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.

more more more

Last night was the decider. After my experience a couple of Friday nights ago in the improv festival that had no clear leadership, no real focus, and lots of people I didn't know playing around me, I was starting to think that maybe I'm not cut out for improv, or performance of any type. I know, I know, I performed for 10 years and was almost always nervous but I never felt like I couldn't go on because of it. Something happened after we split up. I forgot a line in a play I was doing at a community theater and that scared the hell out of me. A while back when I performed as the musical accompaniment to M's one-woman show, I had stage fright feelings, and I've felt that when I've performed with G and with other people. Though never with S.

My new goal is to get S to take some improv classes with me, because he and I have chemistry and stage presence like nobody's business, and when we're sitting around smoking weed (or not), we make each other laugh. He tends to fear the stage as a starting point (not the same as when we were making music together, for some reason), so it'll take some work, but that's my goal and my dream. But that's not what I'm writing about right now.

Last night was the first official performance by TNM improv theater's house troupe - "the standout students," as they call us, and them, the two teachers (who were both absent from the horror show a couple of Fridays ago). It went very well. The format was a little weird, unfamiliar (guests told a story and were asked questions by the other half of our troupe and we had to improvise off of what was said) but my goal for the night was merely to get on the stage and not freeze up or end up in a corner, on the verge of vomiting or crying.

None of those things happened!

TNM has another show on Friday evening, and more in the coming months; I didn't commit to any of them, and said I wouldn't, until I found out how last night was gonna go. At the end of the night, I said to T, "Okay, I'm on for Friday." She said, "Oh! That makes me so happy; that's the thing I was most interested in happening tonight."

It wasn't a brilliant show - and in fact I was only onstage a handful of times (something I discovered: with six people on a team, there aren't a lot of opportunities to be in a scene; you really have to work to get out there before somebody else does) - but it went smoothly. I played a muppet, a stripper (as S pointed out, "a Bob Fosse-style stripper"), a karaoke machine, among other things. It was fun.

Phew!

news flash

There is movement outside my window. A couple of days ago, a teal Pontiac pulled up the driveway. The driver was H, a Mexican guy who's been working at the bar that J built. He cleans the entire bar every morning, and used to be the barback, but the bartender/manager said he really needs somebody who speaks English, so they found somebody and J put H to work on the container house - our house! Yay. He met with J that first day, and then yesterday he was back, trimming trees and moving a beam from near the current house (M&J's house where S and I currently reside) to the top of the two containers - essentially S's room and mine - that have been sitting over there since early this year, when the work was halted shortly after beginning because of a drying up of resources. S and I weren't too upset about it because we've had some financial woes of our own of late and aren't paying rent as long as we're in the house.

That's the big thing. After a while of waiting, and being able to see that nothing was happening outside my window on that side of the yard, I wasn't sure it was ever gonna happen. Well, that's not true, I knew it would happen eventually, but I didn't know when "eventually" would be, months or years...

Another thing is that I've been really doing a lot of writing on august chagrin. I feel really focused, and haven't been socializing much at all (which has its disadvantages and disappointments), but the more I spend focused time on the book, the more it comes, and that seems like the right thing to be doing. I've got a lot more chapters completed than are on the august chagrin blog, but I'm trying to put up a chapter a week at least.

But that's been a little more difficult lately because work has been picking up. Because of the financial crisis on Wall Street, I'm not allowed to work more than 40 hours a week (used to be we could work as much as we could), but there hadn't been enough work to do 40 hours until a couple of months ago, and now it's pretty steadily coming. I also got an email from the boss yesterday telling me where the company stands financially and that he can't give us back the 25% cut we got when the crisis hit hard, but I feel confident that he will do it as soon as possible - it's pretty impressive to me that he has become so open about the finances of the company; that feels honest. I figured out early on that I would have to work 40 hours to make the same amount of money as I was making in 30 hours a week - which had become my comfort zone. I'm hoping now that I've figured out a way to get to 40 on a regular basis, I'll be able to continue it after our 25% is reinstated, and therefore get out of debt sooner than later.

That's going well, the debt thing. It has a lot to do with having no social life, just spending my time working and writing. I've let down a couple of friends, but after what happened while I was Paris long distance with C here in Austin - the friendship that crumbled - I took stock of my friendships and of Friendship in general, and there just isn't enough of me to go around right now. That sounds harsh, but I feel like my primary friendships have to offer me something, not just take from me. And not to say that the friends who've recently gone by the wayside were taking from me physically - a little bit but not so much the actual physical time required to maintain the relationship - but I mean more on the emotional plane.

