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...)

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)

door-to-door ding-a-ling

A man dropped by the house this morning offering to show me his meat. Seriously. I saw the small pickup with the refrigerated camper coming up the drive and Bones started going crazy before I could beat him to the door, standing on his hind legs dirtying the back door glass with his front paws and coughs of slobber.

I won't say outright that the man wasn't trustworthy -- how could I know from our brief interaction? -- but he had a weird kind of energy, like a salesman who does a lot more talking than listening, who seems to think that if he keeps talking you'll relent and buy whatever he has to sell.

He had a cigarette propped between a couple of stained fingers and teeth that looked like they've chomped into a steak or two and haven't seen much floss. He told me the such-and-such cut I would easily pay $60 more for if I got it online than if he brought it to me personally. When I told him I don't eat meat, that he could leave a card for the others in the household, he headed for his truck, turning back halfway, exclaiming, "I wanna show you my meat." I smiled a sort of resigned smile and said, "Since I don't eat meat I wouldn't really be interested in seeing it."

"Seafood?"
"Nope." To be honest with you, I do eat fish now and again, but I'm trying to cut it out of my diet, and this guy didn't strike me as the kind of person I wanted to buy anything from.

Maybe Bones was right.

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).