Aaroniously yours

Show & Tell Interview!

2011-11-16T22:09:00.001-05:00

Thanks to Christina Dideriksen, our Show & Tell event lives on in the blogosphere:

http://www.welcometocompany.com/discovery-series-aaron-mason

Looking forward to a follow-up event around March 1, 2012. Stay tuned!

2011-11-12T17:50:00.001-05:00

Marine Disco Ballroom

2011-11-12T17:35:00.001-05:00

My first experiment with painting on copper instead of canvas. Part of the private collection of Cesar Dalaza and Bruce Goerlich.

Marine Disco Ballroom. Acrylic on copper panel. 2011. 12" x 12". Signed by Aaron Mason.

Show & Tell: Looking back

2011-11-12T17:30:00.001-05:00

Can you believe it's been over a month?

Thanks again to everyone who helped me make it happen!

A

Phenomenology of Flight

2011-11-12T16:55:00.001-05:00

First in the collection of principal Show & Tell investor Damon Lindenberger. Phenomenology of Flight. Acrylic on canvas. 30" x 40". 2002. Signed by Aaron Mason.
Not for sale.

Like fire floating on ice...

2011-11-12T16:39:00.001-05:00

My latest work: Molten Musings. Mixed media on aluminum panel. 2011. 12" x 12".

Signed by Aaron Mason.

For more info, please contact: aaronthepainter@gmail.com

New iPhone? Are those even allowed in Jersey?!

2011-10-15T04:11:00.001-04:00

It's late and I'm awake, creating mix CDs in my head and on my laptop. As I listen, I rearrange styles, artists, genres, testing out different combinations of moods, rhythms, melodies, and textures. It's not dissimilar from the free-flowing process of creating a painting.

But one of the many nagging thoughts that has me up at this late hour poses a question: When I'm ready to cull the selections down to 12 tracks or so, will the songs I bought from Amazon and saved inside "the cloud" be burnable to a blank CD, so that I can share my clever choices with someone I like? Is the cloud even compatible with removable hardware like a disc?

Even writing that question makes me feel like technology is moving faster than I am, and I think that's a fairly recent phenomenon. In my current career, I work on a Windows-based PC for the first time in years. Sure, PCs have their place... spitting out spreadsheets in accountant's offices and kicking butt on Jeopardy!, but I must admit I became quite spoiled by being an ad agency "creative" for several years, which meant my work computers, my personal devices, and my home computers were All Apple All the Time. In hindsight, it was bliss.

Those were simpler days, I suppose. And it's fitting to take a pause and even get a bit sentimental, with the recent loss of Steve Jobs, and yet another iPhone iteration sending people out to wait in line for the chance to get their hands on it before their neighbors, colleagues, great aunt Trudys do. And to what end, ultimately?

From a practical point of view, the money I used to spend on the latest Mac gadget for my personal use now goes to pay for the mortgage, the car, the dog kibble, the expensive art supplies, and the recent art show I produced.

When we lived in Manhattan in the heady pre-Spaniel days, buying a new Mac every few years seemed easier and more fun. There was no car payment, no mortgage to worry about. Just a monthly bit of pocket change sent to the landlord for our cute, quiet, rent-stabilized oasis on the Upper West Side with its modest one bedroom, exposed brick, and tiny kitchen. Now I have to make more careful choices.

But this idea of a cloud where our data just kind of floats around in the ether seems innately insecure, and surreal. It's almost like the computer version of a spiritual plane. And of course, that begs the question... how can these gadgets we've come to need, the ones we covet and perfect and use every day... how can they have spiritual needs? Talk about projecting!

If we are truly rational, sane humans, how can we imbue our gadgets with their own special memory storage atmosphere, a heaven if you will (or a hell in the case of a massive security breach)? Have we finally lost touch with the solid world of atoms that can be quantified within a fraction of a nanometer? Of course, even the world of elemental particles is filled with mystery. When you get down to the ridiculously small particles that make up electrons, neutrons, and protons, the lines between matter and energy, time and place, here and there, become a bit blurry. So why not let these software developers sell us on this whole cloud thing? Do we have any other choice, aside from eschewing technology altogether? You know the expression, going off the grid, unplugging, powering down... but I'm the first to admit I'm not ready to do that. I like the comforts that computers and other gadgets seem to give me. What else would I play with at this ungodly time of day? Don't answer that.

* * *

Then there's the fact that personification of inanimate objects has been a literary device in use to varying degrees of success for hundreds, maybe thousands of generations. "The blood-spattered clay swallowed up hector's cold body." I paraphrase, probably inaccurately, from my memory of studying The Iliad.

But is our current obsession with these so-called smart phones, superconductors, intuitive machines cut from same cloth as the use of language to express a point of view? In the case or the oral traditions that Homer interpreted and codified when he wrote down those gory poems of war and mad love between Achilles and Patrochlos (sorry, Hollywood, they were more than cousins), such hyper-descriptive language kept the listeners awake, which kept the stories of the heroes and villains of Ilium alive. What are we passing on?

The loss of several revered newspapers as well as the impact of reality television on the demand for great storytelling and script writing are just one of many warning signs that we as a culture are giving up part of our souls. The art of storytelling will evolve just as we do, but it may be unrecognizable to me by the time my niece and nephews have children. Is that just the natural way of things? "When I was your age.... we frolicked in the great outdoors and read books and phones had cords."

That might explain the distinctions I'm attempting to make here. But it's not the whole answer. I also chose St. John's College, with its single curriculum and 2 electives for all undergraduates. It was a Great Books program that focused on a classical, albeit nontraditional way of learning rather than on specializing in anticipation of a pre-planned, narrow career. And that's where I read Homer. In Ancient Greek.

So it's apt that I question where we are as people when our mastery of technology seems to create technology that is constantly getting closer to mastering us. And that's why I flipped my wig when I saw The Matrix. It was such a slick take on the machine vs man myth. I hesitate to say that this big-budget Keanu vehicle is also a cautionary tale, but when we subconsciously acquiesce the soul-nurturing art of story telling, and instead give our souls away, bit by bit or byte by byte, I have to wonder: will the monsters we've created rise up to bite us in the ass? What possible protection will we have left?

The Guest Globe...

2011-09-14T12:53:00.002-04:00

All Show & Tellers (artists and guests) will sign and decorate this spherical chalkboard, with theme of re-creating a better world, in miniature, from the perspective of the student, a key do-it-yourself momento.

Show & Tell

2011-09-05T14:03:00.000-04:00

An evening to celebrate the first-ever exhibition of paintings by Aaron Mason. This unique event will also feature photography, live and recorded music, spoken-word performance, food, drink, and fun!

WHEN: Saturday, October 1, 2011 from 6:00 PM to 11:00 PM

WHERE: Studio 580, 580 8th Avenue (off 38th Street) 5th Floor. New York, NY 10018
RSVP: Facebook or call Aaron at 201-333-398
Participating visual artists include: muralist and reverse-glass painter Delia King; fine art photographer Eugene Hyon; and multi-talented art director Eva Schicker
Featuring the song stylings of jazz vocalist E.J. Decker with accompaniment from Justin Dehnert, and party tunes from DJ Vinyl Ritchie

Be a conduit, not a controller

2011-08-31T01:19:00.000-04:00

Strive to serve a purpose greater than yourself, my son. The athlete who stands up to intolerance in his profession is not a born leader, but he allows the cause to speak through his fame and celebrity. And he is not a Hollywood star with a pet charity. He has lived through something real, and has come out the other side transformed. He is humble and kind and committed to making things better.

I have tried so many times to control this little life, only to realize afterward that the very concept of control is fleeting and illusory, just as most things in life are. Currently I am working on a project that has me up late, writing this to you, at a place where I am familiar: If I continue to try to apply a vice grip to the process, the desired culmination will crumble in my fearful claws. If I let the process happen through me though, I may have a chance of sharing in something meaningful and worthwhile, of giving and receiving, collaborating, creating a magical night. If only you could be there.

But you are always in my heart and mind. I may have left you behind at a time when you needed me, but I'm here now, with this simple suggestion: let life steer you sometimes. The loss of control may seem terrifying, but if you can couple the letting go with a good measure of personal groundedness and responsibility, your flight will be one of togetherness with others, sharing, and joy. That's all I wish for for you. That and the knowledge that wishing and joy come and go as well, they are all part of the ride.

Particulate Matters

2011-05-19T02:08:00.000-04:00

The rain washes you to sleep so briefly, like a mother's lullaby, but the cars on the turnpike jolt your consciousness back into waking with their faraway hum as they speed over the wet blacktop, occasionally punctuated by the dull thud of all that steel and rubber hitting one of the many potholes.

When you were a bit younger, you chased after a great many things, some calamitous, some noble, some completely forgettable... ideas, people, romantic notions, power. But power over the wayward pulling and pushing of your own heart as it longed for someone just out of reach, well that's something you never held for very long. Now you are wiser and lonelier, albeit safe.

These are the insomniac quotations you place around yourself, hoping that by purging the external shape of your memories, the stings of rejection left embedded in your psyche will also be washed away, as in some reflexive self-baptism. Only the water moves through your fingers of its own accord. His name was David, and the adult bemusement with which you are now sifting through the catalog of college crushes would hardly pause on him, except for the falling star you saw in the clear night sky behind his head as you embraced to say good-bye, locked in the inevitable bonds of friendship.

Under the self-delusion that the universe speaks to and about you more than any other human being, you ask, "What was that star saying to me?" The well-rehearsed and well-played drama queen inside usually looks back on the moment as a mockery of the cruel truth of the situation, namely that you had fallen for yet another unavailable man, someone whose sensitivity in pursuit of philosophical discourse with his peers had led him directly into your social circle. Perhaps he had even pursued you, longed to get to know the mind you possess and tease out of it some truth... Tease indeed.

You even developed a satirical name for these kinds of relationships, writing words of warning for fellow fools, hoping that humor would alleviate some of the angst, frustration, and apparent discord between your heart, your mind, and your sexual and romantic desires. Your chariot had too many horses perhaps, with a driver who had long fallen off the wagon.

So tonight you are here again, caught between sleep and anxiety, truth and fantasy, memory and future obligation. But there is something that can break the spell. You've learned to channel some of this energy into creative craftsmanship, and your own views of how you might contribute these artistic gifts to others are evolving. It's an exciting time, which may be why the retreat into old unrequited erotic misfires has manifested. The fear of claiming your place, risking criticism and rejection, to grow into a newer version of yourself is strong, and it is not to be trusted, only acknowledged.

For fear, like the child in all of us, has needs, and sometimes we can grant them. Just not tonight. So you declare your love of beauty as a philosopher once did, and let that explain the mistakes of your past. Let it never be said you closed your heart before allowing someone else, even an inappropriate candidate for its devotion, to see it, to glimpse at its fullness, warmth, vitality, and gentle desire to nab a beloved that matched his own ideals. For without ideal notions, real ideas have no way to be defined in our understanding. They are beings without names, lives without purpose.

So in this lofty manner you engage your last few bursts of energy, declaring your love of all beauties, knowing they are all mere reflections. Forgiving yourself the foibles of your own youth, listening to the sadness of hearts broken, you know you are alive. And the breaking is a form of growth, no matter how agonizing or trivial. Breaks from responsibility, broken families, broken bonds, the break between a hopeful world and the end of the world, the break between time and space, matter and energy, particle and wave, friend and lover. And that break still separates you and him. And separateness in the post-thunderstorm silence is enough. For now.

If I could be any Brand it would have to be...

2011-03-13T05:52:00.001-04:00

Russell....

"Furry walls...." Watched him tear up the Greek again.

Headfull of thoughts... Can't sleep.... Prayers for Japan... Mother Nature gone haywire....

Friday evening, I'm in the midst of my latest painting, this one with lots of purples and blues, and the old iPod is on shuffle for a bit of background inspiration. On comes a mix I made with my first pair of turntables back in the late 1990s. They were inexpensive Numarks I bought down on Canal Street, and every now and then they would inexplicably speed up for a second before returning to a stable speed, creating a distinct, brief flaw in the sound, a whirr of the pitch, a palpitation in the beat... I sold them to some poor guy on eBay or Craigs and wisely invested in the Technics 1200s, which now sit quietly in their crates.

The mixing I did also had flaws, usually in fading out Track 1 before it interfered with the hooks in Track 2, but there was potential, too... making me long for the days when I got paid to spin the music that I loved and that made people dance and be joyous in abandoning their cares for a little while.

And that's what I crave now instead of sleep. I long for escape into memories, a past filled with Aqua Net, black cardigans, dance clubs, all night cafes, clove cigarettes, and my old Chrysler LeBaron that broke down so often my friends called it the Satanmobile.

There was Rock Island, with its compact dance floor, downstairs lounge, and a great echo off the masonry-block walls... There was INXS, with its endless corridors and video rooms and the DJ who always played Tones on Tail at the end of the night.... There was Muddy's, where you could buy a cheap paperback, see a local theater production downstairs, drink coffee, smoke cigarettes, or buy LSD from the kid who wore a necklace with a razor blade on it.

There were the raves in warehouses in LoDo, before it was called that by land developers and baseball fans alike. At one such party an unknown DJ named Moby who played a song for all of us on drugs that started fast and just kept getting faster. There was the rave up in the foothills that went all night.

Where now a huge sports arena stands, there was once a trio of gay clubs: Stars, the 90s, and the Foxhole. One Sunday at tea dance on the Foxhole's patio, Randy and I showed off our moves to "Vogue." He was one of a long line of young men I attached myself to for fun, for affection, for sex... It must have been at the 90s where I met the pair of Southerners who stopped in Denver for a few years on their way from Alabama to San Francisco. It was also where I met Keith, an unassuming bearded fellow with melty brown eyes who had partied a bit too much for his age.... it wasn't a romantic affair, but when we were in the back of his pickup truck one night in the mountains, the fireworks did fly. Of course, carrying on a conversation with him was a challenge at best.

There was the couple whose house was often the venue of after-parties. Evan, the shorter, more business-like of the two, was an architect and aspiring DJ. Patrick, the taller, more artistic type, worked in a record store.

There was the Compound, which we called the Dog Pound, a catch-all bar where the DJ sets were amazing but the crowds never quite materialized, and there was the White Spot, nicknamed the Wet Spot, an all-night restaurant where we would congregate after the bars closed.

There was Nine Inch Nails at the Gothic, my first mosh pit, and Paris on the Platte, where someone stole my NIN T-shirt fresh from the concert.

So now it's even later and sleep has still eluded me. I supposed I should go to bed, but maybe there's just too much music in my ears at the moment. Maybe I miss being young. That must be a human thing, but being human provides little comfort.

Realizing that I am still living with as few regrets as possible might be more comforting. While I mostly avoided recklessness in the most self-destructive sense, I can say that I have taken chances, faced risks and fears, lived adventurously, immersed myself in the moment and soaked in all that it had to offer. And, in theory, that's a nice way to ease into sleep, for my current insomnia is more wistful than "wish I had done-full."

I suppose my current uneasiness is more like, "Now what?" What is next, and how do I plan for what's ahead? Will any of my artistic leanings (acting, storytelling, painting, mixing music) blossom into something more than passionate hobbies?

And, I do not know the answers. I am in the hollow reverberation of inquiry, the blur when the spinning wheels speed up, the disorientation of knowing only where and who I was. Am I becoming or being? Both would make more sense, but I lack the faith that I can do both and thrive at it.

Detours

2010-08-08T07:37:00.007-04:00

What I like about making a painting is that you don't have to give it a title. Ever. Unless you want to. When I open my blog to the "New Post" tab to write this entry, the first thing I see is the word "Title:" followed by a big blank empty white box. Ughh.

Maybe I'm just uneasy because my sleep was disturbed, or more accurately, I am disturbed and my restless sleep was a symptom. So what's bothering me? Change. Yes, that, and humidity. Sticky swamp air is the reason other people flee the City this time of year, the City which has been a part of my identity for more than a decade, the City that, after Tuesday, I will no longer work in, therefore shaking my sense of self, just as I did when I went away to college in another state without knowing a soul, without having even taken a tour of the campus, a place I read about in a magazine while I was in a hospital waiting room, thumb sprained by a football that got away from me in PE class.

Thirteen years ago, I could not wait to move into Manhattan. Being a Brooklynite was a temporary arrangement along the way, and the cheap, warehousey space I shared with two others was situated in an area of Williamsburg that was anything but hipster chic. Now we couldn't afford to live in Brooklyn if we tried, at least not with the amount of space we have here in lovely Jersey City.

So what is it that has me awake so early today? My "New Yorker" status going on a long hiatus? Yes, I will be continuing my career as a medical writer, helping Big Pharma get bigger, but from the confines of a place I never would have imagined I would call home. Ethical considerations about the drug industry aside, what scares me so much about this latest hop from job to job? Uncertainty. The Great Unkonwn. No guarantee that it will work. On the flip side, I know it will, that this kind of planned jettison (away from the stress, unpaid overtime, and seemingly endless wounds of corporate politicking and toward saner hours, reduced stress, more control over my life) is precisely what my embattled soul has needed, and now I am ready to embrace it.

Change was long overdue, and rolling along with it is one of things I have done so well time and time again. Yes, next week I will become one of those "work from home" people, the envy of so many office-dwelling employees, the telecommuter (a laughably inelegant word), a true Jersey Boy.

Funny. I used to feel self-conscious about carrying the Jersey Boys gym bag or coffee thermos, perhaps nervous about the attention it might bring my way. The layered ironies stemming from the fact that John and I, once quintessential Upper West Siders, have ourselves become "Jersey Boys" are seldom lost on me. But when I made the conscious choice to let go of my own acting career, I never really looked back. And yet, my husband still makes his living by working for producers of Broadway hits such as Jersey Boys, and to thicken the plot, he invested a small amount of money in the show, which continues to pay dividends.

That's a nice idea. Reaping the benefits of previous hard work. Resting after a long day. Dividends. And now I am proud to wear the schwag, to display the memorabilia surrounding a show that has helped me and John redefine our shared space, our home, and our ideas of success, no matter how humble. These things have become a part of me.

@ @ @

In 2 or 3 weeks I will be at the ocean. The earliest hints of Fall will start to reduce the sauna-like thickness of the air. I will swim in the salty cool living water that uplifts as it tosses you around like a toy. Then maybe I can begin to breathe normally again, relax completely, sleep long and undisturbed.

For now, though, angst and insomnia are my old friends coming for a visit yet again. They settle in so easily, find their usually hiding places in my head, and take root, unpack, party it up. I suppose knowing myself is the beginning of the remedy. Continuing to write also helps, even when the words do not come easily. And this morning, each one is being pushed out like a stubborn child refusing to be born, a boulder passing through a straw. Little miracles that bite as they manifest.

OK, maybe that metaphor was overly dramatic. But words, as much as I love them, seek to caress them, lull them into submission, still frequently escape my grasp. The Muse gets sluggish, the ink runs like molasses, and the tortoise with his Remington typewriter does laps around me.

Dark and Light. What has been missing from my words is the truth that I am starting on a very exciting new adventure. Underneath the panicky nerves and pessimistic habit, I am very hopeful, optimistic even. Something about this new way of working feels right, a reward that I have worked so hard to reach.

And now I also remember what courage is--feeling the fear and doing the thing that scares you anyway. My uncle once wrote that my bravery made him proud, in awe, envious. "Brave thing, I think I love you," he wrote in a letter to me a few months before he died. And so I outlived one of my heroes. In the letter, he was talking about the way I moved to Santa Fe for college, started over, made friends, and began to carve out a niche in a new world away from the comfortable predictable safety net of friends, family, home town.

What I wish I could have told him back then was that his example was one of my most cherished inspirations. He had moved to the biggest baddest city in the US and he had conquered it. So I knew I could do the same thing, starting on a smaller scale and working my way up to the Big Apple, just as he did.

So courage then, is what I remember having had, and therefore, what I know I can have again. But I still miss him (Brent), my dad, others long gone. And I am still afraid of change: beginnings and endings and becomings. And still I breathe and write and pray and hope and wait. And try to find solace in the stillness, rest within the restlessness, sleep within the hot haze of August. Words to fill the box. Distractions from the course I know I must take. Detours. Road signs. Turn. This way. Now.

There was a list of things in my brain...

2010-07-31T07:57:00.004-04:00

My brain holds a lot of information, lately related to a work project that has me researching the inner structure and mechanisms of the human kidney. It's fascinating stuff. The organs and systems of the body seem to me to have been made with such a strong sense of purpose, attention to detail, and even an eye for proportion, form seamlessly tied to function, and beauty, economy, simplicity too.

Naturally that last statement points me in the direction of a potential designer... some master artisan in charge of making everything. And that brings me to the whole God question. I look at the details of the natural world, and I am immediately drawn to the notion that there is brilliant architecture, engineering, thought, and yes, purpose and reason behind these wonderful structures, large and small: the stars and moon and sun, the pores on John's face, the intricate markings of brown and white in Daisy's coat, a perfectly contained and sadly, easily damaged ecosystem, the components of a layer of tissue, receptors within a single cell, atoms, subatomic particles, light, energy, waves, electromagnetic pulses. All working together in their own ways and to serve a higher purpose.

The skeptic and agnostic in me points out that all these wonderful things simply are: matter is neither created nor destroyed, and it is the very idea of a purpose in the grand sense that we/I have invented to comfort our own fears. A figment of human imagination, based on an age-old need and temptation to place order upon the chaos that is, to fill the perceived void that meaninglessness leaves us with.

The exercise in the post-EST cult was called, "Life is Empty and Meaningless." I saw it as a way of tuning into our inner monologue, the critic, commentator, the voice inside all our heads that meditation seeks to slow down a bit. Along with "What happened vs Our interpretation of what happened," the objective was to be able to distinguish reality from the drama we create and mistakenly think is real. And they were powerful exercises. Of course I was 20 years old when I attended all those seminars. So, in some ways, I was just a little sponge emotionally and intellectually. Perhaps the only point is that I attended and that I remember the insights today.

So, the meaning comes from us, then, and we have to take responsibility for all the stories about reality that we have concocted. Of course, this does not fully gibe with my own experience, because I have a deep, abiding, and strong sense of spirituality, wonderment, and wisdom. Whether meaning is assigned by us or is innate to us, I have found meaning and purpose in my life so far.

Part of this personal philosophy is based on shared experience, too, because I do not live in a vacuum or on an island, although Manhattan had many vacuums. Now I live across the river, on the continent of North America, and continents are just massive islands...

No, it is the people I have known and loved and lost and found who contribute greatly to my spiritualism, along with those wonderful connections with nature, sometimes in solitude but more often with others. The conversation I had with my Uncle a few weeks after he died is just one of many examples, and believe me, I do not consider myself a superstitious, New Age psychic, nor am I into touching base with the afterlife on a regular basis. In fact, I laughed long and hard at the South Park episode that poked fun at the guy with the TV show who talked to audience member's dead friends and relatives.

Nevertheless, my uncle paid me a visit, I felt him in the room with me, and I spoke aloud to the chair that had moved from one location before I went to sleep to another when I awoke. And this was no dream. I said good-bye, that I loved him and missed him. Then I said, "You have to go back now.
You cannot stay here." And he did.

And so a part of me knows there is more to the world than matter, the stuff that fills the world. I believe in reincarnation, and I think Plato's conception of the great wheel is the most apt and beautiful way to characterize how it all works, although I am familiar with Eastern notions of karma, dharma, and Bodhisattvas, and these are not so different from the Greeks. Naturally, since I was raised as a Catholic, my love of the Ancient Greeks set up a series of mental conflicts between monotheism and polytheism.

Perhaps the answer lies in a sign painted on the outside of a yoga studio near the GLBT Center downtown: Paths are many. Truth is one. I feel as if I have traveled many paths in my life, but the concept of Oneness has always struck me as attractive, right, real, powerful.

In Hesse's story of the Buddha, Siddhartha stands on the riverbank, his years of asceticism, meditation, questing, and searching have brought him here, and it all culminates in a revelatory moment. The epiphany he has is that the water he watches, flowing constantly downstream, is not just intimately connected to every raindrop, the seas, lakes, moisture everywhere, but it is one with it. All water is one.

Last night in my dreams I heard the sound of rain. Rain falling, water splashing into the land, just as it does on the beach, tears falling and drying, clouds weeping and stopping, all connected, all one. The song that my brother wrote and sang at our wedding was, "All in One."

My other favorite writers in school, Plotinus, Leibniz, Epictetus, also wrote about this idea: monads were at once particles of the one and mirrors, waiting for us to look into ourselves, into others, into science, nature. Atoms are at once particle and wave. They move but not through space, through energy. They are charged with electricity, perhaps spirit too.

And now I remember where I was going with the all those tiny tubes inside the kidneys and perfecting ways to write about God that ring true for me: science and religion should also be one, but our culture gains much from keeping them separate. We compartmentalize as a way of organizing the world. Adam gave names to the animals, and we also have names like Evolution and Creationism.

As a gay man in today's world, I am naturally skeptical of so many forms of organized religion, because they see me in their own narrow light. And yet, I am a spiritual person by nature. I think those so-called museums showing dinosaurs preceding humans by a few years or decades are laughable at best. I think there are likely scientists who hide behind the mask of detachment, and I can understand the allure. Detachment is a component of observational theory, in spite of the idea that the observer always changes what is being observed.

In medicine, even the word, "alternative" implies that centuries of the healing arts and cold hard modern science must somehow be separated. The model could use a refresh if you ask me, an update. And I'm talking more about a paradigm shift in ideas more so than the recent polarizing political machinations of health-care reform, although I think some proponents also believe in the kind of shift I'm alluding to here.

The list of things in my head is blurry now. I wanted to write about my dreams: all about change is how John interpreted them for me. Kidney science and Godscience and Healing Science. Mysticism and philosophy. Fear of the emptiness, love of Nature, books about atomic theory and spirituality too... All on my list today.

So I am grateful for my life with John and the dogs, for my brother whose poetry and musical talent beautifully encapsulated one of my lifelong mystical beliefs (that seeing the oneness in everything and everyone is powerful). I am grateful for my education, even my work that allows me to study science mostly at my own pace. I am grateful for my brain and the ability to group, name, organize things.

It is a wealth of blessings that I list here, at the end of today's post, and still I hesitate to close. I am afraid of finishing things. Endings can be hard. But the ending is the beginning, isn't it. Amen.

Absence of Mind: Review and Video
http://www.thedailyshow.com/videos/tag/science

Tilling the soil

2010-03-31T01:41:00.002-04:00

Fallow is a word that describes the opposite of fertile ground, and this temporary feeling of creative sterility may have something to do with the wet windy conditions outside, which is ironic, since all the rain will make for richer growth in days to come, at least "out there."

"In here" I hear only the voice of fear, or at least the echoes it leaves as the fear leaves me.

Fear of what, though? Success and failure are the traditional shadows haunting my psyche. Two extremes on a subjective scale that I rarely use to judge myself fairly. More often I am a harsh self-critic, quick to remind myself of shortcomings, slow to celebrate personal triumphs.

I hear a voice correcting myself. It used to be the voice of an elder, teacher, parent, but I have adopted it as my own, no matter how subtly I can hear it inside. The voice is mine, but also tricks me into thinking it is a memory, that I am not in charge of my own mind, but that someone or something else is pulling the strings, raising levers, pushing buttons, spinning gears.

Suddenly I long to be a farmer, working the earth with my hands, for work helps one process these conflicts. And my work as a writer? Where does that fit in? I get so used to telling myself that I want to be a writer that I sometimes forget--I am a writer. Granted, the subject matter I am paid handsomely to craft is not "the novel" I sometimes tell myself I'm in the mental process of composing. But I am a professional writer.

My name doesn't necessarily appear on the materials I put my creative energy into, but that's hardly the source of my own ambivalence. Rather, I wonder if desiring more than the status quo isn't simply human nature, and part of the fuel I use to motivate myself to get the job done, to move forward somehow.... Not even sure if these sentences are making sense.

Not even. Odd then. Oddities excite me--coincidences hinting at a higher power at play in our everyday lives, signs of Platonic Forms or Jungian Archetypes or Astrological Creatures guiding our way, if only we can crack the code. Chance is a construct that doesn't inspire me, but would I be who I am if I didn't admit here and now that 40 minutes ago, I prayed for a Muse?

And Muses must also be constructs, but they are the ones I prefer. Chance is too risky and vague. Muses have a purpose.

Still, it is late at night, sleep is elusive, and the longer I'm awake the more difficult my Thursday will be....

As I listen here on the sofa, remnants of the storm and the occasional car wheels on wet pavement reach my ears from the windows and I recall how rain has been a Muse to me on many occasions. One of the first short stories I ever submitted for publication was "Other Blues," a meditation on themes of loss and redemption, the kind of sleep you get only when it rains softly outside your bedroom window, the stops and starts of twenty-something desires and romances, the road trip to LA when I slept near but not with my Beloved at the time, only to wake to an aftershock of the Northridge quake, etc. etc. It was a loose narrative, drenched in sentimentality and premature nostalgia, for in my writing I am a wise old man, wistful, serene, omniscient.

But back here in the present, the laptop is warm, my arms are getting tired, and I long for sleep. May the Muses visit me in peace as I slumber.

Insomnia

2009-09-06T02:46:00.004-04:00

Sleep. Who needs it, really? We all do, I suppose, but it's always been in the timing, or off-timing, for me.

I haven't written anything here since March. Since then, I went skiing in the Alps, started a new job, and I have been planning the wedding to/with/for John, the one person above all else who keeps me sane, in spite of things like insomnia.

And my nervousness about the wedding as an event that we are both planning from afar, this is one of the things keeping me up at all hours. That and sleeping too much during the day, forgetting to taper off the caffeine earlier in the afternoon, and my own brain, which seems to kick into high gear when much of the world is sleeping. Maybe my sleeping takes the form of awakening, not dissimilar from the protagonist in Brazil, one of my all-time favorite films, which I stayed up to watch late last night.

Alienation from the self is the theme I contemplated on this viewing. It's one of those brilliant pieces of art that has layers of resonance, a kind of cinematic gold leaf that you can peel back, view from different vantage points, and still make new discoveries each time.

So as I followed the now familiar (20 is the estimated number of times I've watched Brazil) story of Sam Lowry and his misadventures in love, anti-terrorism, and the struggle to find, or possibly misplace himself in a dystopic world, I see the parallel lines. On the personal level, you never see Sam asleep in the normal venue of a bed. Instead, he wakes up suddenly from the intricate dreams in which he battles several onslaughts of fear-mongering humanoids, and it is usually a place like his puny office or on the elevated tram that he realizes he has slept. Or has he?

The interwoven story lines, the false endings, and the final ending where we see him surrendering utterly to a kind of drooling delirium where he has slipped the bonds of reality, all cause the viewer to question what was real, what was dream, nightmare, farce, satire, fantasy, self-delusion, memory, flashback, or "final ending" before the credits roll.

And the disconnectedness of that questioning is the point I think. The world is a mad place in which connections between people can be dangerous. The ducts that are supposed to keep Sam comfortable in his own home, the pneumatic tubes Sam clogs up when he cannot keep up with the arrivals of memos, these are external manifestations of patches between man and machine, man and his fellow man, and between his sane self, and the mask he must wear to survive in a dangerously chaotic, class-rigid, totalitarian society. These connections, like arteries, veins, nerves, relationships, once severed, are difficult to replace.

Even more difficult is the lack of an omniscient narrator, whose point of view would at least allow us the comfortable luxury of choosing between several interpretations of what happens to Sam, Buttle, Tuttle, Jill, and the other characters.

On the level of satire, Brazil makes its most brilliant work in broad strokes as well as beautifully crafted details. The dizzying backdrop of mixed metaphors, (the highway signs obscuring the view of the toxic landscapes, the propaganda posters, signage, and menacing architecture, the shine on the helmets of the security guards in Sam's new workplace). They all add up to a biting, precise, and utterly charming if not hypnotic mixture of social commentary, slapstick, tragedy, and the blackest form of comedy: self-loathing wrapped up with the kind of ribbon only British writers could develop.

And the parallel between self-disconnection and societal self-disconnection is complete within the satire. Both man and the system are joined irrevocably in a power struggle between structure and freedom, practicality and whimsy, necessity and fantasy. It is an age-old struggle, but each time I watch I find myself rooting for Sam while I also feel sorry for his misguided Quixotic journey, and at times, I am jealous of his ability to make his dreams come true. After all, isn't that what we all want?

Am I on the water or in the water?

2009-03-04T01:04:00.005-05:00

Spinning around on a circular raft, waves crashing down from all directions, stormy winds buffeting my crumpled frame...

This is where I am when you wake me to say that the dogs miss me and that there's coffee made...

And in the moment between nightmares and reality I feel confusion and relief. My bed is not moving, but my body must have been...

It was just a dream, I tell myself as I stir and rise, but I only half believe it.

Like my brother, I have an emotional and physical vigilance that borders on obsession and it is all part of the armor-making that protected us from being crushed by our own grief, anger, fear, pain, sadness, and loss... when we were too young to use rational thought and other tools of adulthood to put it all into perspective.

But we are not boys. Just as the bed was not moving. It was a self-inflicted illusion, anxiety left over from a long-ago past. Ripples from a stone sank and broken down into gravel by now.

And life here with John and the furry ones is stable and calm and reliable, and we are preparing for the new adventure of marriage. A new context. And naturally this scares the crap out of me.

And still we prepare. And again my dreams shift. Today it is enough for me to have a few loved ones who occasionally read these posts, or not, because I do not need to prove anything to myself or to the world. At least not right now.

The answers I seek may still elude me, some of them, but when you live for what is now, letting go of the clawing of desire, the asking falls away into something else entirely.

My ability to engage in critical thinking is and will likely always be something I take pride in, but it cannot always be an end to itself. It has a place and a time.

I have been thinking about existentialism lately, and as with many things, so much of my view of this troublesome post-modern philosophy depends on interpretation. To observe that life has stunning paradoxes, a pattern of built-in irony, and an undeniable level of absurdity is not quite the same as saying that life is a cruel joke to be endured through cynically gritted teeth.

If absurdity is the premise, then the irony-filled battles against the joke are only one way to interpret the truth. For me, it is becoming enough to appreciate the occasional ironies, whether they are painful or comical, without throwing away the possibilities that might exist given the fact that some of the rules are rigged. Not all the rules point you down a path of self-defeat.

So perhaps in a Hegelian turnaround, I have finally come to terms with all the little existentialist tyrants, children, fools, kings, and entertainers in my own head. And somehow I have grown beyond them by embracing what they all have in common. Struggle is the nature of modern life, but it is not everything there is in life. Human experience is fully capable of embracing the array of possibilities.

And I am back in a conundrum. And that is part of the premise! So I am back on a spinning boat, at the mercy of the waves, but I also have oar, compass, memory, perhaps even the rare sea creature to help me through.

And so it goes. Woosh!

Fever dreams

2009-01-31T11:39:00.012-05:00

He could see the towers from Williamsburg, hovering above the houses in the foreground like twin magnetic beacons, pulling him toward the city, calling to him is some primal way. That skyline pulled him in, held for him a future, a purpose, the seduction of a lifetime. He didn't think of the cost, he only ached to turn himself into something new, someone unrecognizable to his former self.

He did not move away from home to live in a Brooklyn neighborhood that time forgot. He moved here to dive off the edge of the rest of the country and into Manhattan, into the new self he longed to invent out of nothing, or at least out of the ashes of his other life.

It was 1995. He was young and had nothing to lose, at least nothing material, except the contents of a suitcase. New York was the metal-shaper's block around which he would fashion himself, define what and who he would be. He was someone, but he wanted to be someone envied by other New Yorkers, accepted as a someone other than the someone who moved there and crashed on friend's sofas and floors until he could get an apartment and a cot... that was the year he sent holiday cards he had re-fashioned and decorated after buying a few generic boxes from the local mega-pharmacy by the always crowded subway station and the bank where he kept his modest earnings.

Tonight all he could think about was the fact that as cool as NYC was, it didn't have an art supply store that was open all night. Were he a more motivated man, he would start his own business to cater to those overlooked, untapped insomniac artists. Surely in a city famous for not sleeping it would be a success, but he also knew that NYC is a self-drawn Etch A Sketch that likes to clear away its own designs and institutions at times, shaking off the old for the new and the new for the old. And so it is that the city has a life all its own, an amalgamation of all its residents but also something other. A force of its own nature. A shape-shifting experiment in humanity and physical space.

And that was all. He could entertain the notion of a new business, but he could not transform it into anything more than another daydream, or in this case, another post-midnight dream, waking and half sleeping and full of halves of whole thoughts, ideas, plans, desires... full of the pain of knowing his own limitations intimately, and giving up the fight to stretch them.

Still, he had moments of grace when he thanked God, Buddha, Allah, the Universe, Higher Power, whatever he was calling it that week, for all the gifts he enjoyed, the love of friends and family, of husband and dogs, all the positives stacked in his favor, the warm healing glow in which he occasionally allowed himself to bask. And he was able to know those moments too, and even extend them when he was aware enough, focused and present and ready.

The sparkling glimpse of hot silvery stars in the freezing navy blue night sky as he dragged all his portfolios and briefcases and winter accessories out of the car after a long day of gym-work and job interviews, this was a brief moment of recognition that, even if he had lost his way, there was a path somewhere to rejoin, and this path intersected with him in the present. In the now. And then the moment flickered out like the star beneath the deep February cloud, jockeying for position in the heavens, tormented by the desire to fling snow down on everyone and the desire to build bigger versions of itself, a gathering storm in training, a hatching factory for deadly blizzards and paralyzing ice storms. Or, was it he who allowed the happy moment to pass away too quickly? Did he in fact banish it?

Feelings required energy, and he was tired as he rummaged through the drawers of his makeshift painting studio for anything resembling yellow, even amber would suffice, and yet, he remembered that he used all his yellow in the last painting, with its swirling pools of color and its prominent phallic shape dominating the composition. But this was an ethereal cock, if there could be such a thing.

It had neither depth nor weight. It simply floated in the alternative landscape of his experimentation in acrylic. Like a ghost or a totem, pointing up to the ceiling like a road sign from a lost civilization of acid-dropping penis-worshiping impressionists. Van Gogh vs Haight Ashbury, with just enough Willliam S. Bourroughs tossed into the blender to make the viewer both intellectually titillated as viscerally off-center.

And that was his yellow-hogging mural, a paean to never-existent gods, a pictorial rendering of one of his own obsessions, abstracted from the canny truth of experience and struggle and lust. Just a shadow of a symbol for his so-called sexual orientation, as if sex were to be mapped and navigated by the direction of one's needs and desires...

And now a song comes on the computer that reminds him of old friends, an unforgettable car ride with Mollee when he leaned his head out the window to feel the brisk air pushing against his skin and hair, and his friend, ever a cautious driver, begging him to return to the safe confines of the inside of the vehicle.

And so reluctantly, he rejoined the real world, the confines of which chafed his spirit and also challenged him to succeed, to make it in the big bad city, to prove what though? To prove to himself that he could do it?

That was a part of it, sure. But what else drove him through those first intolerable winters? The notion of destiny waiting to be discovered. And yes, he knew how corny that sounded, and yet, that's as close as he came to explaining his motives.

Verses bereft of structure

2009-01-18T03:01:00.006-05:00

Gripped in my left hand
Two leashes, two dogs, same breed
Silent salvation

Saving up all my fluency
For a time and place
Where people may need it

I may need it more.
The plane floated in the river
Where am I floating?
My current insensible
Waits.

Poetry doesn't really salve the wounds this morning, as my insomnia seems both symptom and cause of something much more complicated. A series of mishaps, maybe, fumbling around with my own flaws. Drumming the ground for some rhythm, the symbols for which were lost in the flames.

Images criss-cross and disconnect me. I missed a party tonight, opting for domestic stillness with my 3 loved ones. Still, the restlessness within me lurks, threatening to undermine what little stability I have left.

All I need to regrow the sanity in my heart is a look around, and a bit of gratitude. And understanding. My mother understands me too well, and it unnerves me how right she can be. But she wants me to crawl out of the funk. She has given me explicit instructions. They are not written in my own language, yet they are sound. The theme is resonant.

It is hard to be friends with others when you have such enmity with yourself. And I am at war here, my psyche is split, agitated, raw. Splicing myself into parts, I wield weapons of self-defeat and self-aggrandizing and swing them both every which way but free.

Free indeed. Trapped is how I feel. Embedded in a scenario that I wrote, unable to perform the whole play and be done with it, half-solid and half-ethereal, fish-goat, stubborn swimmer, aquatic mountain climbing gentle giant with fins and horns and no owner's manual for either. Only impulses at cross purposes with needs, desires juxtaposed against practicalities, mud drenching the clear washing away of conscience. Lady Macbeth in a Laundromat with coins stuck to the blood on her fingers, and detergent blinding her eyes from the truth. Washing away from herself, she cries out for help but there is no one.

And that is just the beginning. So writing is necessary evil and leaden with half-hopes. Writing may be the one thing I can commit to, but it seems a hollow victory. Letting myself win at anything is not easy, actually. Maybe that kernel of knowledge is where I should stop. To commit to write and to try on the win as if it were a comfortable suit, success at being me, accepting the whole of me, relaxing enough to start caring again. To start a new game.

fda, some stray bits of dialogue, and very non-chronological thinking

2008-12-18T14:07:00.010-05:00

for you regular readers (are there actually 4 of you now?), i apologize for avoiding upper case and playing fast and loose with punctuation, grammar, or proper sentence structure in this latest rambling post. but just in case you had not heard the news flash, here's my campy re-write of the headline, or maybe it's the local anchor doing a promo for an upcoming news expose.

"....enigmatic queen quits job and takes an ill-timed vacation. how does this affect your morning commute? we'll tell you how to keep your children safe on Action News at eleven."

* * *

so i'm back at my hotel room in amsterdam. the room i'm staying in is clean and quiet; it looks similar to the ones here, only much smaller (ahh yes, the optical illusions inherent in surfing the Web for an affordable room on another continent from the one where you currently reside).

the tiny efficiency of the hotel room, and the fact that you decide not to complain about the size, speaks to your willingness to stretch your imagination and be flexible, just for a change of pace...

...and i'm trying to figure out what to do for dinner, because i'm starting to get a little hungry, and since the hotel doesn't serve dinner, "grazing" for the evening meal will require effort and energy on my part (i would have to put shoes back on my buzzing feet and get off my behind), and all the sight-seeing (the Reichtsmuseum* will be unimaginably stunning once the whole thing is open), pot smoking, and conversation with a very witty retired spanish teacher from palm springs california has made me very pleasantly sleepy, and as i unpack my trusty cocoa brown leather bag, i notice the large, mostly uneaten "space cake," and this little "conversation" happens inside my head:

self 1: well, since you are hungry, you could have some cake...
self 2: that's true, and you know i'm a sucker for chocolate baked goods, however, i think that thing qualifies more as a drug than a food...

and then, because i am an ex-medical writer, perhaps, i wonder how the food and drug administration (fda) would classify this almost delicious, but slightly grassy-tasting confection of sugar, eggs, flour, cocoa powder, and butter or shortening which has acquired the THC from the pot by some kind of sauteing process that i would likely never master no matter how many times i tried.

notice that it's not called the "food or drug administration." maybe the government has exploited a weak spot in the language. maybe they are onto something there. i suppose food, like sex, can be used and/or abused in the same way as drugs can... maybe the fda (and all those pharma ad agencies who have helped me support my self and my family in recent years) stands to benefit if pharmaceuticals and prescription drugs become assimilated into foodie culture. imagine a nice nuclear family gathered around a dinner table. maybe it's thanksgiving or christmas dinner. maybe kwanzaa or hannukah dinner:

mikey: son, someday you too will learn the fine art of carving up an anti-depressant before supper.

cora: don't pressure him honey. everyone has their own path.

flint: dad, face it, he's just not that into drugs. i personally cannot imagine life without my bladder control medication, mood stabilizer, and occasional cup of lithium with lemon, but he's just made differently. maybe he has a different genetic code, or he's just trying to stand out and be different. mommy's little boy could end up being the Plain Sane type.

bo: don't call me that!

*Reichmuseum site.
** Picture this: a tall blonde about to eat space cake...
i name this post non-chronological because the one i started to write yesterday is sitting inside a Word document on my laptop, awaiting its chance to be uploaded for the continued enjoyment of all both of my regular readers. i just had to jot down the little debate about how the US Government would classify the dense marijuana cake resting patiently in my chocolate-brown leather messenger bag...

Food and/or Drug Administration!!! You just add 1 word and a forward slash, and let the reader decide which is more appropriate. this might be construed as a liberal interpretation, but it may just hit the spot. if the wooden shoe and/or the social tolerance fits, wear it! and wear it with pride in your soul. spread that around and you have some good magic.

* * *

that whole fda tangent sure seemed witty at the time. we'll see how it reads when i get back to the land of normalcy and drug laws and active job hunting. maybe then it will seem trite, but for now, i am amused.

* * *

It's times like these when I wish Hallmark or American Greetings made a touching but also sweetly poignant "Mom, Sorry I ran off to Amsterdam Instead of Looking for a New Job in the US card. Would it be best to give it to her in person or use an AeroGram, or maybe even an AaroGram, so it's even more personalized. There used to be a certain kind of Air Mail letter that folds up into its own envelope... the paper is thin and therefore green in the ecological sense. the actual color of the paper was blue. If you were in a pinch, I suppose you could even use the paper to roll a joint. However, I don't recommend this strictly hypothetical tactic for 2 reasons:

1) Your mother may want to save the letter for posterity, assuming she gets it.
2) The ink may contain chemicals that are harmful to humans if they enter the lungs with just the right mixture of oxygen, THC, and an ever-stronger desire for escapism.

I DO love that woman, and not just because she delivered me into the world, but because she wants me to be a good man, and to stay in the world a long time, and she wants me to contribute and help people while finding my own happiness. She is also my hero in so many ways, and I think I used to be afraid to admit that. We are alike and we are different, but somehow we complement each other, even if we don't always agree.

so i'm feeling much better about the future, even though my plan still needs some fine-tuning. the talk with mom really helped. love u mamacita! i will see you very soon, but not yet.

* * *

scattering to the winds

2008-12-15T03:18:00.002-05:00

parts of myself are already flying away now.

perfect language yesterday on the stage. equus vibrated through me like the final tolls of a chilling bell.

am i taking this next trip for self-defeating reasons? am i my own worst enemy?

thoughts collide with desires breeze past reason and cause.

the poor psychiatrist is left imprisoned by the god he removes from alan's psyche.

the little warrior inside me is maimed, fortified by the taste of blood, but whose?

do i really need to lose myself to find whatever's left of my own dreams?

do i really have a choice?

i need this and it is risky.

i want this penultimate fantasy trip and i am afraid of the wanting that i have left myself in charge of.

change is inevitable, and change is what drives me now. following it around like a stalker, i scream out my readiness, but stutter, my lips quiver, mt heart beats against by ribcage like a madman in jail, shaking the bars of his cell.

and so i know that i am no more ready for change than i am ready for criticism. and i am weak with fear and i am traveling anyway, for through the running away, i hope to find something more than what i left behind.

Pink vision

2008-12-09T02:50:00.005-05:00

Pink sky outside the lie of the mind's eye.
Winter cold subsides as the laptop warms my thighs.

Famous verses flicker dimly in the cavernous rewinds.
You cannot go back there, the pink sky swears to me.

You cannot go back.

Chatter in my head. Is that what keeps me awake, or is it the part of myself spying on the chatter, waiting to see how it plays out, waiting for the crescendo in the conversation, the ultimate moment of chit-chat when everything slows down to a stillness in the breath beneath the noise, the quick inhale before the strident note is sung?

Penultimate hero. Semi-requited love. On the verge of going somewhere wonderful.

This is where my world crashes into my perception: in the silence of the snow-bereft skies above. Starless misty chill coats the atmosphere until. Crackling Dawn breaks the ether into hard lines and soft memory of the night before. The night. The mourning after the night before.

Eyes watch from inside, watch from above. Irises made of crystals, the beginning of ice solidifying somewhere beneath the surface of the visible world. Bonds forming. Reactions slowing. Colors changing into themselves. And again I watch, always looking up and out, as if the answers would be spelled there, just beyond the bare tree limb, like a dead witch hand reaching without moving.

Between the fingers there is the beginning of something and the ending. Have you ever felt left? Right in the middle of your life. Left behind. Just left...? That's right. I knew you knew the melody of the quiet jazz trumpet muted by its own doleful cries.

There is beauty in the stillness of winter nights when you're up way too late and there's nothing to do but string words together, carelessly braiding them however they seem to fit. For the words have their own life. I'm just a barren weaver, and the better I get at making intricate patterns match up with what's going on inside me, the more out of touch I am with the feeling of the cloth itself, the fabric of each syllable collapses under my rigid fingertips until I become the tree, dead and reaching ever upward without moving.

Slicing the pink icing into thirds and fourths for the next hungry soul who comes along this way...

I ride along an invisible sleigh through the pink paradise. My frozen body sticking to the metal, I become crystals and the wind sings through my hollowness. Echoes are my only feeling, for the pink starry night has burst into a million tiny snowflakes. But you cannot see them yet. Above the urban glow and below the black they float, microscopic and patient. They crave moisture and cold and as I freeze into them they fly faster toward a tree branch, a little boy's nose, a sleepy cemetery. And all is quiet.

Coming Down the Mountain

2008-11-30T04:54:00.001-05:00

He never got the chance to go skiing with his father, although they rode a roller coaster together once, when he was nine years old, just a few short months before that early fall day when everything changed, when he, the boy, suddenly became the man of the house, and the sharp metallic taste of cold, cruel-seeming reality tainted whatever was left of his childlike innocence and wonder, like cotton candy suddenly doused in gasoline....

The roller coaster was aptly named Mister Twister. Full of sharp turns, lurching hills and stomach-fluttering drops, it had everything a budding adrenaline junkie could want while clutching onto his father for dear sweet life. It even had a pitch-black tunnel, the shock of which was only amplified by the echo of the screams of fellow coaster riders.

Mister Twister was the newer and larger of two old wooden coasters at the original Elitch’s, a historic amusement park in a low-rent neighborhood of downtown Denver located many miles away from the modest lawns and neat tract houses of the suburbs where they all played as kids.

In his adult life, skiing had become for him a form of prayer and meditation, a solitary communion with nature, but also a deep and gentle conversation with his father.

Out there, alone, facing the crystalline beauty of the Western expanses that his dad had only started to teach him to respect, he could say his hellos and goodbyes.

Looking back on the near miss when he felt his life could have easily been snatched away by a patch of clear-ice-covered rock the diameter of a backyard swimming pool, three-fourths of the way down an unmarked run in the eerily named Killington, Vermont, he knew his father had intervened, because the moment he realized he was still alive, though where his right ski was or whether his right leg was broken he didn’t know, he was whispering his father’s name as if in solemn prayer. Again and again he spoke out to the wilderness, to anyone who could hear, “Thank you.” And, so as not to take lightly what had been given, or what could have been taken away, starting that day, he started wearing a helmet each and every time he hit the slopes. Religiously. But he also kept the ski pants with the giant rip in the thigh as a badge of honor.

His own spirituality had always been a happy amalgam of self-interpreted folklore, spiced with a poetic sense of the vitality found within his experiential connection to others, and to the world of nature, as on a sunlit morning when the freshly fallen pow-pow forms a blanket around the visible world, when all thought, worry, action, and stress melts into the simplicity of parallel turns, hourglasses marking the stopping of time, the unmistakable sound of snow connecting with his edges as he carves his way down the mountain, taking care to breathe in deeply while taking breaks to gaze out across those perfect vistas, a living painting which slowly reveals itself when the chairlift peeks up above the clouds, or when he turns and sees the valley below, tiny specks of cars, trees, a bit of gray tape that must be the road...

He longed for that perfect powder day just as he had longed for his late father, so it made sense in a way that the two longings would intertwine and find some reconciliation there, on any mountain where he could find himself a fresh track or two. The metallic tinge of tragic irony was that his father was a highly gifted and passionate skier. He knew this only by piecing together accounts of his old man’s tree-bashing adventures, and as time wore on, the people who were actually there with the old man were themselves aging and dying, so that memory turned to impression turned to feeling. So he felt that his father must have been a great skier, and occasionally people would confirm this feeling with a third-hand story of a broken leg, a great run, laughter on the slopes, for laughter is also what he sought out, almost as much as he sought the peaceful abandon of skiing in silence, alone with the spirit of his father, and perhaps of many forefathers before him.

Laughter could be savored on the way up, in gondolas, on chair lifts, during lunch in the lodge or over a beer after the last lift closed. And some of his greatest laughs happened in those situations, and yet, skiing would remain a solitary pursuit, at least until he met someone who understood, whose hourglasses wouldn’t break his own timeless counting, the rhythm of a heartbeat pounding on all the open space, the sense of floating across an expanse of pure nothingness, gently following gravity toward the inevitable, falling downward without losing balance, but willingly losing worries along the way.

Following the Stream

2008-10-30T18:24:00.015-04:00

I'm attending a work-related conference in Chicago the weekend before Thanksgiving, so I looked up some familiar places online, which led me from Web site to idea to name to Web site, with lots of twists and turns along the way.

Chicago will always remind me of the time I spent in the Benign Cult that evolved from Werner Erhard's infamous est seminars, but it also reminds me of my late aunt Mary and late uncle Mike O'Hara, who were my gracious hosts at their cozy house in Glenview, IL.

This was a time when I was still furiously nursing the bite of the acting bug, which my aunt fully supported. "You gotta go chase your dream," she said to me in the parking lot of her local grocery store, where we bought a baguette and a wheel of Maytag blue cheese for an appetizer. "And do it now, while you're young."

Aunt Mary was a gourmet in every sense of the word, and she spun magic into every meal. Every bite of her cooking was awe-inspiring, even more so because she accomplished these feats of kitchen magic within the confines of a space the size of some walk-in closets I've seen.

Our family circulated her recipes, along with those of her two sisters, my maternal grandmother Marilyn and my aunt Betty. All three sisters had the gift of culinary creation that went far beyond making delicious food. It was food prepared with a pure kind of love. With care, patience, and devotion. I remember watching my grandmother scramble eggs and fry pork chops and chicken, thinking somewhat foolishly that I would pick up some of her secrets merely by observing the master at work.

I cook every few years, just to prove to myself that I'm not completely useless in the kitchen, but otherwise, I warm things up. When I stood in my grandma's kitchen and watched her, I remember wondering what made her scrambled eggs so perfect, so transcendental. And I never discovered what it was. I can only guess that it was something about her, some innate talent that no recipe could ever duplicate nor student ever learn.

It's probably no surprise that my aunt, Marilyn's youngest daughter, married a chef. He too has the gift, and yet, I don't think of him as a magician the same way that I revered Grandma Foley. Magic is a fleeting power, and my uncle is the ultimate pragmatist. He scares magic away with the weight of his own talent, his earthy wisdom. On the other hand, unlike my grandmother, my uncle has been able to pass on some of his knowledge and skill to his son, my cousin.

In my family, food is comfort, companionship, nourishment, entertainment, sharing. Food is not the excuse for coming together. It is the reason for coming together. So it is comforting that my cousin is passing on the tradition, taking up the torch. And I think he and our grandma share a birthday. Cycles and circles. Children and parents. Teachers and pupils. Nature and god and man.

Perhaps this magical culinary alchemy unique to my grandmother and her two sisters stemmed in part from their sense of innocence and child-like wonder. They were all three open-minded, warm and nurturing women in their unique ways. So perhaps they were channeling the magic by being open to it.

The first time I went to Chicago, my aunt and uncle told me I had to go to the Institute of Art. They even gave me directions by train and dropped me off at their local station. To me, this place was synonymous with the scene from Ferris Bueller's Day Off when the 3 main characters go to the Institute... and in the background is an instrumental version of "Please Please Please...." by The Smiths. So how could I not have a good time there? A contemplative time, I mean.

I saw Georgia O'Keeffe's Clouds, which I'm sure reminded me of Santa Fe, and the college life I had left behind (my grandma persuaded me to go back and finish a year later).

I saw Sunday in the Park, which I adored, but what really stands out in bold relief is seeing my first Van Gogh painting up close. I don't even remember which one it was, maybe one of his still lifes, but it stirred such strong emotion in me that I cried, as if I was greeting a lost friend after a very long and painful absence. I experienced those pangs similar to first love, stage fright, crushing grief intermingled with abundant joy... almost like the wings of the Lover in the Phaedrus when he first really looks into the eyes of his Beloved.

It's no wonder I'm such an avowed Platonist, because this is one of many times when I've actually experienced epiphany as a recollection, a palpable, oddly disquieting and exhilarating sense of deja vous, a feeling of having been there before. Like my Grandma Foley, Plato also believed in reincarnation. The soul is immortal, but its experiences, old and new, are echoes of the eternal forms or absolutes, and we are all longing to return to the place at the top of the heavens where we can look at Beauty, Truth, and Justice with unfettered vision and un-muddied wings.

No matter how much philosophy I read that came after Plato, none seemed to fit quite as well with my own experience as his...

So, just now I browsed through the Institute of Art Web site, already making plans for my second-ever visit... and then I remembered another cultural institution that my uncle took me to.

He drove me to the Baha'i temple, where we got out and walked around the gardens. He told me that he occasionally went inside just to soak up the silence and peace of the place. What my uncle Mike liked about this religion was that it embraced all religions and advocated unity and peace.

So, on my past-is-prologue Web tour, I learned that the Baha'i faith also embraces several prophets: Jesus, Buddha, and Zoroaster. I typed the third name into my search engine, and that's when I landed in some very interesting virtual "places," and learned that Zoroaster is another name for Zarathustra, the character from Nietzche's novel. I think one of my college friends wrote her senior thesis on this book, even though Beyond Good and Evil was the only required Nietzche read.

More interesting was the revelation that the iconic opening song from the seminal sci fi flick, 2001: A Space Oddyssey, was named after and inspired by the Nietzche book. On the unabashedly New Age Web site that discussed the Kubrick film at great length, along with multiple other mystical topics, I read about zero points merging, a moment brought about by a special musical tone when the matter and anti-matter in one's souls come together, cancel one another out, and deprive you of your existence as you know it.

This reminds me of something I overheard at St. John's, namely that Aristotle proposed that every living soul has one sound, that if played or heard, will destroy it. I attempt to find more information on this third-hand theory, but instead find more New-Agey texts. Aristotle reminded me of Plato again, and the various allusions of the latter to the initiation into the Mysteries, perhaps when a boy begins to show hist first beard. So I began to look up word combinations like "ancient greek rites of passage," "ancient greek mysteries," "puberty and ancient greece," etc, which led to a brief stint of reading about Dionysian rites.... polytheism, mind alteration through alcohol, etc...

I learn that old Zoroaster was actually a monotheist (a rebellious position at the time), and he disapproved of the use of wine or mead in religious rituals. My rites of passage and Greek mysteries searches naturally led to Robert Bly and Joseph Campbell, who named one of his theories (the monomyth) after something from Finnegan's Wake by James Joyce. Is there a theme here? In high school we read Portrait of the Artist, and our teacher told us about stream of consciousness writing, so I look up that, too.

I remember bits and pieces of Hegel from college, and he was also interested in consciousness, but it was actually the psychological philosopher William James (I remember he wrote about mental thought patterns as physical 'grooves' inside the brain) who coined the phrase, "stream of consciousness." I don't remember how I came upon Thomas Mann, an author I know only by name. He wrote A Death in Venice (on my list), but he also wrote four related books about Joseph and his brothers from the Old Testament. William James Joyce... Joseph Campbell... I even came across a student's blog, a young guy who wrote posts about Hegel and says he's writing his thesis on Joseph. So it comes full circle. I decided to post a comment on this handsome young man's blog, but to do so I log in here, find my own blog, long neglected, and the wheels turn round and round. Joni Mitchell's Circle Game. The Great Wheel.

So the further down the stream I travel, the further upward in memory I go, and the water again, is one. The water waits for me. It unifies everything, like the Baha'i religion, like the power of myth and mystery and long-lost recipes, people lost and people found. Contradictions agreeing, embracing one another by contrast, together at last, and here I am, still spinning thoughts into words, ideas into language, memories into lessons, lessons into writing into water into... hopefully more than mere words, maybe with a bit of channeled magic, they wring true.

"In the beginning was the word..." The Book of John

"Eventually, all things merge into one, and a river runs through it. The river was cut by the world's great flood and runs over rocks from the basement of time. On some of the rocks are timeless raindrops. Under the rocks are the words, and some of the words are theirs.
I am haunted by waters." A River Runs Through It, by Norman Maclean

Feel the Rush

2008-09-17T14:15:00.006-04:00

Two Tickets to St. Anton Plz!!!

My friend and fellow skier Jake Kim and I are gearing up for the Bums Rush, an all-day fundraiser on Saturday, September 20, 2008 for Lambda Legal, an organization that helps defend the civil rights of everyone, regardless of sexual orientation or gender.

The Bums Rush is a fast-paced competition modeled after TV’s Amazing Race, and the grand prize is a free ski trip to St. Anton, Austria—off course, I’m only in it to help out the cause! ; )

Please support our team by making a secure, tax-deductible donation to Lambda Legal by clicking here.

You’re also welcome to join us at Therapy on Saturday night for the Finish Line party, which should be a whole lot of fun. Check out these links for more info.

Thanks so much, and please let me know how much you donate, so I can report the latest numbers on race day.

Gratefully,

Aaron

Past-sick

2008-08-16T01:44:00.004-04:00

Different than homesick. In my past I've had many homes, and as much as a place like Santa Fe has a pull on my psyche and soul, it is only the locale for the people and experiences my heart misses tonight with a murmuring ache, as I sit awake, listening to Daisy breathing in her sleep.

She's next to me here on the sofa, the brown leather home for my big fat white bum that John wants to get rid of. He'll have to remove it from me!

I was just looking at pictures of college friends and classmates, people I've lost touch with, and I know that choices I've made contribute to my growing feeling of distance between me and them, and yet, I still feel regret, pining for what might have been. I don't like that feeling, and maybe I'm just being too hard on myself to expect more. I want to be a social person. I want to keep in touch with people, but somehow I cannot meet their needs or they cannot meet mine, or at least that's the fear that keeps me at arm's length, wondering what it would be like to be closer.

The one college friend I keep in touch with regularly feels closer to me than ever, in spite of geography, and for that I'm grateful. We are definitely two old queens in a pod.

So I suppose I have in quality what I lack in quantity. I never was the life of the party I guess, more of an observer. Safe distance. But the feeling that I missed out on something by playing it safe is a strong one. You certainly cannot change the past. And you cannot dwell on it either. I know this with every fiber of my rational side, but to my emotional self, it's no good. This scared little boy inside me wants to go back and try it again, taste what I now know that I miss. Savor every experience and be a better friend.

Maybe that's asking for too much. But the desire is there. Maybe the College itself, the program, the community engendered there, was such a rare flower in the desert that it cannot be sustained elsewhere without withering. Maybe I was meant to pine for whatever it is I think I'm missing. Maybe I should end these blog posts with something other than maybe.

Now I'm tired, and the lack of sleep is catching up to me. I want to hold onto something, but what? Being in the here and now is so difficult at the moment. I just want to be somewhere else, to be someone else, to be some-when else. Another time when I was young and foolish. Another point in the journey when everything looked so different than it does to me now.

For now, I guess I can look forward to more weird dreams where people from all stages of my life arrive at parties together and make love and fight with each other and with me, until the Freudian, Oedipal, and the Fellini-esque all come crashing down in one final blow of horns and bagpipes and orgasms, and there are no more boundaries anymore. Nothing is inappropriate and nothing is taboo, except taboo itself. You'd think someone with desires and fantasies as strong as mine would enjoy this kind of Bacchanal, but it's the opposite.

Maybe it's more fun to cross boundaries, break rules, when the rules have a reason to be there, and the boundaries give your life some kind of meaning. The problem I've always had, or at least I did when I was a bit younger, was that I didn't trust the boundaries, so instead of leaving them alone, I constantly tested them to see how far over the line I would go before guilt or conscience or an external scolding would spring me back into the here and now of limited time and space, of consequences.

Sometimes it wasn't a scolding, but someone getting hurt feelings or making a comment about my behavior. Whatever cold splash it was, it always stung through the haze of my addiction, but never enough for me to stop using people.

I have grown and changed, but how much? Enough I suppose to look back at my mistakes and want to learn from them. That should satisfy me, but it doesn't. I rage and struggle against something, against myself. It's a tiresome struggle, but maybe I get something out of it. Maybe it's just baggage from a traumatic childhood. I'm back to the maybes again.

Maybe tomorrow will be better.

Imaginary Me

2008-08-09T17:39:00.004-04:00

He is a social dynamo who has no trouble introducing himself to new people, and his patience for his own foibles, as well as the idiosyncrasies and faults of others, is generous, springing forth from a seemingly endless well of warmth, gratitude, and acceptance.

He has never broken someone's heart unless his was also broken in the process. People trust him with their secrets. He trusts others too.

He is lithe and trim and outdoorsy and athletic, and always seems to have a tan.

He speaks his mind and expresses his feelings appropriately, without being a doormat or disrespecting other's feelings.

His desires do not gnaw at him like a toothache of the soul. He is at peace with them.

I suppose he is perfectly divine and ultimately boring. An unattainable ideal up on a pedestal, placed all the way up there by me. But striving is what makes me me, isn't it?

Even at the river, did Siddhartha ever truly let go of his questing nature? Will I?

The other day The Who's "The Seeker" came up on my iPod, and there's a line about only knowing the answers the day that you die.... that seems poetic and utterly unfair.

And yet, the wisest part of me knows that enlightenment is a process, not a destination. Life is learning, so as long as one is alive, there is something more, another lesson, another opportunity for growth or enrichment, for connection with nature, people, ideas, possibility...

Sure. And if there is a God, and if he had even the slightest cruel streak, he would love the irony of toying with someone like me. Someone who so assiduously strives for perfection in an imperfect world. I am his puppet, plaything, punchline. Job on a pogo stick.

Maybe my biggest fear is that all along, I've been convincing myself that my constant state of questioning and dissatisfaction is actually a spiritual yearning, when in reality it is nothing more than an unfortunate temperament, a lifelong wimpy-ass foul mood... A character flaw as deep and irreparable as the Grand Canyon....

Wow, that's a bit dark and fatalistic, even for me. So off to Imaginary Aaronland I must go, every now and then, to replenish the hope of building something or someone better than the real me, a way of changing what I am most unhappy about or accepting what cannot be changed (the Serenity Prayer in practice).

Maybe the best I can hope for is to be a bit more forgiving of my own faults and those of others. Perhaps that is a step closer to climbing up toward the Ideal Me, or knocking him down to a more realistic level...

Is the goal then to dismantle all the the self-illusions I've built? To see me as others see me? Or is it to be OK with the various reflections (the imagined me, the "real" me, as well as the swirling expectations and the realities of others).

Maybe it's all just semantics and I should find less distressing ways of framing my experiences, of naming my own joys and wishes and pains.

Now "Waterfall" by Jimi Hendrix comes on the iTunes mix, and I remember that imagination can be a powerful and necessary salve for the wounds that reality inflicts. Sort of the psycho-emotional version of going into shock, but it's preventive and preemptive rather than reactive.

Gandhi encouraged us to be the change we want to see in the world. I suppose before one can be something, one must imagine it first, just as one must imagine a better world before going out there and trying to make things better.

So maybe imagination is not the enemy, but dissatisfaction is. Allowing the nagging sense of something being missing to proliferate. The assumption that something is wrong and must be fixed. These are the real enemies to happiness and fulfillment.

Allowing, letting life flow over you and through you like water. Eventually accepting that yes, things are indeed the way that they are, but things change. The water of change is constantly flowing. The drop upriver is the drop downriver, and the river is the sea is the rain is a tear and it is all one.

That's how Hesse's hero, the Buddha came to his enlightenment. But I am still here on the riverbank, counting grains of sand. One, two, three. Maybe he will wait for me to lift my real head up and see him there, his arms, eyes, and heart wide open and smiling.

The Pros and Cons of a New Puppy

2008-05-27T17:07:00.009-04:00

Pro: Puppy kisses smell like honeysuckle syrup on warm homemade pancakes
Con: Will eat anything and everything, including broken glass or poo

Pro: Soft fur, clumsy movements, adoring gaze from droopy eyes
Con: Sharp teeth and claws, the strength of which is completely unknown to the user

Pro: Unconditional love
Con: Accidents on the newly finished floor

Pro: New playmate for the current dog
Con: Playtime begins at 5:00 AM

Pro: Protects the house
Con: Barks at friendly people who've lived in the building longer than I' ve been alive

Pro: Nurturing the little guy brings out my paternal instincts
Con: Sleep deprivation brings out my psychotic instincts

Pro: Hearty appetite for food and for new adventures. Eagerness to learn, please his master
Con: Will steal food from your plate (or your mouth) in the time it takes to change the channel

Pros: Mood enhancement, quality of life, tails that happily wag when I arrive at home, regardless of my mood
Cons: Minuscule compared to the Pros

The Dude Abides

2008-05-13T22:01:00.008-04:00

There is a fragile fiber of reason found within the confines of the madness that is life in the big bad city.

At some point Las Vegas became the city that never sleeps, the city of bright lights, sin city, an arid version of the Big Easy, the place where a friend at a party told me he had the best Reuben sandwich he'd ever tasted. No, not New York anymore.

Maybe the Big Apple needed to take a break from its own folklore. Maybe the things I love most about New York are more real in my mind than they are anywhere else. Flesh and blood and concrete and steel and sad tales and plans changed, dreams rewoven out of the fibers of threadbare clothes.

In the desert, there are many tricks played on the minds of the weak, and I parted ways with some of my gold, but only long enough to know that the sense of material possessions belonging to any one person any more than any other is in itself, illusory. A great poet once said, "Nothing gold can stay." In the crudest of interpretations where gold is money or anything we place value on, the poet has found a far more eloquent way of saying, "You can't take it with you."

In the patchy, sentimental, but momentarily brilliant film The Outsiders, young men punch and stab at a way (any way they can find) to fulfill their own need for restoring lost rites of passage into adulthood, and yet as they fight, they also struggle to cling to childhood, which eludes them much of the time.

Staying gold for these antiheroes means holding onto what is good and pure about being young, even naive, for as long as they can while still protecting each other and surviving on the wrong side of the tracks.

Gold and dappled things are temporary. What more can be said? The magic of seeing a baby's tiny features, fingers, toes, ears. The warm soft amber sunlight on the hillside my first evening in Tuscany. The newness of a puppy, the pangs of first love, of a first anything. For me, my first swim in the ocean was more meaningful than "my first time."

"Truth is one; paths are many." Not sure who said that, but it's printed on a colorful sign outside the yoga studio/natural foods market across from the gay community center in Manhattan.

Maybe that's it. What matters is that you find some understanding of yourself and the world and your fleeting place in the world, and it doesn't matter how you get there, because there are as many paths as there are people. Maybe there's no wrong or right way to find the truth.

Does that mean that right and wrong don't exist? That's an old question from my college days, days that float ever backward in time from me as I sit here, letting everything wash over me like waves.

Forgetfulness and recollection are pairs of stones along the path. Sometimes I pick up a partial memory, something long forgotten, and it triggers other memories, but perhaps each memory brought back to life requires another to fall back asleep, to be still along the path... and so the pairs get picked up and dropped again, never the same pair twice, always close by but not too close, and so it goes.

My path is neither in the yoga class or in eating sprouts, and it is only haphazardly related to the Gay Center, with its rainbow flag and aging fixtures. I have always felt like an outsider in my own community, which has advantages, but I suppose is also a lonely vantage point from which to watch the parade.

And so my path is somewhere in between East and West, Gay and Straight, City and Country, Teacher and Student, Warrior and Monk.

Maybe I'm spouting off like Dorothy at the end of The Wizard of Oz, and yet I do not feel like I have awaken from some phantasmagorical dream. Rather, I feel like I am sleep-stumbling through my days and nights, not even sleepwalking, because that would require a coordination and skill I don't have or that I have long since forgotten how to use.

The ambulatory Lebowski beckons me with his simple desires: a new rug and the safekeeping of his member. A Caucasian and a joint and Bob Dylan in his Walkman. And a great story told, fought, heard, shared, won. And someone somewhere on the West Coast bowls a strike. The Dude Abides.

Walk With Me

2008-04-10T13:54:00.003-04:00

Dear B,

I wish I could take a walk with you again. I wish you could meet John and Daisy and my extended family of friends here in New York.

I wish I could ask you for advice, compare notes on having a husband, hear your voice again.

Until we meet again though, I'm remembering you in a way that you might have found sappy, but underneath your razor-sharp wit was a very warm heart. That we have in common.

So I hope you will be walking with me, wherever you are. And I hope we can help people who need it.

Your devoted nephew,

A

Beautiful Enemy

2008-04-04T02:21:00.009-04:00

He was one of those people who made you feel like you were his best friend, yet he was able to convey this genuine sense of unique simpatico to almost everyone he met, or so it seemed. I wondered how far this generosity of spirit, the sheer will it must take, could go, would go... His will seemed always simply to know people as fully as they would allow him to know them and to allow himself to be knowable if not known in the process.

But how much could you get to know someone whose sole aim was to be an opening for you to talk about your dreams, desires, suspicions, problems, memories, and experiences?

His wit was razor-sharp, and yet, he sparingly directed it against anyone. Even more rarely did he aim these weapons of well-formed words directly into the face of a foe (or anyone for that matter) out of spite, anger, or rage, although I knew he must feel these strong emotions very deeply, for beneath the genial encompassing surface was a deep well of dissatisfaction with a world he struggled to comprehend and ultimately to change or at least leave a mark upon for the better, for changing the status quo was what he appeared to be most passionately interested in dedicating his considerable strength and energy to accomplish.

However, and this was the most incongruous quality, in order for him to change or impact his environment, he knew somehow that he would have to love the world's inhabitants, and how could he? Loving you and me and his sister with autism and the neighbor with her pet lizard and the homeless man on the train and his charming partner of 12 years was one thing, but in loving People, he would have to accept their darkest possible deeds, because that is what love is, acceptance, so he would have to accept hatred, violence, prejudice, pettiness, greed, jealousy... but these were the very things he wanted to change. Change or accept, but how to do both? More troublesome to me, maybe what he really wanted above all else was to forget.

Forget the fact that the world he preferred (the one in which he could love, accept, and inspire a few individual people passionately and fight against the darkness of human despair on a more or less abstract level, as if such a fight were worth winning) was illusory and disconnected from the very reality he swam through in life, searching for a way to serve, to provide sustenance for his own sense of higher purpose...

Forget all of that? I couldn't. His grandest dreams and schemes seemed built on such sandy foundations, and yet, rather than dismissing his countless causes, I found myself inextricably drawn to them, but only as one is drawn to the flame of misunderstanding, the burn of curiosity to help understand why it's so hot in the first place.

Maybe he strove not to "love away" all the madness and black hatred he saw or accept it for all its glorious gore and dread. Maybe he sought to understand frailty as an individual by allowing himself to bend to the emotional needs of others, and in so doing, at once embrace and banish frailty.

But he could never banish a person, at least not a real person who occupied space anywhere near him.... Was he happy though? I think to myself as the hours tick by and I am no closer to finishing my late-night notes for a term paper that was due eons ago.

You're not supposed to write about philosophy in terms of your best friend who has just run away. You are supposed to at least use a published author as a starting point, and the more I knew this, the more I knew that no Plato or Kierkegaard could possibly start me off in the direction I felt innately the first time I met this man, this thing in my head that does not allow me any peace of mind. This love, this.

This was where he left me all those years ago, staring up into a million stars in the sky, wishing for other outcomes, different understandings, ways to bring him back, ways to forget that he ever existed, ways to help me understand this new sensation of glee and regret that mixed itself into my guts whenever I looked up at the empty room that was the cradle of our theories of saving the world from itself, or saving each other from ourselves.

Saving was not religious for us, at least not for me. His training was more mystical and even evangelical, but this was always tempered by the warmest of regards and respect for belief itself, the right to believe, even in spite of all sense of proportion, sort of like the lawyers who fight for the rights of unpopular protesters to assemble and spew hate and say whatever they could say without being arrested.

His understanding of politics was incredible. He knew layers of historical conflict and nuances of partisan relations that I couldn't even begin to distinguish, and yet he respected the fact that I was raised to fight for the right to rebel, as long as that rebellion was dressed in a certain flag, drug experience, or position on the unpopular war of my parent's generation's making and breaking. As long as it was the way it was supposed to be.

Anarchism would have certainly been an easier path for me than whatever it is I think I've chosen, but the symmetry of bipartisan politics at once appals and enthralls me. Mirror images, left and right, warring with each other. Polarizing people around same differences, visual sounds, etc.

And ultimately it was a shared understanding of Dialectic, that canny evolution of Western logic that allowed contradictories to coexist, this was to be their greatest bond, and yet also a mutual scar more than a shared pleasure.

But again I get so ahead of myself. I was painting a picture of my long lost companion in crime, as if we were all meeting him on the road for the first time... I'm attempting Chaucer just riding my horse taking notes and minding my own business, right?

So it was that we came together: He seduced me. Romantically? No, it was not so easy to define, alas. My attraction to men has always been there. Probably always will be, but when I saw him across the quad that fall, he looked like some stoned living Muppet more than a sex object. Sure, he had that charm about him, that sense of devotion to his friends and duty to everyone else that only a certain kind of "breeding" can hope to produce.

But he was neither beautiful nor sexy to me. And yet, I couldn't wait to be introduced to him. That's how it would have to happen, right? He was a social dynamo, and meeting him was obviously in the cards sooner rather than later, so why not wait for someone to casually ask me if I'd met him before.

As it turned out, we argued in class about Homer's intention in setting the Iliad mid-tantrum, as if the world we lived in now knew this silly Achilles like we know George W. Bush, and we knew why he was being such a stubborn baby. Knew! Of course we knew what it was like to be angry, but did we know that the gods were long since tired of such shenanigans?

What we did know was that we differed considerably about Homer's sense of righteous anger as opposed to punishable hubris. Somehow he has almost convinced much of the class that the inevitable decay of human relationships was to blame, not greed or lust.

Little did it matter whether or not Helen deserved such a war, or even whether Patrochlos was enough of a man, lover, or boy-warrior to begin fighting for. There was no "for." It was only planning and ruptured bonds and results. Too clean, I thought. Homer was not a prose master in the contemporary sense, but he chose his flowery metaphors quite spot on: sunsets, shiny armor, true love between heroes, nature, even the gorgeousness of sad tragedy played out in dust far from home.

No, aside from these memorable exceptions, the poetry had a certain level of dirt and grime not just from oral repetition of the tales growing taller and more bloody each time they are passed on, but from a love of the taste of blood, a true heart for battle cries and fascination with guts flying off sword points. This stuff could not be planned out and based solely on a disagreement between otherwise peaceful parties gone fatedly awry. NO!

This was something otherly. It was war for war's sake, an ode to battle, greed, risk, loss, death, the stench of which he could not blow high enough into the heavens to awake the gods that his youngest readers back then had already started to cartoonize, to forget in the way children do...

Children who have been brought up instead of children who survived Greece ripping itself in twain for a kidnapped (raped?) woman. Proto-Eve maybe, on the shores of Hell itself, snake about her neck...

And his response? The only snake was a hallucination from a potion Odysseus would spend years trying to find again... Long lost love for patriarchal jealous gods who were really softees underneath, as long as we stuck with their plan, or rebelled against it in ways that would make good parables for an old folks home on a Sunday afternoon. All dead calm and windswept prairies with perfect corpses and symbolism.

That's how we came into each other's consciousness, as combatants in seminar. Not on the quad, when we could have taken a very different path.

san diego song

2008-02-23T15:55:00.006-05:00

fish tacos market research behind glass bad hotel policies bad bank policies stress stress stress

bay breezes multicultures palm trees egos squeezed doctor tell me what you think of this 3rd-to-market drug that is more expensive than its competitors

tell me how to spin this particlular brand of straw into your favorite brand of gold

flowering plants shining sun sense of place and peace and openness and purpose too i want to move here

military men everywhere you look not enough time to see the sights but in sundrenched daydreams, anything can happen

living quarters next to the house of blues

red trolley

everything looks new, even the abandoned buildings... fresh starts seem welcome here

architecture on the hill, earthquakes cross my mind a few times, but still

i could stay here

freeways lined with lush vegetation on all sides

i wish i could choose here for vacation

addictions too

the more i travel, the more i want to travel

meaningless glances, encounters make me only hunger for more

more what? more meaning?

restless soul

need home

miss dog

john

so

far

away

bend to my will

thats what i want the world to do

and when it politely refuses

i throw a childish tantrum

and yet how far i've come how much ive grown

oh the places you'll go

oh the places you'll see

suddenly the daydream shifts and my grandson is on my knee as i tell him about my travels when i was younger, when i was a bit less wise

but how can this be? i have no desire to be a father, but a grandpa, now that would be the shit

the bomb, the aircraft carrier floating nearby

free wireless in the airport when newark charges me ten bucks old friends new friends three-hour time difference

calling too late calling too early

calling but nobody is there

calling for my dad

but he cannot hear

calling for the god of the church, but i do not fit his plan

calling for change in a world i struggle to understand

calling for something i will only know when i see it

calling for room service never gets old

calling the shots in my life? i wish it were as simple as typing the words here on my laptop

this airport actually has rocking chairs. how cool is that?!

rocking back inside my heart

julee cruise

sky for days

purple haze

supremacy of ideas

progressive culture

progress not perfection

but cannot cool off my heated desire for perfection

nothing nobody can

except maybe me

so i call out to the universe via blog

text fantasy prayer feeling thought action motivation caring loving reading writing knowing wondering questioning wandering

i wander what will happen

i wander where i will

i am filled with wonder and with dread

i am

still here

it never rains in california

girl, dont't they warn ya.

when i was here, it poured

Inside the arc

2008-02-17T01:39:00.006-05:00

On the train, the story I have been trying to write for as long as I can remember comes to the surface of my consciousness with such delicate ease, but I know by the time I reach down into my trusty Perry Ellis brown leather messenger bag with the tan stitching and fumble through the contents in a controlled frenzy looking for a pen and some paper, it will have long passed back into the ether, only to be replaced with more earthly concerns.... bills, work projects, the diet I have abandoned, getting older.

Passion is the subject of my wandering thoughts lately, in part because my passions have been so varied and elusive. And it occurs to me that perhaps my only true passion is for keen observation, a certain penchant for thoughtful detachment that is at the core of my talent as a writer, and yet, is also my downfall, for I detach from my own desires and dreams when the risk inherent in following them seems too great. I stick with what is safe and reasonable, and settle for the innocuous delight, the temporary ecstasy of daydreams, where I feel I must hide my real passions from potential harm.

Looking back, there was something sudden about the way I abandoned my pursuit of theater as a passion, and yet, the choice was also studied and planned. I chose to refocus those energies into music and painting, and it is music where they drift again, as I create transitions, mixes, intros, blends, and extensions for an imaginary crowd of people dancing to the very songs I've chosen, inspired by the one currently issuing from my iPod into me ears, creating that necessary buffer between me and the rest of my fellow commuters.

Music is also my brother's passion, and in my PATH-train reverie, he and I are making music together. I am singing from the deep well of our shared sadness, our appreciation for beauty, the knowledge of our strength in supporting each other through so many losses, and also the joy, in my case, of having a life that allows me to pass into and out of two worlds, all of which defines the arc of my life.

And here inside the story I have yet to write, the song I have yet to sing, I need no pen or paper, no turntables and records, no paintbrush or canvas, no script or stage because my voice has the ring of truth. I hear it from the detached place without running away from anything anymore, and this is where I am no longer hypercritical, insecure, and afraid of failure and success. I am the song, the feeling inside the song is inside me, and together, there is catharsis, healing, communication, connection, peace.

"These things you keep
You better throw them away
You want to turn your back
On your soul-less days

Once you were tethered
Now you are free
That was the river
This is the sea."

In my heart I am singing for my brother, for myself, for two little boys who lost their dad.

The Waterboys perform the song, and I know that their lead singer, a Scottish poet whose name I don't recall, drank himself to death, but I don't want my brother to know this. In this world of pure emotion, he is still just 6 years old, so I want to protect him from the harsh realities behind things. Behind our father's death.

And of course I know I cannot protect him, not fully. I can only visit him occasionally and try to encourage him not to hate his own singing voice, because I know there is no reason to, and yet I know the urge, the perfectionistic, questing nature that he and I both inherited from the Mason men before us, our dad, uncle, and grandfather. We have poet's souls but have self-criticism down to a religiously zealous science so much so that I'm not sure sometimes if it is delicious masochism or cruel destructiveness. And that is what stands in our way.

You would think that so much loss would make me recklessly courageous in taking risks and pursuing the arts with feverish devotion, because I know intimately how short life can be, and yet, I am a coward. There's a threshold of loss in my head, and a part of me thinks I've exceeded it, and so I feel that I cannot handle any more, no more rejection or grief, so the safe path is the wise one, because maybe I'm too tired to fight the bigger fight. Maybe compromise is what I have to learn to be passionate about.

My friend Lawrence used to quote a passage from our favorite book, Dancer From the Dance, that extols the virtues of compromise in learning to love and accept one's life, one's mate, for what they are, instead of "chasing sunsets" all the time. Lawrence wanted me to love John not because he is a wonderful man, but because he was mine. It's a choice, he would say.

So what is my point? That I want to take more risks in living a creative life? What are my sunsets? I've lost track of all the things, people, ideas, and passions I've chased through this path set before me.

Maybe all of this is coming up right now because I am so openly committed to John, Daisy, my job, the mortgage, and it's ruffling my feathers, scaring me into thinking that I have to get out of the suburban confines and live a less safe life. Being committed is a risk, just as pursuing a near-impossible career like acting. It means you are vulnerable. It means you could lose the person, place, or pet.... And yet, I do not give myself credit for taking these kinds of risks. Somehow I tell myself these are still safer risks than going to an audition, taking a class, unpacking my turntables and making mixes....

John and others tell me that I am too hard on myself, and I've worked on this and made progress, but obviously it is a deeply set habit. Being critical has benefits too, and it's hard to let go of these. For now, writing helps me sort through my own demons, give them names at least. Eventually I suppose they will be like old friends that I can put in their place whenever I need to. And music lulls the demons to sleep, at least for a little while.

Tri-state area musicals

2008-02-14T11:21:00.003-05:00

To the growing spate of Broadway and off-Broadway shows (not to mention films and TV shows) inspired by, set in, and named for places in and around this wild and weird city, I add a few more titles of my own. Can you find these on the map in your head (not the one on your GPS)?

Sunnyside Up

The Musical Comedy Murders of Great Neck

Hoboken Memories

Far Rockaway Baby

Looking for Lynbrook

Bring on the Boerum

The King of Crown Heights

Schenectady Charades

Relationships

2008-01-27T11:41:00.000-05:00

I am stuck. Things with John and Daisy and my boss and most of my friends are going well, but someone I've known for a very long time has completely shut me out yet again. I suppose I should be used to it by now, but I'm not. In spite of the repetitive frequency of the pattern, it still hurts every time.

In the past couple days, I've been thinking that this person’s complete and utter lack of trust in me means we cannot and do not have a relationship, and this is an enormous loss. Of course, how can you lose something you never fully had? The blockade of secrets, lies, and isolation has effectively kept me at arm's length for as long as I can remember.

What infuriates and baffles me most is the idea that this person must think I am too judgmental to deserve the slightest shred of honesty. Am I really such an asshole in their mind that they think I will rant against or disown them if they reach out to me or if they tell me the truth about their problems? Admittedly, I can be a jerk, but with this particular person, I think I've been quite the opposite: consistently present, fair, compassionate, understanding, loving empathic, war, generous...

So I am stuck with my anger, frustration, helplessness, and sadness. After all, how can you possibly help someone who seems fundamentally incapable of asking for help? How do you continue to love them from such an artificially created distance? It would certainly be easier to retaliate with my own version of the silent treatment, the Classic Aaron Triple Freeze-Out. But what good would this do? The words of the father in A River Runs Through It ring in my head again, "How do we love completely without complete understanding?"

It would be easier not to care, not to worry in the absence of communication, the vacuous hole of silence. Life is certainly never easy. The fact that I am uncharacteristically refraining from naming this person and their relationship to me is all part of the sickness.

I remember a slogan from my 12-step program, "You're only as sick as your secrets." I would add to that: "Your secrets infect the people who love you the most like a virus." Ignoring problems and feelings only makes things worse.

So in my stuckness I pray that my long-lost friend will at least talk to someone who can help. And, in the meantime, I feel like I am pretending right along with them that everything is fine and that it's just business as usual to bottle up one's emotions until they explode, until help finds you. I guess I am not a good actor. So I wait, alone in the cold silence, for an answer.

The Thin Red Line

2008-01-06T10:38:00.000-05:00

As I watch the scene of a young man giving up his ghost on the battlefield in this nearly flawless, heart-wrenching Terrence Malick film, I sense an odd feeling of familiarity, for I can identify with the struggle, the loss, the fight against the inevitability and futility of sudden, early death.

The deaths of my father and my uncle, both young "soldiers" in their own ways, did not happen in any traditional war, and I hesitate to glorify the two men, especially my dad, because I fear if I do not hold onto some tiny remnant of my anger at being so utterly and irreversibly abandoned, I may lose all sense of myself. And yet, I know that my father was at war with himself, with his past, with his addictions, his nature, his messed-up childhood. The drug in his veins killed him, but he pulled the trigger, seeking the most extreme high he could find.

And I think I have forgiven him, made peace with myself as much as I have been able to... But I know what battle is, what senseless horror and grief feel like. The life I have built seems far removed from this truth, but every now and then something reminds me that it is there, deep at my core. Loss has its own language, and I am fluent in its many nuances, the marks it leaves on survivors, the pain, anguish, frustration, confusion, rage, and sick sense of falling into an enormous blackness... Perhaps I should use my fluency to help others. I certainly do not lack compassion. But for now at least I am content to be a good listener every now and then, donate money to causes, try to take care of the people who are still here with me, and continue moving forward, away from the war zone of my own childhood.

On the surface my uncle had everything going for him, much more a man of his own making than his twin brother. He had escaped the toxic proximity of his alcoholic parents, moved to New York, scaled heights of professional and artistic accomplishments, found a long-term partner, even owned property in Manhattan. And he was brilliant in every sense of the word. Complications from a virus killed him, and I have often wondered if he was a sex addict, if in some minuscule way, he pulled the trigger too. A poetic symmetry indeed.

At Littleton Cemetery in Colorado, their stones are together, same color, size, and shape. Identical twins to the end. And their view of the Rockies is light, airy, serene, almost like heaven... But heaven also seems like emptiness, void. For it separates them from me.

So, in my own battles, who can I blame? Is there an enemy I can aim my psychological weapons at? Is blame even something worth thinking about anymore? Probably not. But it seems helpful to me now to think of soldiers in battle, because I have been buffeted by shells, bombs, and landmines, and I have survived. This observation does not feed my ego, but it does help me look ahead. While I cannot forget who I am, the past that shaped me, the losses that define me, I cannot help but look at what life has given me and feel incredibly fortunate. Time passes and some places change, some places stay the same, and people appear and disappear, but not forever.

Still, I need to find a way to recognize these two men who influenced me so strongly without condemnation or canonization. Two men whose lives and deaths surround my subconscious at every turn, whose personalities I see in myself, with all their great attributes and all their weaknesses, mistakes, and flaws.

I also see myself in relief. I know that I am different from them, too. That much of my adult life is a story of my own creation. This is not to say there will not be future setbacks, issues, crises, cataclysm, uncertainty, fear, pain, loss of control, aging, sickness, death, and loss. I am no more immune to the cruelty of blind fate, accidents, the struggle and strife that make life interesting and hard and joyously worthwhile.

Maybe the lesson is that surviving comes with its own set of baggage, but also its own rewards: strength, wisdom, resilience. And why not reap them while I can, be aware of their fleeting nature, hold onto the light before eventually I fall back down into the black, where I may someday rejoin my father and my uncle and countless other fallen soldiers. Then falling is not so different from flying, and everyone will be there.

My Two Halves

2007-12-25T03:37:00.000-05:00

Friends, roamings, and coaster men,

Wouldn't it be fun if it were Christmas Adam instead of Christmas Eve? The Magical Uber-Proto-Man gallantly boards his sporty sleigh, filled with gifts for smart little girls and boys who happen to be gay. Super Santa, take me away!

Denver is no longer home to my oldest friends from high school and my college dropout years. That's weird. My connection with this place seems all the more bittersweet and musty, filled with distance stretching threateningly between me and my past.

Ties held, frayed, worn, reworked, re-woven. Ties nonetheless. But also a bit tired. Time heals old wounds but doesn't always leave anything substantial in their place. Not even delectable scars. How strange.

Still, it's really good to see family and mountains and space and spaniels. Everything here is less crowded and cramped, which makes me both restless and relaxed. The story of my life is what I started to write rather than read when I moved to New York, even though I threw myself on the mercy of fate... and now?

Contemplative, frustrated, satiated, sad, I write some more. And what for? For an end to my internal war, the part of me that always keeps score. The part I sometimes try to hide or ignore.

Tonight, the reflection of starlight in snow, the crisp tincture of dry air, the glimpse of a beautiful warrior (me, my brother, his hunting dog) running through the silvery-streaked black, these remind my heart if not my mind, of whence I came, and how lucky that is.

In these nocturnal reveries, my home of origin becomes a brief home of choice, if only for that moment it takes for a single moonbeam to freeze itself onto the two ancestral faces of earth and sky. Then I know that I am meant to be here. And I try to be satisfied, not really knowing why things happen the way they do. Not really understanding how to keep myself true. For, who is this self anyway?

I split myself in half when I moved away. The New York half is what I have consciously cultivated, perhaps in juxtaposition to all that I am that cannot be unmade, undone, unwritten. The other half sleeps long and deep in mountain air, and has become a stranger, a pseudo-amnesiac spirit who wanders in the twilight among spruce and dry grass and haunting memory, clinging desperately to the past as if it were real. And it is real, inasmuch as the place where my past happened, took shape, molded me and those dearest to me, is a real place. And then my moldy old mind questions, "What is 'real' anyway?" And I fall off another cliff of thought, and down I go.

Maybe the only reality is the inseparable mixture of 1) what my core consciousness knows is true, that there is something completely intangible and irrational that runs much of the show, and 2) the so-called things themselves: people, places, events.

The most prominent example is my hubbie-to-be. What keeps me and John together is perhaps a bigger mystery to me now than ever before. And yet I know deep down that it works. I am graced and blessed and fortunate beyond words. He is my match, but explaining why or how he is who he is, or even who he is to me, seems next to impossible, for it flies away when you bring the magnifying glass in too close.

The truth only wants to be accepted and embraced fully, but in this case, and maybe in most cases, the truth of love defies reasoned explanation. It only asks me to let go and be happy with the mystery. Sometimes I get to experience the relief that comes when I can grant the truth this wish. At other times, the mystery drives me batty. And that is love. Divine madness, as the Greeks first wrote and still have yet to be disproved.
Madness from above or below. Mellow or turbulent. Ridiculous or dangerous. It is all mad. And that is part of its beauty, its charm, its dead accurate ability to wound your soul, rending you open, leaving you barren and bereft and inconsolable. And maybe that's enough for now. Maybe Santa Studley will bring an understanding of those things that cannot be understood, a rejoining of my two halves, the New Yorker and the Mountain Man who loves his family. Maybe...

Little Missed Manners

2007-11-14T15:46:00.000-05:00

It happened today. On a PATH train no less. I was shocked by the human behavior of a fellow commuter, so much so, that my reaction was physically palpable, albeit completely passive.

The woman sitting directly across from where I stood proceeded to pull an unlabeled pill bottle from the confines of her otherwise nondescript leather handbag. OK, no problem, I've seen this before. A bit more surprising was the fact that, instead of pills, there were about 10 Q-Tips inside the bottle, which was now open for me to see.

As she pulled one of the cotton swabs out of the bottle, the dread of what was to come began to sink into the core of me in a very visceral way. Things started to happen in slow motion at that point, which is precisely the last sensation you want to have so early in the morning, when you are anxious to get away from the cramped proximity of people and almost as if in defiance of your hurried desire, the train inches along like a snail on Quaaludes.

To my grim dissatisfaction, the woman diligently cleaned out both of her ears. Still, I held on tight to what little shred of nonjudgmental composure I had left. Just tune her out, I must have told myself several times in rapid succession, but all in vain. Pretend she's not sticking cotton where you would never in a million years dare to go. But this was not the end of the sweet agony.

After she was done, she simply cast the used Q-Tip aside, dropping it onto the floor of the moving train car with a banal flourish of the wrist as if it was some inevitable conclusion to her meaningless daily routine. The thing actually landed between the feet of a blissfully oblivious woman standing nearby. Unfortunately, I was far from unaware.

It's an odd sensation when the icky ring of truth rattles your sleep-and-caffeine-deprived brain. It's like the secure suit of urban armor you've both consciously and unconsciously built up over the course of 11 years of city life suddenly slips away. And you are faced with a cocktail of raw frustration, anger, disbelief, indignation, and dismay, trimmed with a twist of helplessness.

Here before my sleepy eyes was an entirely NEW affront to my sensibilities... This woman had found a chink in my hard-won ability to ignore, disregard, pretend to be bored by, or simply convince myself not to care about a whole host of unpleasantrties that are so common here.

And did I say a word to this wretch of a commuter, with her two-tone fried hair, cable-knit forest green sweater, and garish mascara? I couldn't even muster a gesture to point out the error of her ways. As the car emptied at the last stop, I wanted desperately to say to this ridiculous woman, "Excuse me. Aren't you forgetting something?" But I did and said nothing, frozen by my fear of confrontation, and perhaps by years of habitual non action in the face of all kinds of public displays of human frailty, greed, and meanness.

I was appalled almost as much by my own inability to confront the wreck as I was by her lapse in common courtesy, her shameless disregard for others. With a simple action this hag had shredded the thin veil of the illusion of public decorum that keeps situations like riding the train from becoming an unbearable game of jumping through a minefield on a pogo stick.

So, wherever you are, fair maiden of effrontery, Brava. You reminded me that there will always be a small, but perhaps the best part of me, that does not belong in this cesspool. I was raised right, and no matter how many years I stay in the land of the urban lost, I will always draw a line in the sand (that you will later try to throw in my face) to distinguish myself from you. Here's to you. I raise a plastic amusement park mug filled with peach wine cooler to you and yours.

A Goodie Bag: Chicks, Cookies, Cash, Unicorns, Shoes?

2007-11-04T09:26:00.000-05:00

Halloween. Adults prowling around the city, so many of them in costume. Swarms of rowdy evil clowns, superheroes, vampires, dominatrixes, sailors, film characters, and other assorted ghouls, zombies, and princesses after the big parade on 6th Avenue. And one gay man determined to pick up some chicks....

I used safety pins, straight pins, and super glue to hold them on. No, my sheer animal magnetism wasn't enough, ladies, but one man can only do so much. And for my efforts, I received 3rd prize in my office costume contest, entitling me to enjoy a coffin-shaped box of cookies from Ms Fields, and a $25.00 Amex Gift Cheque. Not too shabby for a homo with some Styrofoam, an ironic sense of humor, and a bit of spare time.

Speaking of homos and humor, I've also been visiting Feathers, Cadillac, and Tom Cruise lately. It's such a deliciously amusing escape. I can only hope these guys create more episodes. I would pay to travel to Planet Unicorn any old day.

On the subject of travel, I have a new theory about DSW, those savvy footwear proprietors who supply a certain segment of demanding Manhattanites with the means to travel the mean streets, at a price of course. John and I were there last weekend, capping off a marathon day of shopping.

Yes, they have good prices and a great selection, but what is it that compels me to buy 4 pairs instead of 1 or 2? They must love the kinds of shoe addicts like me who save up their desire and dollars and splurge like the shoes are food and we've been starving ourselves for months....

Most New Yorkers know that taking care of the feet that deftly move you from A to B to C and back to A again, all in a day, requires a certain investment. And one, if one cares about these things, is always playing the game of balancing comfort with style, practicality with good taste.

DSW is not glamorous, but it is also far from shabby. It is utilitarian without feeling cold. In fact, it's a pleasant enough place, although casual browsing while trying to fight off the weekend crowds is likely to end in exasperation. But casual browsing was not my goal. I was there to fill a gap in my wardrobe, and perhaps in my spirits as well.

First of all, a few descriptors for those of you poor dears who have not had the thrill of plunking down your hard-earned cash for the privilege of walking away with or in slightly discounted designer boots, sneakers, loafers, sandals, flats, or pumps:

The place is well organized in the same way that Las Vegas casinos are. They've managed to create an environment where parting with your money seems a fairly effortless (notice I don't say painless) and satisfying natural conclusion to your visit.

In fact, it's almost inevitable that you will buy something here, although you may have to try on 4 near misses, one torture device cleverly disguised in flawless patent leather, and at least 5 pairs where your right foot feels ultimate bliss, but your left is suddenly plunged into in the pits of uncomfortably painful shoe hell.

So it's hard work to shop here, but worth the effort for the bargain hunter in the right frame of mind and with a certain degree of patience, calf strength, and whatever quality it is that allows normal people to storm the sales racks and parade around the store in shoes that would upset their grandmother without so much as a blink of an eye or a hesitation at the registers.

The aisles are just wide enough so that the traffic flow doesn't give you the indoor pedestrian version of road rage. The shoes are grouped into men's and women's, then loosely categorized by style: as you face the men's area, coming in toward the front entrance, they go from dressier on the right to more casual on the left, to street shoes and sneakers closest to the large windows overlooking the compelling but decidedly less controlled chaos of Union Square.

And then there are the mostly attractive intrepid customers: One familiar and even comforting sight in the men's area is the apparent straight couple, wherein the woman is "helping" the man choose just the right pair. This always tickles me, because so many of the fellas have a sheepish air of gratitude, some more grudging than others, that their spouse or wife or sister or girlfriend or fag hag (yes, there is, every once in awhile, a rare urban queer who doesn't know his footwear from a hockey puck) has been so gracious as to give up their own shoe-shopping time to provide this much-needed favor.

And then there are the men, some of whom do belong to the straight fashion-challenged variety mentioned above, but more who are perfectly confident in shopping alone. In sheer variety and quality of future fantasy material, I can honestly state that the eye candy at this store has never been short of heart-fluttering. Never.

Yes, children, you know the type I'm talking about. The 20- to 40-something guy who embraces his metro side just enough so as not to lose his unself-conscious ability to wear his rugged good looks in a humble, almost childlike way. He is usually clean-shaven, although a bit of growth on weekends is welcome. He is fairly well educated and successful, but probably not filthy rich, otherwise he would likely be doing his shoe shopping a bit further uptown and slightly to the east.

You get an amiable array of NYU students, visiting suburbanites, recent college graduates, even recently divorced dudes looking to impress the next wife... the list goes on and on.

And then there is the soundtrack: DSW plays a hypnotically subtle mix of upbeat samba-influenced tunes, catchy but never annoying favorites, and what I can only describe as thumping urban liquid sex, but at just the right volume, so you can hear your shopping partner's advice, but you can also tune out the mother-daughter argument that has just erupted via the daughter's cell phone 3 ailses down.

The staff at DSW is efficient enough to make the experience a positive one, but you should not expect to sit down in a comfy chair and be waited on. Everything in stock is out on the floor for you to touch, pick up, and put on your brave feet. You can even walk around in them to your heart's content.

The single sample models are placed above one or two columns of real pairs in boxes, somewhat haphazardly sorted by size. If you can scope one out, there are a few minimalist but padded benches to assist in the trying on of shoes, but most guys just do it standing up. Now that I think of it, it's surprising that you nobody falls down, with all that balancing on one foot while the other is being cajoled, coddled, or forcibly wedged into the shoe of the moment.

I have never had a foot fetish, but it is somewhat exciting to see a strange man changing clothes 2 feet from your eyes. And there are no smelly socks here. Just good clean voyeuristic fun. So, I suppose it's no wonder that I overpsend when I make my annual trek to the "D."

With me, I never ask myself, what can I wear these shoes with? In what situations would they be perfect? No, that would imply that my decisonmaking was rational and based upon a reasonable assessment of my budget and my needs compared with my wants.

No, I want to dance with men up and down the aisles, all of us in our socks, creating a gorgeous homoerotic ballet to the Latin beat buzzing in our ears. And I suppose this is what loosens my grip on my wallet.

So, that's my take on shoe shopping Union Square style. I haven't even been in the other shoe stores around the area, because the crowds are too crazy. DSW sits on its perfect perch 1.5 stories above street level, which is probably another aspect of its charm. And the fact that if you do not find what you want, there's also the shoe department at Filene's a mere escalator ride away is somehow all the more comforting. Busy bees love one-stop shopping.

That's about it for an October update. The job is crazy but fun. John and Daisy are both doing well. I miss my family terribly, especially my grandma who had a short imprisonment in a nursing home, only to be released into her own condo under near-constant care and supervision. But it was down to: 1) make a car payment (plus pay some other bills) OR 2) fly back to Colorado for Thanksgiving and Christmas.

So John and I will be eating turkey together in New Jersey. Making these adult decisions can be a bummer.

At least we get to go home for Christmas. That will be nice.

In the meantime, work is my faithful companion, muse, and occasionally pissy stepmother. A mixed bag, but worth sifting through. Sometimes I have to pinch myself and be reminded that I actually get paid to go to work every day and to write! That feels great.

Sure, writing about diabetes and heart attacks every day does take a bit of a toll, but I also know that many of the things I work on can and do genuinely help people. And, until the day arrives when I have the discipline to write a novel or a play, it keeps me in my fake furs and 80-dollar Steve Maddens (actual retail: 120).

More cash for more shoes! So chicks and unicorns, watch out. Mama's walking to wherever you are. And she's doin it in style. Well, her own version of style. It's all in the eye of the beholder, or the pocket of the buyer.

Warm cholcolate with friends on the shore....

2007-10-10T14:27:00.000-04:00

First, I apologize to the legions of regular readers, well actually more like 3 regular readers of this blog.

I've been busy, distracted, and have experienced a long dry spell of writer's block. Yuck! Needless to say, this little blog has remained dormant, outdated, static...

But I'm back now, at least long enough to mention something that happened a couple weekends ago. I went to Cape May, NJ with friends, one of whom baked 2 amazing cakes in the oven of the small kitchen in the house where we all stayed.

People who know me understand the true heft of my addiction to all things chocolate, especially those warm gooey home-baked goodies right out of the oven that I scarf down as soon as they are not hot enough to burn my tender taste buds, but just warm enough to melt my heart...

Little did I know that my love affair would be rekindled by a recipe from the ubiquitous coffee chain I love to hate (or hate to love). Only this recipe was not just an ordinarily sweet sticky coffee cake from the brand to end all brands. It was co-created by the scorchingly handsome local chef of Aquavit fame who collaborated with the coffee giant to come up with this deeply seductive sweet treat.

After this lovely weekend, I went to the coffee chain to try their version of "Chocolate Cinnamon Bread," which was a surprising disappointment. Of course a home-baked version would be better, but this was quite a shock. Mass-prepared foods can rarely achieve what one person in one kitchen can. I know this, but somehow I was still hoping for better results.

Needless to say, I'm supplying a few links here, so all 3 of you can try your hand at making this recipe at home. Somehow I would find the time to act as taster if anyone out there needs a sounding board.

Stuff of legend

2007-08-28T02:37:00.000-04:00

Legendary. I love that word. And in my head, that's how people see and describe me. Oh brother! It is well past 2am and I cannot sleep. This is distressing, since in a few short hours I have to be awake enough to check out of this glamorous hotel and catch an early train back to the big bad city where I feel safe.

Otherwise I'll be late for work, upsetting the delicate ecosystem that is my self-projected professional psyche, my ambitious corporate warrior trudging through the muck and mire of all the piled-up past disappointments, false starts, betrayals, and rapid departures, all towering higher upon my own head, but by whom? Nobody but me. And why? I know not.

This trip to Philadelphia has been a multifaceted adventure, and yet, words are failing me.

What can I possibly say at this moment? William Penn stands on his perch outside my window. Somewhere someone is laughing crying kissing loving leaving dying wishing freeing skinning slipping spilling spoiling spawning springing spelling trusting thrusting billowing bellowing braying becoming decaying aging playing rocking rolling juxtaposing justifying worshipping willing waiting berating flailing fisting fasting frosting frappucino-ing melting melding magicking molding folding fidgeting farting fucking flowering. All at the same time, perhaps with varying degrees of intensity and intention.

And yet I sit here, uncomfortably lounging in my white terry cloth robe, banging away at these keys as if this rabid word-listing exercise will help remove me from the pickle of my insomniac mind: the later it gets the more I realize how hard it will be to wake up. The more tired I get, the more I resist falling asleep. It's a silly, absurd trap, but it's got ahold of me.

Long sleep is such a sweet oblivion, when not disturbed by nightmares, stress, anxiety, tossing, turning, a million mental disasters befalling our tragic hero on the pages of his own book... a million quiet voices screaming the death knell of what used to define the core of their very being, the totality of their soul.

I wish I had words. Or that they had me. But I am a mere souffle-maker. I have yet to serve an entire meal. Too late at night like this do I remember the belief that somewhere in me lies a novel, anthemic declarations aside, a something that defines the bridge between who I am, who I think I am, who I want to be, and how I perceive how others see me. Somewhere in the flour dust and cocoa there must be some truth, a long line of narrative, some set of characters for me to fall in love with as they emerge from my pen tip or from my muse or from my computer or from my pain, past, present, to be presented.

Somewhere there has to be something more than this. The present. The limitations of the world as it is, as I think it is, as it must be or surely should be. Surely there is something somewhere that will help me decode my own reasoning, or help me fly away from my own need to decode my own reasoning, or something that feels as exhilaratingly escapist to my consciousness as the roller coaster I rode last week did to my body.

This body was not what I had planned. This. This is not where I was supposed to be. This place, this time, is slipping away. Morning is coming. The sun is running and I am running out of darkness, out of nap time, out of the clarity and sanity that only long sleep can bring. Out of luck. Out of words.

United Queendom

2007-08-19T06:02:00.001-04:00

The furry mammal lounging on the sofa to my left dozes off as I listen to songs on my computer that all sound a little tinny. It’s too early to play tunes on the real speakers with some real bass. That would wake up my old man, not to mention the dog, and maybe the neighbors.

In the park that our kitchen and guest bedroom face, there were two simultaneous and somewhat contiguous games of cricket being played yesterday, just as there were last weekend. As it happened last time, yesterday I threw back the ball to the players twice, both times falling short of clearing the fence separating me and Daisy from the players.

The ball the men in the park use is surprisingly light and not very dense. Maybe that’s why I cannot throw it very far. As I write this absurd theory, I remember all the other, much heavier balls that I also fail to throw very far in my life: footballs, basketballs, baseballs, even tennis balls, my liege.

In iconic British films like Maurice and Another Country, the cricket bat makes a definite crackling sound against the ball, as if they were using croquet balls. Maybe that is strictly old school, and the suburban New Jersey version of cricket, played without uniforms, has evolved the paradigm.

In these films, despite the characteristic stilted emotions and self-torture, I saw myself, especially as an adolescent. In the safety of my suburban Colorado living room, I could see progress in society’s acceptance of homosexuality, from what seemed like an eternity ago to now.

Here before my previously isolated, young and yearning eyes were undeniable works of art (not mere accidents that slipped through the grip of the draconian Hollywood Code), depicting my life, or what could have been my life, had I been born in another time and place. I must admit, the teenaged me who watched all those handsome actors in those beautiful settings longed to have been born earlier. I had the same feeling the first time I read Plato.

Not that I would necessarily want to be gay and British back then. And yet, these protagonists were struggling with the same eventuality I was: that the feelings of attraction to and desire for men would not go away, no matter how ardently and assiduously they attempted to squelch them.

This revelation and ultimate acceptance of the innate permanence of one’s true self is what leads to a powerful moment of choice: OK, now that I know this about myself, how do I want to live my life?

In posing the question, there are many possible choices that suddenly become available. I could choose to hide this truth from everyone, continuing (most likely in vain) to ignore it and hope that it does eventually go away.

I could choose to split my life in two: find a girlfriend, maybe even marry her, and keep this secret fact in a separate compartment that I only take out of the box when the pain, frustration, and dissatisfaction of holding it in becomes unbearable. Then, when I have satisfied this part of myself, back in the box it must go.

I could choose to live honestly, facing whatever negative consequences may come to pass with courage and self-conviction. Then, of course there are countless shades of possibility, subtle nuances and gray areas between these three general paths.

In the political arena, the question of choice often comes up around the same-sex marriage debate, and in years past, surrounding the civil rights vs “special rights” debate. During my life, I’ve had slightly differing points of view on the question of whether being gay is a choice or whether it is more innate, possibly even genetic.

The fact that my feelings from early childhood on through high school began to make more sense to me after I came out to myself supported the notion that I was born gay.

But didn’t I also make several choices along the way? To be sure, I chose not to hide the truth from my friends and family, once I had come to understand and accept it. Could I have chosen to live a celibate life or a closeted one? Perhaps, although most who know me realize how absurdly incongruous that first premise is. The choice of how to live is intensely personal, but does the personal affect the political? Of course.

On the other hand, this politicized question of choice has less charge for me, now that I am older and more comfortable with myself than I was in my late teens and early twenties. There’s also the progress that society has made, which makes it easier to be me and live a happy life.

Back in the park, when my feeling of slight embarrassment about my lack of athletic prowess passes, I fill with swelling pride in my Spaniel, wondering if any of the players realize that, like the game of cricket, Daisy’s breed is a distinctly English export.

There are no shirtless men today, or maybe I fail to spot them in my haste to avoid having to throw another ball. Spaniels and cricket balls and half-naked men and sexual politics and living an English life in the American suburbs....

Maybe I awoke too early to tie all this into a neat theme or conclusion. Maybe there isn’t one. Maybe the fleeting feeling of joy and contentment I experienced yesterday in the park is enough. Maybe I need to learn to enjoy these moments and appreciate them for what they are.

One of my struggles has always been to fight the urge to pine for what I do not have. I may never have a decent throwing arm, but I have other talents. I may not have a gorgeous sun-darkened shirtless cricket player in my bed, but I have the deep and abiding love of two gentle souls who make this apartment a real home. Maybe that is not just enough, maybe it is much more than enough. Maybe.

Rocky Pope Redux

2007-07-25T11:50:00.000-04:00

Yesterday I walked from home to the PATH station. This time I was not in a rush, and sure enough, there was the street sign, "Rocky Pope Pl" on a corner occupied by a large red-brick church.

Was this Rocky Pope a real person or a real pope? I intend to find out. In other news, I'm enjoying every page of the final Harry Potter book. Right now I'm in the 300s....

This time it is the craft of Rowling's storytelling that is in shining form, and I admire her every turn. Ron has some particularly good scenes. No spoilers here though. Just assume, as I do, that everybody dies, then if anyone actually survives it will be a pleasant surprise.

It's been so long since I read the penultimate book, so I'll have to go back and fill in the holes, once I have finished this recent opus.

Ready or not

2007-07-23T17:14:00.000-04:00

It's a rainy, sleepy Monday and work is slow.

This is what's happened in my little sphere in the past few weeks:

I've been reading more lately, which is relaxing and fun. I haven't made it to the beach this summer, which stinks
One of my close friends is getting married. I'm so happy for her (and the future Mr. Her)
Another close friend just got a nice promotion and a new car. You go girl!
John's show is finally coming to Broadway, after a regional run in Seattle (Hip Hop Hoo-ray!). Randy Quaid will play Falstaff on both the West and East Coasts. He's great for the part, and I'm so thrilled for my man
My eyelids feel very heavy as I type this list. John and I had a nice trip to North Carolina, where most of his family assembled to celebrate his nephew's engagement to a lovely lady. Southern charm (and delicious food) is still alive and well
A coworker of John's whom I was very fond of died last week. He had a great smile, and I'll miss him
Much to the panic and worry of his parents and family, my nephew ran away from my aunt at an amusement park in Denver and was missing for 3 hours before he turned up unfazed. He was just riding rides! Apparently, the place did not have a PA system, which is totally unacceptable. Somebody should pass a law...
My sports-playing, vegetable-eating, nonsmoking, fit and skinny uncle had a heart attack after his trip to Italy. Luckily he survived and is back at work teaching in the field of epidemiology...

Given all of the above, it's no wonder my nerves are a bit frayed! But Daisy is a great comfort, as are my books, and John of course.

Still I search for a secret something, an elusive revelation, that will make everything bright and shiny and perfect. And still life has a very different tray to offer. Still. Maybe a nap is all I need. Maybe...

The Muddy Mer-Goat

2007-06-26T13:16:00.000-04:00

In the Island of Coney, Mermaids were on parade. To my delight, we went to watch this annual seaside ritual last Saturday afternoon. I had never been before, and was happy to clap and cheer for my favorites (Miss Dragon Breast, The Fish-Tank Duo, and the Rat-Nibbled Mer-Corpse).

It was a fun, home-grown spectacle on a scale more tolerable than the Gay Pride Monster Trucks Behemoth Fashion Show Melt on Ice. Not that my support for the same-sex marriage soldiers has waned. But one does need an occasional break from the beer-sponsored dance clubs on wheels with their heartless thumping beats and steroidal gym gods of bronze and brown waving mockingly and strutting their stuff.

Mermaids are more my style, or at least they were this year. My particular astrology, being born an archetypal Capricorn (the sign is in at least 2 of my "houses"), is a goat with a fish tail, so it's no surprise. I've always interpreted the duality of the land climber and the sea swimmer as mud.

Mud encompasses earth and water, and yet it is its own third substance. Sticky, clinging, difficult to see through, and most of all, complex. Not of one world or the other, but stuck between both, perhaps even holding the two together...

I've often thought the "boundary" of a beach is not really a boundary at all. The place where the water meets the sand is constantly in motion, always shifting. Sand dissolves and gets carried away, water pushes, pulls, retreats and rains down again. Gravel and rocks move. Sun dries water and sand takes its place again. All constant. All in flux. All at once. Never completely solid or liquid. Never complete.

Maybe the atom-splitting scientists faced a similar dual reality: particle and wave; matter and energy; the ending of one and the beginning of the other nothing more than a semi-traceable blur.

My makeup consists of pebbles, rocks, roots, straw, a few bits of broken glass, and both salt and fresh water. I am human raku or adobe. I am heavy and blurry and soft and particulate and viscous and spiky and impressionable.

About a week ago, I was walking somewhere near the office. I was fighting off exhaustion and stress, and I began to fantasize that I could somehow dive into the cracks in the cement and hide away there, disappear.

In the glazed and fired pot the mud disappears. It becomes solid. That's what I want, to flow beneath the cracks, to re-form as something new, and then to vanish. Opposing urges, naturally. Mixed metaphors. But strong nonetheless.

"I am all... random." Louisa Kittredge, Six Degrees of Separation

Pressure

2007-06-06T11:00:00.000-04:00

What is it?

Pressure is surely different from stress, although they are related. My therapist would probably say that most of the pressure I perceive ultimately comes from me, although it certainly feels like it is coming from a million external sources. Maybe the external forces are indeed real but the choice is always mine how to interpret them, how to cope. Maybe.

Pressure can be measured by science. From Freshman Lab I remember something about water displacement, weight, volume, and air pressure. I think it was Archimedes who made his discovery in the tub and shouted "Eureka!" But that's about all I can recall.

Pressure comes in many forms, some more subtle than others. I work in advertising, a medium whose entire raison d'etre is persuasion... And lately the pressure is on. Of course there is a difference between pressuring someone to buy something and persuading them... right?

Somehow in my spare time I've been reading one of the many works by prolific viral-marketing guru Seth Godin. He presents a view of marketing where potential customers "sell" each other after being infected by an ideavirus, an irresistibly catching fad that seems to sweep through the population with the speed of light... Fad may be the wrong word, but it is fleeting, it seems like a brilliant idea at the time, and it seems like everybody wants/needs what it has to offer.

I certainly have much to learn about the science (psychology if you will) of advertising. I also have much to learn about the medical science behind the data I use every day, although I am still convinced that this understanding is not an absolute requirement to write pharmaceutical marketing materials.

Part of me avoids analytical thinking, I suppose because I fear it will slow down the creative process. A creative executive at my old company said that good medical writers must have a strong command of both right- and left-brain thinking skills. Do I have this dual command? I think I do, and yet, I still prefer to focus on the creative side and postpone the work I have to do with the scientific side of my head... It hurts my brain, but maybe it will get easier.

In the meantime, I have deadlines to keep me focused, coffee to keep me jittery but awake at least, and work that is piling up. So adieu.

Syncopation

2007-05-11T10:20:00.000-04:00

There's this song called "Trains" that I cannot stop listening to as I sit here at my desk at work, procrastinating. In fact, for the first time ever, I am using the "repeat one" function on the trusty iPod for the very first time. The class I teach starts in 6 days and I feel unprepared (like the way I felt facing all those pending deadlines in college), but that's beside the point.

I prefer to dwell in the land of mystical serenades, pretending that the artist is singing just for me. To steep myself in the cantering ballad of a gifted poet-musician rather than thinking about my obligations to the real world.

A lovely guy named Taylor Brown wrote and sings "Trains." I met Taylor several summers ago, and it has been a great experience to see him grow up from so many sides: as a member of his audience, as a purchaser of gourmet chocolates from the shop where he works part-time, and as a social acquaintance.

Taylor even joined the ranks of the legendary long list of friends and family who have slept on the sofa bed on West 75th Street in the Haber-Mason era. Of course, for 20 years before the Haber-Mason era, John the "bachelor" hosted many a sofa-crasher.

Usually if I fall in love with a song, I try to resist the urge to play it over and over again for fear of getting sick of it, indulging my ears so much that they reach the point of delirium or annoyance. I'm glad I chose this one to bend my own rules on though. I may in fact need to take a break, but it will be there waiting for me when I need it again. In fact, I may get to hear it again live this summer. I feel fortunate indeed.

I've been thinking a lot about the difference between appearance and fact. The syncopation between dreams and reality if you will. Maybe we are always catching up or trying to step back, to wait for the two to join up, to come together. Maybe.

I miss painting. Or is it just the idea of it that I miss? I have been known to pick up and drop such pursuits at the whims of my own patience, or lack thereof. The person I know who sings this song is not necessarily the person I experience or imagine as I listen to the song for the 5th or 8th or 80th time.. or is he?

So much of my experience of the world is dependent on perspective, point of view, context, but I want absolutes to hold onto, to keep me from feeling totally adrift. So what is real? My filtration of reality? Is there a shared truth that is both absolute and infinitely interpretable? Perhaps contradiction is the only reality for me. Perhaps nuance and gray area are as real as the keyboard I use to type these words. Maybe language creates reality, but a rose is a rose, right?

Speaking of roses, I wish I could have come up with something besides flowers and chocolates to send to my mom and grandmother for the annual holiday in their honor... oh well. It has been a busy and challenging time with the new job and the new apartment.

Mom is coming to stay with us in the new place in about a month. If we can finish all the decorating projects we have planned between now and then, it will be a gift to everyone, not to mention a minor miracle...plus, she'll be able to sleep on a real bed, instead of the sofa that still misses my lazy buns. Ah, employment. What would we do without it?

Still, I miss watching The Price is Right and eating Rice Krispy Treats. Ah, unemployment... so glamorous. So I sit here, finally ready to do some work, and maybe to put my iPod back into its usual shuffle mode.. or to put it back in the desk. But I resist. I just want to listen to music all day and write random thoughts and avoid work, and then maybe take a nap. Wouldn't that be nice? For now, I suppose this song is enough. Enough for now.

Vroom for Improvement in NJ?

2007-05-07T15:43:00.000-04:00

Maybe it was the speed of my feet propelling me toward the PATH station, or could it have been my state of sleepiness-to-the-point-of-stupor?

Either way, I could have sworn that I saw a sign with the street name "Rocky Pope" emblazoned on it in big white letters, as I hurriedly crossed as many side streets along Bergen Avenue as I could before seeing the dreaded "DON"T WALK."

It was one of those hectic mornings when time seemed to speed by and utterly escape me. Yes, I'm still getting accustomed to the new longer commute, but it feels like something else is at work. It's not just the differences in distance and mode of transport that mark the contrast between my less recent urbane past and my more recent suburban present.

The inertia that must be overcome in the process of getting into the city on a Monday morning seems greater too, almost as if Manhattan were an energy field (like the gravitational pull of the Earth that holds back the rocket, the force that it must be stronger than to escape into the relative ease of weightlessness) that warps the very time-space continuum in such a way that one has to speed up and slow down at the same time in order to break through it.

It's some kind of weird inverse proportion; the further away you are, the closer you have to get to pierce the magic bubble, and yet, the closer you get, the more everything conspires against your best-laid plans by slowing down. Traffic halts. Trains lurch into non-motion. Tunnels veer away from their original course...

Maybe my brain is not deft enough to describe the phenomena in any rational way. I am Ptolemy trying admirably to reconcile an Earth-centered universe with the observed data, the shadows the sun makes as the seasons change. Yes, his premise was mistaken, but I hear that NASA still uses many of his countless calculations.

Unlike the mythical Rocky Pope, Vroom Street near Journal Square is a real location. Visiting friends have commented on the amusing name, and my exhaustive online search of local maps reconfirmed it for me. Vroom is most likely the surname of an early Dutch settler, rather than the speedy pseudo-slang word for the sound a car makes as its engine is revved full of gas from the floored pedal under the heavy foot of an eager driver.

On the subway after the PATH, things calmed down as I listened to the surprisingly innocent music and lyrics of "Theme for a Nude Beach" by the B-52's and thought of my past and future swims in the ocean. I remembered the iconic trip I took 11 years ago to Jones Beach. I was with a whole gaggle of gay men, some of whose names I have forgotten.

The sun blazed, and after jumping into the crisp blue water and getting over the initial chill, we all took our trunks off and put them over our heads so we wouldn't lose them entirely. The sense of freedom and abandon was joyously intoxicating. I remember sunlight blissfully bouncing off bronze skin, the strong taste of salt, and laughter that seemed to go on forever...

Memory is a powerful way to travel, perhaps the best way. The train works too, but not all the time. Feet work too, but sometimes they fall out of sync with my mind. We do not live in a perfect world of course, but maybe perfection is a street somewhere. We just have to find it.

Until then, I have the train and music and stored beach sensations to take me away from it all. Vroom Vroom.

Tragedy and other things

2007-04-19T15:52:00.000-04:00

Off the bat, what happened at Virgina Tech continues to appall and sadden me. On the way to work I walked from the 33rd Street PATH station past the Empire State Building, and the murderer's face was on every newspaper on every corner.

I think New Yorkers must be particularly affected by this mass shooting, because it reminds us of what we went through in 2001... It also reminds me of what is happening in Iraq every single day. Killing is killing, regardless of the reason.

More and more I envy the world-view of my lovely dog. She probably does not understand politics or war or religion or any of those big abstract concepts, and yet, she is aware of the details in moods, noises, tastes, smells (oh the smells), and all those other sensory experiences. She knows when one or both of her owners is troubled, sad, scared, angry or otherwise upset.

She is a kind of mirror in that sense. Whatever we are going through, she seems affected by as well. But a mass execution of innocent humans is probably thankfully far beyond the scope of her mind. She has much more pressing matters to attend to! Like sniffing and eating and running and staring at birds and squirrels out the windows of her new domain. And for this relative blissful ignorance, I am jealous of her.

On a much lighter note, the apartment is slowly coming together, and I feel confident that we can probably have people over in late May or early June. I've also started using the gym in the building where I work. It's not the greatest facility, but its convenience cannot be beat. I'm also adjusting to the longer commute and I enjoy walking when the weather is decent and when I leave on time.

Jersey City still has a way to go, especially our neighborhood, but we've already had brunch with our new neighbors down the block, a gay couple who bought a house in our neighborhood and who are also renovating it. It's still scary to go through such a big change, but I'm coping.

Now if I can only talk John into getting a puppy...! If they were any cuter, it would be physically debilitating to look at them:

I want all 8 of them!

Oh well, maybe next litter.

In the meantime, remember to be good to your litter mates, your fellow humans.

Moving Day

2007-04-04T09:39:00.000-04:00

It's here. Phew. Yesterday was intense; after hailing a cab and putting 18 cardboard moving boxes from the Home Depot on 23rd Street in the trunk, I began to realize how imminent the reality was. Yes, I know, finally!

Like so many before him, the taxi driver had not mastered the concept of slowing down. He only knew how to go really fast and how to slam on the brakes. There were pensive moments, however, especially as we crossed through Central Park... fighting off tears at the feeling that I was losing my uncle again.

Isn't that strange? He died 15 years ago, and yet, he is still as much a part of my New York coterie as any one of my friends who are, thankfully, still among the living. He will always be with me, and he will always be my personal spiritual guide to this place, a place that exists for me not just in the present tense and the realm of the merely physical.

John has weathered this whole process admirably, although my panic did surface around 9:00 PM last night as I took a break from frantically packing and looked around at everything he hadn't gotten around to yet... I guess the movers will help him pack today, since I chose not to take the day off from work, still in my 90-day trial period as I am.

Losing my mental status as an iron-clad, do-or-die Manhattanite is sad. It's not that my dreams did not come true. It's that I changed so much in the process of chasing them that the former dreams seem almost unrecognizable to me now. I came here to conquer, and instead I was conquered, but it is such a sweet acquiescence.

As much as this place drives me up the wall, I still think it's the greatest city ever. Back at West 75th Street, I sifted through at least 3 boxes of mostly unfinished stories and plays, although I relocated copies of "Mr. Oedipus" and a short story I once submitted to The New Yorker.

And I found old head shots of Nicholas and Katie. That was fun, as was a letter from my mom which had several identical likenesses of a Springer Spaniel stamped onto the paper in fine red ink. I called her to express my amusement. Springer Fever is a ruthless illness and there seems to be no cure.

Did I mention that my brother and his family are adopting one of the latest litter of Daisy's mom's puppies?

He already has the crate picked out, along with a collar, name tag (Maggie), and a leash. Instead of moving across the Hudson, he is moving across the street. That's poetry.

Who knew that canines would melt the stoic envelope I try to keep around my heart... Who knew I would move to New Jersey for one! Love is madness. