within a month, the ten-year younger man and his dog had moved into our twenty-foot trailer and was traveling the country with us, appearing as the odd tag-along to our fans, causing more than a couple twisted necks and awkward questions. Some family members and friends didn't take to him right away; the ones who said something assumed he was taking advantage of us.

What outsiders didn't see was the transformation that was happening in our personal lives. S and I still had our communication problems, but we were working toward mending them. We also started having a physical relationship again, which always included our new young lover. Not to sound too shallow, R also introduced us to meditation, introduced us to Buddhist writers like Pema Chödrön, introductions that transformed our head-butting into more compassionate attempts at communication.

R told us early on around the fold-out dining table that he says "Yes" whenever possible. "Yes" got us all in bed together, "yes" gave us other options for living and laughing and loving together. S and I were finally able to say to each other that we were tired of performing the act that we'd kept going for nearly ten years, admitted that we were doing it more for our audiences than for ourselves.

Our ménage à trois was not without its difficulties, particularly the ones caused by the decision early on to always be as honest as possible. The relationship lasted a year-and-a-half. Six months before the end I said that I wanted a break from performing and a break from the relationship. We had to remain together most of the final six months because of previous engagements, and also to try to figure out what we would each do when we went our separate ways.

R and I tried to get back together several times but it never worked, mostly because I was afraid to say yes. Five years later, I learned that R had broken up with his current boyfriend and believed that all of the depression I had suffered would be healed if only R would give me one more chance.

I traveled to see him in the flesh and over the course of our day-and-a-half together I realized that R's only real interest in me was to say goodbye for good, and perhaps to help me start healing once and for all.

I returned home and the reality slowly sank in. I had a lot of help with healing from my "best friend" S, with whom I share my home and my life. We aren't lovers -- haven't been since we went our separate ways -- but we are closer now than we have ever been in the sixteen years we've known each other. It's hard to describe our relationship to people, even to the ones who've known us a long time. S found a clever word to describe it one time, but I can't remember what it was. Whatever it is -- partners, roommates, best friends -- it's pretty serious.

Yes, I imagine we'll grow old together.

about a boy, part one

Yesterday was boyful, to coin a term. I went to yoga, from which I had been absent for over a week because of a persistent cough that plagues me yet -- I've convinced myself it is a symptom of a mold allergy because of the leaks I've endured in my house. My handsome yoga teacher came over to the front door of his apartment where he holds class and hugged me and welcomed me back. It was a slightly awkward hug, on both our parts, but made me feel special, as usual, in his company.

I had originally been personally invited to join this group of yoga fanatics because I represented some much needed male energy, or so I was told. There was one other on-again off-again male practitioner, but he was barely a "man," having just graduated from high school. (He's E; I'll get back to him.)

Yesterday, there were three other men in the room besides me, one the recent graduate, the second another shaved-headed man I've seen for a couple of weeks, and then a twenty-something man I'd never seen before, but who's obviously been doing this practice of Mysore Ashtanga yoga for awhile, judging from the fact that he can get his feet around the back of his neck and lift himself by his hands. Not me, not yet.

I feel a bit foolish in front of E, not because he is a better yoga practitioner than I (in fact, he seems a lot less flexible, which gives me a bit of perhaps unreasonable confidence about my own practice), but because he isn't yet twenty years old. A boy. And therefore beautiful. In my opinion, everyone in their late teens, male or female (though I'm more attracted to the male species), is beautiful. To make matters more complicated, when I first starting going to this yoga class and encountered E, he smiled at me with puppy-dog eyes and even bowed slightly in my direction when the opening prayer was being recited en masse and our eyes met. A crush. I have lots of crushes. I'm convinced they're harmless, though they do incite occasional bouts of embarrassment.

For example, I got a notion to pluck a purple flower from a plant in the parking lot on the way to my car and put it in the handle of his car after practice one day. Because I'm new to this practice, I usually am the first to finish (since we all go at our own pace under the teacher's, capable, calm and sometimes humorous guidance). A couple of days later, I noticed that the offering I'd made was on E's car dash, which made me feel nice. A day or so later, I plucked two purple flowers and put them on the car, and another day, a white flower, which didn't sit in the handle so well and had fallen to the street by the time I got to my own car. My intention was to make E feel special, an anonymous gesture, though after the three offerings, over a weekend, I decided I should stop such antics before things got "out of control," whatever that might mean.

But when I arrived at class the next Monday, I noticed a piece of white paper flapping in the wind, taped to E's black car door. It was a note, to me:

Dear Flower-Giver,
I'd like to give my thanks, but I do not know who you are. I apologize for not responding sooner. There are several reasons, but are too long to go into detail in this message. I want to tell you but, again, I do not know who you are. Your generosity is appreciated and should you choose to disclose your name and phone number, please write on the opposite side of this message.
Thankfully,
E.

That freaked me out a little bit. It felt like I suddenly knew what "out of control" meant. I ran to S, who is in Indiana visiting his family. He has always had a calm way of looking at things, particularly this type of neurotic thing that I go through now and again. (I like to think that I am able to help him with his struggles as well.)

I wrote to S: I get the feeling he knows I'm the "Flower-Giver," but I don't know about disclosing my identity. I've considered writing a note that says some convoluted thing about feeling a little anxious (or shy) about saying who I am, or trying to explain something about me and telling him I will let him know who I am if he leaves another note, or just ignoring it and leaving more flowers...or not. Or just leaving my name and number on his car with a flower. Even though I have the feeling that he knows it's me, what if he doesn't and it freaks him out in some way, and he ends up quitting yoga because of that, or says something to somebody and I end up having to quit yoga?! Or what if he knows it's me and he's interested in me in some deeper way ("I want to tell you..."); do I really want to go down that path??? Is there some way to go there without it eventually becoming uncomfortable? Or is there some way to get closer without going there? I wish obvious Right and Wrong made themselves apparent to me, but they have not. I feel a lot of societal angst about what if, what if, what if... Even if it's just getting together to talk. That would be very nice, I think. I think it's possible to be friends with someone so much younger; I think it would be okay -- good even. But I fear what people would think or say...

And there's the rub. Fear of what others might think; that old suitcase. More a fear of having to defend myself, or not defending myself and having to live with it in some way. (etc.)

S didn't respond to the email, but soon after that we were having an online Chat, and I brought it up. Me: Did you read my email? He: About flower boy? Me: I guess you did! He: !

His response was exactly what I needed: I think because it's become so complicated in your mind, what you might do is just let the flower gesture be was it was. Just drop it and let it exist as the original gesture, which was to do something sweet and anonymous. So don't respond to his note...but don't be afraid of your affection for him in real life, let that be what it is apart from the flower thing.

So I did. Though perhaps I could have dropped "the flower thing" a little more completely than I did. A couple of days later, E was parked behind me, and I drew a smiley face in the dirt on his car door, wishing right away that I hadn't, but to erase it would have made a big mess on the door, which probably would have been creepy, so I let it be and backed off.

Early last week, I got an email from someone in the class (to me and E) about Wednesday being a "Moon Day." Mysore (and perhaps all Ashtanga) practitioners don't do yoga on days with a full moon or a new moon. I hadn't been to yoga at all in the week before that, and planned on going on Thursday, but didn't, again because of the cough. But I hijacked E's email address from the one sent to the two of us to ask E if he was going to yoga on Sunday (a morning class I've wanted to go to since I first heard about it but had not yet attended), and if he was, if he would like to go to Casa de Luz -- a macrobiotic restaurant I love -- with me after class for brunch. He responded to say that Casa de Luz was his favorite restaurant.

So we went. I awoke very early Sunday morning, had to make myself go back to sleep a couple of times to get enough rest! I guess I was excited about my "date." But I didn't want to give it too much energy. Truly, my intention for having lunch with E was to get to know him better, to take away a bit of the power of this "crush" I had on him. (I almost wrote "inappropriate crush," but that's something I choose to strike from my vocabulary.)

We had a nice conversation, very informational and mutually interesting. Then he said:

I'll let you in on something. I have a secret admirer. It goes like this: One day I went out to my car where we all park our cars in front of M's, and there was a flower in my door handle. And I thought, 'Oh, how sweet,' and that was that. And then some time later, there were two flowers. I didn't know what to do. I've never had anything like this happen to me before. I told M about it, and he had some good advice. I put a note on my car door with four pieces of tape, and when I came out of yoga, the note was gone, but no response. And then, after that, somebody drew a smiley face in the dirt on my car. I don't know if it's somebody from my high school who lives in the neighborhood, or somebody from practice...

It felt very open-ended, like he was waiting for some revelatory response from me. I felt queasy as I tiptoed through a response, not wanting to implicate myself, but also not wanting to lie to him. (Fortunately, he didn't ask me outright if it was me.)

During brunch, E got a call from his sister, with whom he said he has a very close relationship. He left the table for the bulk of the conversation, was hanging up when he returned, saying, "I'll call you back... His name is JDJB... No!" Then he laughed, which in my mind was his response to his sister asking if I was the secret admirer he surely had told her about...

I mentioned a boyfriend in our conversation (about writing, inspirations, my one-act play "august," which I'd written for my first NYC boyfriend, and which was the seed for the novel I'm now writing), so I felt like I was being as open as possible with him. But it still felt a bit dishonest, or at least creepy. I felt a little creepy.

It wasn't wholly a bad thing. I realized that my attraction to young men isn't so much about me being a pervert as it is about me having a wounded soul, about things that happened to me in my younger days. I was thinking yesterday morning about writing a novel that I've thought about before in various ways, about a boy who is molested and then becomes a man who is a molester... but with a happy ending. I've decided that my attraction to people like E -- who seem more often than not to be very spiritually grounded men -- is an attempt on my part to heal.

My dear sweet friend M called yesterday afternoon from Virginia. She's on a four month long performing tour. I called her a week ago or so because I was missing her, and she was returning my call. Eventually, the conversation came around to everything I've just been writing about. She said, "You keep saying that you feel creepy, or you think what you're doing is creepy, and you don't have to do that. There isn't anything creepy about what you're doing. There isn't anything creepy about love." I told her about my sexual relations with a couple of uncles as a kid, and her response was pretty much along the same lines as S's -- support, non-blame -- which gave me a lot of confidence in M. She wondered aloud how difficult it would be for either of us had I told him I was his secret admirer. She said, "He's old enough to receive and process that kind of information."

But still, I'm scared. It's okay. Writing about it makes it better. Makes it okay.

flip my switch

So, you're saying I'm already enlightened?
I had a feeling.
Should I put my hands on top of my head to hold the light in?

right speech blah-blah-blah

You're right. I probably shouldn't refer to someone as "an undereducated Mexican," even though it might've been referencing something he said. There are possibly hateful (more) racist people out there who would read such words and think I was singing their song, and I don't want that.

little disappointments

I woke up early enough to get to the Shambhala Center to meditate a while before the Harvest of Peace Pot Luck where I thought I would give best wishes to the Center's new young leader.

When there's a bigger event going on in the Main Shrine Room, the Public Meditation is held in the Smith House next door. I meditated for about 20 or 30 minutes, then walked the back way to the Main Shrine building and was greeted in the lobby by a couple of men in suits standing around tables of food. The Shrine Room doors were closed and dozens of people were inside sitting around long tables which were draped in white. All of the people were bobbing and swiftly chanting through a prayer which I guess has something to do with the Harvest of Peace. I'm not so into the chanting part; it feels a little too "Organized." And that wasn't what I was expecting at all; I thought there would be milling about. In my mind I figured I would just give a quick congrats to A1*, maybe say hi to C1 and be on my way. One of the suited men introduced himself, asked if I wanted to join the group, I bowed out (not literally, though that would've been appropriate).

Next I went to L1's house a couple of blocks away. She had a part to the truck wheels that I needed to get the special locking bolts back on; we've been missing each other for a couple of months. I had emailed to tell her I would be in the neighborhood a couple of days earlier and she'd written back last night saying she would love to see me, that they might be asleep, that the "wheel thingie" would be on the desk, to just come on in if they didn't answer, but that she would love to see me.

Two other women were arriving when I got there. One mentioned as I passed her that she was waiting for all of us to be ready so we could knock on the door together. L1 answered the door with messy bed hair wearing a robe. "I'm totally not ready, guys," she said to the gals, then to me: "I don't have time to see you at all." It wasn't rude, just a little abrupt and unexpected (I guess, though she's always been a bit scattered, and more so since the baby). She handed me the wheel thingie and her copy of the Life in a Box S1 had burned for me to give her. In the sleeve of the DVD was a little slice of pink paper with www.ask-lola.com printed and JAY written on one side and "Relationship Healing" written on the other side. I'll go there later.

Since I didn't spend any time at the Center and since I didn't visit with L1, I was early to pick up G1 for the film festival, so I stopped at Wheatsville and got some trail mix then stopped at a drive-through car wash. I paid $4, the green sign at the far side of the bay flashed ENTER. I pulled slowly in and the "Prewash" drizzle wet my truck with soapiness, then stopped, and that was it. I backed out, called the number on the "IF MACHINE TROUBLE" sign on the front wall and left a message about what had happened.

G1 & I saw a documentary called Born Again, by and about a lesbian raised Evangelical trying not to lose total contact with her family. It was very well-done. G1 grilled me a little about my upbringing before we went to the next film, Shelter Me, an Italian narrative film about two lesbians (one the heir of a shoe factory the other one of the workers there) and the Moroccan boy/man who stows away in their car when their on their way back from holiday. It was very well done. I wasn't sure if G1 liked it -- she's very opinionated and made little comments throughout the film as to her feelings -- but afterward she said, "I really liked it after I stopped hating it." (She's a mystery!)

I had a slight headache, which I fed with a thin hand-rolled cigarette when I got home. And shortly after that, S1 said the white bean chili he'd made was ready, which we ate with a salad he also made; all was yummy. The romaine salad had roasted pecans, sliced pears, blue cheese and a homemade balsamic vinaigrette. I'm lucky to live with such a good cook, for whom meals like this are pretty simple (I would have spent a whole day toiling over a cookbook to do the same, and it likely wouldn't have included the gay salad). He's lucky I enjoy dish-washing.

sister spam

Is it unethical to flag your sister's emails to go directly into the Spam folder? R1* has gotten into the habit of sending me stupid inspirational (read "Christian") emails, sometimes forwarded from other family members -- most notably my mother's younger sister, a real Jesus fanatic and proud of it -- or the results of her own internet "research."

They used to be more intermittent, but not too long ago, she sent me one about a 9-year-old boy who wet his pants in class and prayed to God for help because he was about to get called on by the teacher and would have to stand up, and if the boys saw him they would pick on him and the girls would never talk to him again (in other words, he'd be called a fag and/or never get laid).

Well, PTL (Praise The Lord), because just as the teacher called on him, little Susie, who wass walking across the room with a fishbowl, tripped and spilled her fish-water on the boy and everyone laughed at her instead. ("Thanks a lot, God," says the boy, and, I imagined Susie saying the same thing, but with emphasis on different words.)

The question on my mind is this: Does my sister really believe this shit? That "God" would trip a little girl to save a little boy because he prayed in the middle of English class instead of paying attention, and instead of going to the bathroom between classes. (Seems like God might've seen that coming and reminded him, or maybe just magically dried up the urine-- Now there's a miracle worth sending out in a zillion emails!)

The answer, I believe, is yes.

I was in a playful mood the day I received her email, so I responded with: "But what happened to the goldfish?!"

She wrote back, with matching "playfulness": YOU WOULD! ...HILARIOUS!!!

And now I get at least one of these stupid things just about every day (a couple of days ago FOUR arrived in my email inbox at once). I don't usually read them, just hit DELETE, and that's probably the best thing to do.

Today, I was bored enough to open the email I got (which S1 called "Christianity for 3-year-olds") about a man who prayed for a flower and a butterfly, and instead got a cactus and a caterpillar. The man was sad but said, "Oh, well, I guess God has too many people to take care of, I'll just be happy with what I got." A couple of days go by and the cactus has bloomed and the caterpillar has...well, you're ahead of me.

GOD ALWAYS HAS THE RIGHT ANSWER!!
(the message reminded me)
ONE DAY'S THORN IS THE NEXT DAY'S BLESSING.

If that's these people's idea of Heaven, I'm glad I won't be going there...