Besides work and writing, there is improv. Which is more like therapy than a social life. And it's been difficult of late. Last Friday night, I was in my first group show, but was on a strange stage with quite a number of people I had never met, we hadn't had one rehearsal as a group, there wasn't a strong leader in our group, and the performance was at TWO A.M.!!! I freaked out. It was something like stage fright, I guess. I spent the hour onstage standing and sitting on the sidelines hoping nobody would call me out onstage with them, and when they did (they did!) I felt like I had nothing to offer. It was awful. I felt like shit on my way home (at 3:15 a.m.); I didn't say anything to anybody, just left. The next day I cried a little. I think my biggest fear is that I'll have to come to terms with the fact that I'm not able to be onstage in front of people again, and since I really want that, it would be something I would have to let go of.

It's like aging.

But there were so many problem factors in that show so I'm cutting myself a lot of slack and gearing up for the next group show, which will be this coming Tuesday. We have one, maybe two rehearsals planned, T&C will be part of the show, and all the other people will be folks I've been taking classes with for quite a while.

the good kind

P1 says I'm crazy. She means it in a good way. I've been cranking out a couple of chapters a week for the past few weeks. It's not like I'm writing them from scratch, not most of them, but the work is real and it feels good.

Whenever I have a new chapter done, I read it to P1. It is important to me to hear what I've written, to make sure it sounds the way I want it to sound. P1 says she loves hearing it. It works out for both of us.

Other than writing, working, and improv, I haven't been doing much of anything. I spend a little bit of time with S around the house - having a meal, watching 30Rock (we're obsessed - it's very good; we're about halfway through the first season) or a Netflix offering - but he's busy with school and studying most of the time, so we don't really spend all that much time together.

A emails me occasionally, trying to get me to make plans with her; LR texts me once in a while telling me it's been too long, that she needs to see me. I feel like I should respond to them - and have, but my excuses sound pretty lame anymore. There are people in my life who are good about ignoring people. I wish I could be more like them, less guilt-ridden over my desire to keep doing what I'm doing right now and not get caught up in the other stuff. It's working for me, I don't want to change it.

I'm being very productive; it seems more and more likely that I will be able to finish this novel by my birthday this year. I'm usually so easily distracted because of my gregarious nature; I want to be around people, want to hang. But if I go off and do this and do that, I'm not writing. I like hanging out with the people in improv because they are from wildly diverse backgrounds and because they and the improv work itself is helping to keep the creative juices in me flowing.

It's also therapeutic. I've said that before; I'll say it again. Improv is therapeutic.

I'm anxious to start work on chapter 16 (having just read chapters 2 & 9 to P1 last night). I looked over 16 the other day, and as with others that came before it, I see a clear path; I recognize what needs to happen in the chapter, what can go away. It's thrilling.

But I also don't want to start up on it and get interrupted with work - which, until I hit the 40-hour mark in the week, is priority - so I'm adding entries from my 2004 diary, scheduled to appear every three days (so that I can get caught up in writing and not feel bad about not updating my blog for a while), as well as adding chapters to the august chagrin blog.

The good new is, I'm at the 33.5 mark with work this week (which runs Thursday-Wednesday), so it's likely I'll be able to take most of Wednesday off, like I did last week, and will possibly have another chapter to read to P1 by the end of the weekend. Crazy!

thursday, october 21st (2004)

9:37 pm

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

improving

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

saturday, october 2 (2004)

almost 10:00 a.m.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

--

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

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

HEY, YA'LL
and
JUST HITCHED!

friday, october 1 (2004)

9:30-ish

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

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

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

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

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

hotne$$

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

just shoot me

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

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

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

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

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

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

shit or get off the pot

Two nights ago, I had a big cup of Smooth Move tea in the late evening as I was working on the novel. I wasn't particularly constipated, but had been feeling a bit bloated for a few days, hadn't felt like I was completely evacuating, and felt hungry all the time, hungry for junk food, cookies, potato chips, etc. I figured I would have a nice big BM the next morning and feel all better. But I didn't. I had soft stools all day long, but nothing that felt complete.

Last night, I made my way to the nearby coffee shop to work on chapter 31, having just read the first seven pages of it to S and having gotten some things to work on. I really wanted a cookie, but they only had two oatmeal cookies left, so I had a beer instead. Oh, and I had a cigarette. I had a cigarette there last Saturday when I went to work on the novel, and for some reason my creative mind responds well to that drug, so I did it again. Again, I was rewarded.

I was there for a couple of hours, churning away at the chapter, feeling good about what was happening with it. Then the woman at the table next to me had a piece of pecan pie. It looked so good... And, I knew that she had the last piece from the previous pie and there was now a whole, fresher pie on the baked goods shelf. So I went for it.

And I couldn't have a piece of pecan pie without coffee. So I got a small cup and pumped it full of decaf.

It was getting close to closing time, the students were shutting their laptops and leaving me in a bigger and bigger space. I was right at the end of the section I was working on, the last paragraph in fact, and really wanted to get it down while I was flowing from the caffeine, nicotine and sugar. But then there was a rumble in my stomach. Like a hunger rumble, but quite the opposite. I hated to take a shit in the bathroom at the end of the night, fearing that the nice woman behind the counter would need to get in there as part of her closing process. And shitting in public carries a certain amount of embarrassment with it.

I gathered up my notebooks, my water bottle and my dirty dishes, deposited the dishes in the bus tub up front then passed the restroom, twisted the knob, but it was locked, so I headed out the front door, to the truck to roll another cigarette. The rumbling had subsided; I decided I could hold it until I got home, until I finished that paragraph with the aid of one more cigarette.

No sooner had I lit the cigarette, opened the notebook and clicked the pen than the rumbling came again, and this time it was accompanied by a dropping feeling, as if my clenched intestines had just relaxed, top to bottom, and everything was at the bottom of my torso. I broke a slight sweat as I worked my sphincter muscle to keep myself from shitting in my pants. I gathered up my stuff and walked to the truck, humming a pained song to myself, telling myself that I wouldn't shit my pants, people don't really shit their pants, adults don't shit there pants.

But then I remembered this from Margaret Cho's "Revolution" concert:



But I didn't shit my pants. I was able to keep my ass clenched until I got home, though I did strengthen my stomach muscles. Fortunately no one was awake when I got home so I didn't have to make nice or even say anything; I went right to the bathroom and was there for a good 15 minutes shitting and shitting and shitting.

And then, for the rest of the night, my stomach made weird sounds, like distant thunder. I slept in two- and three-hour increments, and every time I woke up - to pee - the sounds were still going on. And I never got that last paragraph written, but I'm gonna work on it now.

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

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

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

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

near miss

Last night was the improv jam. It's not a class; every Wednesday anybody and everybody from whatever level of improv they've reached (some haven't even taken one class) get together and "play." I'm starting to feel a little more comfortable in the big group without certain people like CG, the woman with whom I took level one and am taking level two (but she's been absent with health and family problems for several weeks, and I was out of town a couple of classes before that).

I took my nine ideas with me that I wrote down in my improv notebook - Romantic / Despair / Fight / Joy / Horse / Madness etc. - and that was useful; I didn't get through all of them, but it was a good springboard for getting me onstage. I still felt clunky some of the time, but I'm starting to find my improv stage legs.

After the jam most of us stood outside, some smoking cigarettes or drinking beers. T - the Indian dude I took level one with but who stayed on at the other theater after the split - asked what I've been up to. I told him I've been writing and doing improv mostly. A, another guy from our level one class who I don't think is all that good a performer and/but who thinks pretty highly of himself (it seems) - and, more importantly, doesn't seem too interested in me! - was standing next to T when we starting talking. T asked what I write and I told him I'm working on novel. He moved closer; A moved away.

There was a moment, as there often is in my life when talking with relative strangers, where sexuality comes up. I don't know why I'm not comfortable with it. (Well, I do know why, but I don't know why I haven't gotten over the discomfort in my life - but I'm working on it, and improv is helping.) T asked what the novel is about. I could see my mind working around Randy Reardon, the main character, his sickness - AIDS, the tell-all - and stumbled at that point of the revelation and then just went for it, just let it out, spilled the beans. And T didn't freak out or anything! Not that I really thought he would, but that's what goes through my head.

He told me he's taking a creative writing class this semester, we talked about his writing some and he said that most of the other kids don't like what he writes. I said, "Fuck them! It's not about them!" He described a story he recently wrote. It sounded a bit all over the place; he admitted that was the case, said he has a hard time sticking with one storyline. It's a bit like improv, I think, and I told him so; just going with what comes and not editing. I told him about Natalie Goldberg's book, Writing Down the Bones, which I recommended to him, and might even purchase for him when I'm feeling a little more flush (and, sadly, when looking for the link to her book, I discovered that I just missed a rare visit by Natalie Goldberg to my town).

Also, besides the fear of sexuality talk is my fear of intellectuality talk. T is a computer geek, inventor, scientist, etc. In other words, he's an intellectual. He's a very funny, instinctive performer, but a lot less absurd in his choices that am I. Well, he does a lot of weird things, but they seem a lot more intellectualized to me. Anyway, when I was describing the novel, talking about the seven different storylines that run through it, I was describing specifically the letters that Amitodana writes to August - one of the storylines - and T asked, "Is the whole novel epistolary?" My mind went blank for a moment.

I don't think I'm a stupid person; I know I am clever and smart enough to write a novel and plays and songs, and can usually come up with the word that means what I intend for it to mean, even if I don't know the exact definition. I use words in sentences that sound right, and often are right, but I sometimes misuse words. S has said that my vocabulary is the weakest part of my talent. (He didn't say it in those words, but that's the gist.)

And so, when T asked me if the whole novel is epistolary, I had to consider what he meant. I probably should have just asked him what it meant, but I was afraid of looking stupid. The word apostle came to me, which brought to mind preachers, storytellers, particularly Bible storytellers. Epistle seemed a similar word (there's a "pistl" in the middle of both of them!), so I made the leap to think that he was referring to the letter-writing storyline, and said, "Oh, no, there's prose and script and other things, as well." I think there was possibly a look of panic on my face (or at least I felt a look of panic directly behind my eyes and did my best to hide it!), but T didn't comment on it. And why would he?

That's the thing, I guess. I'm smarat enought to be writing a novel but fear people will think I'm not. I struggle with words like "epistolary" and other even less intellectual words than that. I would never use the word epistolary in my writing, I don't think, and I definitely wouldn't easily use it in a conversation (though I use words in my writing and in ways that I would never say aloud all the time). So I keep looking for the comfort in the idea that there exist many novelists who aren't (or weren't) as word-smart as even I am, and there are plenty of novels out there that are full of big words that are crap. It's really not something I need to worry about.

But I do. That and the Gay Thing.

system overload

I've been feeling a bit down lately. No doubt the effects of my lost friendship with C. I started thinking a lot about friendship, about the friends I have, and what they mean to me. But with a kind of dark view, because I've been feeling a bit down. I guess it's the depression thing. I didn't make it to yoga on Sunday, and then on Monday, I felt like I hadn't done yoga for ages; I was tight and hurt when I tried to get into certain positions. It was very frustrating.

So yesterday, I tried to talk myself out of going. But I was feeling pretty bummed about things and decided the meanest thing I could do to myself was go and deal with the frustration. (I knew it was also the nicest thing I could do for myself.) Actually, I let work decide for me. If there is no work to keep me at home, then I'll leave at 3 in time to get to the 3:30 class. That's what I told myself. And I even almost talked myself out of it when 3 rolled around and there wasn't a transcript to do. But I had already worked 37.5 hours in the preceding six days (12.5 of them on Sunday), and my eyes were bothering me.

When I got to M's apartment (the yoga studio), he was cleaning windows. He asked how I was; I said, "I'm here." He said, "Oh, it's like that, is it?!" He's a cheerful sort. Good-looking, strong, patient, funny, intelligent, a great teacher. I told him I couldn't think of any reason not to come, and he said, "You could've cleaned windows!" I said, "Yeah, if I had thought of that..." He said, "Call me next time and I'll give you some suggestions!"

Inside, I told him I deal with depression. He said he does too; he told me if he wasn't on anti-depressants nobody would be there. Interesting. He pushed me a little harder than I thought I wanted to be pushed yesterday - I thought maybe he would take it easy on me since I was feeling down (I wanted him to take it easy on me) - but he pushed me to do a jump-back. I struggled with it a while, complained some, got more instruction, then viola! I saw the light. I even said that. He said, "I wouldn't have told you to do it if I didn't know you could...for future reference."

And so, he gave me the ability to accomplish something difficult. I didn't do the jump-back very good, mind you - and boy were my arms tired after - but it felt good to have succeeded at something, to have done it that well.

I have a friend that I needed to take a break from. I realized after the loss of my friendship with C that it is a friendship that takes (a lot) more from me than it gives. And I think I need to surround myself with people who lift me up, people I want to be like. At least my close friends. There are some people in the improv community who annoy me (their sense of humor), but I don't feel close to them. I feel my friends should be willing and able to listen to me, that I should feel that they're listening.

With this one particular friend, I don't feel like that is the case. I never have. It has felt more like I am a caretaker all along. I came to this realization when I thought about telling this person about what had happened with C. I couldn't imagine saying anything because this person doesn't deal well with that kind of information. I don't need that in my life.

So, I ignored this person for a while, and kept getting phone calls that I didn't respond to, which caused the person to call another friend of mine and ask if she knew what was up with me. I didn't want to be rude, so I sent an email to this person saying that email was a much better way to correspond with me, that I was lying low and not answering the phone. The person responded to the email by calling me! I ignored that call, and then started getting emails and texts, asking me to do this or that. When I responded in the negative for whatever reason, I got a follow-up request for a different date and time and event. So, I sent an email saying I was not going to be socializing for a while, that I was concentrating on working and writing and doing much of anything with anybody.

The response was "Okay. I understand. Unless it's something I've done." Followed by another two paragraphs about how we could deal with it if it was in fact something that this person had done to upset me or push me away.

Too much work, that's what I say.

So that's where I am. I'm still feeling a bit blue, but I feel like I'm getting through it. And I'm very happy about the writing I've been doing.

tuesday, august 31st, 5:37 p.m. (2004)

My stand-up for tonight:

I have an Aunt Joy Belle. That's pretty funny, isn't it? Actually, she's my great-aunt, but I never called her Great-Aunt Joy Belle. I don't know why; she is pretty great. When she was born, her daddy opened up the church hymnal to the song "Keep the Joy Bells Ringing," and that's where he got her name.

Pawpaw was a bit of an alcoholic. He was definitely drunk when he named her sister Aunt Konk!

Actually, that's just her nickname.

I'm no stranger to nicknames. I was born with one. JDJB. That's my name. Most people call me Jaybird, and you can too, if you like. My family called me Fancy Pants for a while when I was growing up.

One Christmas, I inadvertently got a present that was intended for my Great-Aunt Joy Belle. The tag said, "To: Joy, From: Santa," but the present passer-outer thought it said "To: Jay, From Santa," so I got it. It was these pants. They didn't fit me much better then.

I tried them on and somebody called me Fancy Pants, and the name just stuck. But nobody said anything about the fact that they were intended for somebody else. I figured it out myself later when I was looking at the tag, trying to figure out what Santa Claus was thinking. Did he know something I didn't know?

When I was in the eighth grade, my classmates nicknamed me Gaybird. Not because of these pants. Mostly because I didn't know how to carry my books. Apparently, I carried them like a gaybird. Like this instead of like this. Valerie, the butch Italian jock girl who lived on my street tried to teach me how to carry my books like a jock. But it was useless. I was chubby and nelly and I played the tuba in the marching band.

Correction, I played the John Philip Sousaphone in the marching band, the big, white fiberglass anaconda-looking tuba. It really was. Our team mascot was the anaconda, and all of the sousaphones were outfitted with two fangs and a forked tongue. Essentially, we were blowing into their assholes! That's what it sounded like when I played, too. I was a terrible tuba player.

So, because of that, and because I wasn't a jock, and because I couldn't even carry my books like a girl jock, they called me Gaybird. And they made fun of the mayonnaise and sugar sandwiches my momma packed into my lunch bags. And I took to eating my mayonnaise and sugar sandwiches at the dead end of the hall where they kept all of the spare desks. Behind the desks. I made a little path and crawled behind the desks and ate my mayonnaise and sugar sandwiches in peace, and dreamed up ways to take revenge on my classmates and on my school.

I decided to learn to play the 12-string guitar. Somebody at our church played "Amazing Grace" on the 12-string guitar and everybody oohed and ahhed and acted like it was the Second Coming of Christ, so I decided I would learn to be the greatest 12-string guitar player that ever lived. That would be my revenge. (This was long before Columbine and that kind of revenge. This was back when learning to play an instrument really well was revenge enough.) I imagined that people would soon be eating mayonnaise and sugar sandwiches and trying to figure out my secret to playing the 12-string guitar so well, and they would call me Fancy Fingers or something like that because I would be the greatest 12-string guitar player ever.

{Strum ukulele.}

I'm a third the way there...

{Sing "Fancy Pants."}

nine ideas that work

They are:

ROMANTIC
DESPAIR
FIGHT
JOY
HORSE
MADNESS
VULGARITY
THE STANLEY
FOREIGN LANGUAGE REPOSE

These words were written in chalk on the stage by the five actors in a play I saw on Friday night. It's called The Method Gun, and the company presenting it is Rude Mechs. It was at the Off Center. I also saw it about a year ago (a different version) at the Long Center here. It will be in New York City at PS 122 in January 2010 - I highly recommend it - but that is not what this entry is about.

I was inspired by the improvisational-seeming nature of quite a bit of the play, and particularly by the RASA BOXES (whatever that means; that was how they were described when presented in the play) with the above words in them. The actors ran from box to box (there were nine boxes, each with one of the ideas in them) and they incorporated the idea written in the particular box they were standing in into their actions and words.

I wrote them down.

I went to improv class the next day, and each time I got up on stage, I thought of one of those ideas in the RASA BOXES - actually, I started with the one in the top left box, "Romantic" - and took that onstage with me for the scene I was playing. The next time I went up, I took Despair as my emotion. The next time, I thought of a Fight. And so on.

It worked beautifully for me, really gave me something to hold onto.

Interestingly, we are taught that Fighting on the improv stage is dangerous because you have to build on what is happening onstage, and once you get to the point where you're throwing punches or chasing or being chased, there's not much left to build on. I thought about that before I went on. I said the line, "I think you're trying to start a fight!" I said it in kind of a drunkard's voice. And so I became an old, seriously drunk man on a street corner under a street light. (In my mind, I was black, but that's not really important.) It didn't become a fight onstage because the man playing opposite me chose a similar character - "No I ain't! This is MY corner!"

I was feeling it in improv class on Saturday. Sometimes I feel it; sometimes my natural comedian comes out. I feel very comfortable play absurd characters. Or I should say I think I am best at playing absurd characters, and sometimes I am comfortable with letting those characters come out, but other times I feel stunted.

I realized long ago that improv is all about chemistry. And I'm starting to notice patterns in me, the times when I'm really cooking and the times when I feel awkward and even bad. When I took Level One a year ago or so, the class was mostly twenty-something straight white dudes. The more recent Level One I took had a wider mix of types of people, women, blacks, an Indian, etc. I was much better the second time I took Level One, and I didn't think it was because I had already taken the class before.

And now, the Level Two class I'm in has C, a woman with whom I have such a great stage chemistry. She loves to play straight, normal characters (and is very good at them), and she feeds my absurd characters onstage so perfectly. I seriously see the two of us performing together down the road. Or I hope we will. We even have a "team" name picked out:

HOTNE$$ IN A PO$E

Don't ask! (Or do, but not right now. Okay, well, the one key in pronouncing it is that $ is pronounced "dollar sign.")

I haven't blogged a lot about improv. But it has started feeling like a good outlet for my creativity, and I feel myself leaning toward a stronger involvement in it. Time will tell if it's just another passing fancy.

simplification.

I'm not writing. Today, it doesn't look like I'll get around to it. Maybe this evening, after yoga and the performance I'm taking part in (reading from a numbered list of instructions, guided by audience members calling out random numbers).

I'm trying to simplify my life, but it doesn't seem to be simple right now. Since I no longer have a relationship with C, which was so challenging and simultaneously enriching, I feel like I need to spend more time with the other challenging/enriching element of my life, my book. I left it behind when I went to Paris. Or I should say that was my intent. I had struggled with a chapter rewrite, and then, in a wash of inspiration, completed it a week or so before the trip, and the chapter that followed started coming to me almost immediately, so I felt like I should pay attention, but I had already set the intent to not work on it in Paris. I found a space in the bottom of my carry-on big enough to slip the slim three-ring binder into, just in case.

A couple of times, I packed it in my bag and carried it with me to the Eiffel Tower, the Arc de Triomphe, thinking I would find a place to sit and be inspired and write. But it was too cold in Paris for sitting outside, or inspiration. I didn't write anything in Paris other than random notes in a journal.

Now I'm back from the trip, happy to be back, but more broke than I thought I would be, and feeling the need to really simplify my life. Again.

I've been enjoying improv classes, and I've found a way to take more of them for no money (repeating the current or previous levels). There's a new level two starting up next Thursday evening, which I think I'll join, and I'm already in the Saturday afternoon class and sitting in on the Tuesday evening class. Last week, for the first time, I joined in on the Wednesday improv "jam," which isn't a class but a free-for-all performance for people of all levels (no audience except each other). It doesn't feel as "safe" as the classes that I've been taking, but I feel the need to get out of my safety zone.

I'm also doing more yoga. Monday through Thursday at 3:30, and now Sundays at 1:30. That leaves Friday through Monday evenings to fill up, if necessary. I would like to fill up some of that time with writing. But I also feel a strong urge to work as much as I can, since the recent pay cut, so that takes precedent. If there is work to do on Friday, Saturday and Sunday, I'll do that first, and then fill in whatever leftover time I have with writing. Or at least that's the plan; there hasn't been any leftover time so far.

I just finished the work available this weekend. I've worked 16.5 hours since Thursday - which is pretty good, because I didn't work at all on Thursday and not much on Friday. I went to therapy, got a massage, took some Me time. I needed some time off - even though I just got back from "vacation." It didn't feel much like a vacation. It felt like a challenge. It made novel writing seem like the easier option. So I'd better get to that and prove myself right.

Oh, but I've got to head out for a rehearsal right now, and then yoga, and then the performance. Jeez...

fagophobia

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

v.d.

Saturday was a great day and seems to have marked another shift in me (though that may not be obvious in what I'm writing). C and I were supposed to go for a weekend meditation retreat centered around money and our personal relationships with it -- which, with the recent slash in my salary due to the economic downturn, seemed like a good idea -- but we had had a glitch in our platonic love affair the Monday prior, and I felt the need for some space, particularly since we wouldn't be able to talk about us during the retreat.

First thing Saturday morning, I went to the Blue Dahlia to pick up compost (aka, pig slop), five 5-gallon buckets of it. I usually go through it right away, pull out the stuff that Tinkerbell, the resident pot-bellied, won't eat -- citrus, squash peels, onions -- or shouldn't -- foil butter pats, drinking straws, paper, plastic wrap. (An aside: Recently, Tinkerbell ate a latex glove, probably from the old folks home across the street. I discovered it coming out of her butt. She was in distress, foaming at the mouth, but M fed her some extra food and it worked its way out.) Anyway, I didn't go through the compost right away because it was cold out, and even though I wear rubber dish gloves, my hands hurt when I go through the slop on a cold day. So I vacuumed my truck out instead -- a little V.D. gift for me -- while S made eggs and potatoes to serve with the biscuits he'd made the night before as a V.D. gift to all of us.

At 1:00, I went to my improv class, which was pretty good, then went from there to nearby Hyde Park and picked up our box of produce for the week and brought it home for S to deal with. Then I went through the compost, even though it wasn't much warmer out.

I rushed from there to my friend G's house in South Austin. He was hosting a tea party with a friend (N) who recently spent two years in Taiwan learning all about tea. He had fascinating stories to tell as he served different tea varieties. I was only there for the last hour of the three-hour party, but G, N and I were tea-drunk by the end of it, laughing and dancing to the music the two of them were playing in tandem from their laptops.

The next thing on the schedule was the dance, dinner and concert at the space where the dance group I sometimes meet up with (more often recently). C called while I was at G's house from the meditation retreat to tell me he was going to go to the V.D. event as well. We made plans to travel together. I went to his house and gave him the V.D. card I had made for him the Sunday night previous. We had spent all day that Sunday together making cards for others, then I came home and made one specifically for him; when we had the glitch on Monday, I didn't know what to do about sending it, feeling the way I did, so I didn't mail it, but then gave it to him in person, which isn't t quite as good as receiving it in the mail, to be sure, but he appreciated it.

The dance was great. The usual stuff, except at the end, C, P1, M and I ended up in a three-song four-person embrace. C had talked to M about what was going on between us a couple of nights before, and P1 kind of knew, I think, because she reads my blog. But there was so much affection in that little circle that the tears just streamed down my face throughout the second two songs. I don't remember the exact words of the last song, but it was something like "You are love and you are precious and this is perfect." I wanted it to last forever. It was a healing for C and me. (Yet another!)

After the dance, dinner was served, yummy, healthy vegetarian food, cous cous, veggie stew, kale salad and cornbread. C snagged the very last lemon square, and halved it with me, then I halved my half with another person, and he halved his half twice and ended up with just a tiny little bit of lemon-sugar goodness.

We went inside and sat against the wall behind the people who had the foresight to bring pillows and blankets to sit on and wrap themselves in. My old friend L -- who introduced me to this crazy dance thing -- sang a set of new songs, after having been out of the scene for a couple of years following the birth of her child. She always tells me I make her laugh more than just about anybody, but she's pretty damn funny, too.

While she sang, C, P1, M and I touched each others' hearts, held hands and massaged one another all curled up in the love bundle we had started at the end of the dance. I was in heaven; I think we all were.

And then M sang her songs of love lost and love desired and it was all right as rain.

(graphic: "Jesus Healing a Broken Heart" ALL RIGHTS RESERVED, obviously...)

there are 168 hrs in a week

Here's the problem: Money work comes slower this time of year; there are other things that are going on in-house (in New York) that I can't (and frankly don't want to) be a part of. So I have to babysit the computer to see when work is available. It's like a game of sorts (though not a very entertaining one), trying to grab the work before another satellite or in-house support staffer gets it. Whatever... yawn.

But that's not the whole of the problem. I did get some writing done the other day, but I have no regular writing schedule. Yesterday, I was sitting on the porch smoking a cigarette thinking to myself, Why am I so bored? Why do I feel so overwhelmed? How can those two things be happening simultaneously? I feel like I'm not doing anything, but at the same time, I've got a lot on my plate. I'm in a performance this Friday with my friend M. She's reading letters that she's written to different companies -- complaint letters, mostly, and one letter of compliment -- and the outcomes of the issues she's had with them. She asked me to write and perform a theme song. Or she asked me if I wanted to be involved in some way, and my involvement became the theme song, "To Whom It May Concern":

To Whom It May Concern:
I'm the little guy who just got burned,
So I'm writing you this letter
In hopes that you can make it better.
I didn't get 100% satisfaction
In my most recent transaction,
That's why I'm writing you this letter,
In hopes that you will make it better.
What can you do for me?
Well, you can start with an apology;
And if you want to give me something for free,
That would go a long way.
I'm only saying this because it is true.
Why should I give my hard-earn money to you?
To win me back, what are you going to do?
Come on, I don't have all day...

And then M does her presentation, and I play the chords of the song in the background each time she reads a letter. And then I finish up the show with a reprise:

To Whom It May Concern:
There's a lesson here that could be learned.
That's why I've written you this letter.
Thanks in advance for making it better.
Sincerely, Me!

M sings the "Me" at the end. It's a cute show; it's part of the FronteraFest Short Fringe that they do every year here. So, I'm busy with that.

I'm also taking (or I should say retaking) the comedy improv class I took a year or so ago. It's free because I've already taken Level 1, and M is taking it with me. I felt kind of out of place the last time I took it. Having M there give me an instantaneous bit of confidence; having someone to bounce my feelings off of, and to hear that I am not the only one who is terrified is very helpful. I also think there are a lot more good people in this class than were in it the first time I took it, more varieties of people, ethnically (last time they were mostly 20-something straight white guys), so it just feels better.

I'm also trying to rewrite the first draft of my novel. I sat with it one day a week or so ago, took out the last thing I'd written, and read through the first couple of pages, marked out a word and put "as if" in its place. "As if," that's all I wrote that whole day! I thought that was kind of telling. A couple of days later, I got an idea and did some good writing, longhand, which I haven't transcribed yet. I feel like I need a chunk of time (or chunks) to work on the novel, but when I'm waiting for work to appear that I can grab, I have to be ready to jump on it -- which just happened, incidentally -- and I can't work with interruptions looming.

I think maybe when S goes back to school (Monday), I'll be able to better create a schedule I can live by. I tried creating a schedule but just came up with a list of things (WORK - 30 HRS/WK; WRITE - 10 HRS/WK; EXERCISE - 5 HRS/WK; SLEEP - 56 HRS/WK; PLAY - 20 HRS/WK) and no timeline for any of it.

Anyway, work now, figure life out later.

(photo from Wikipedia)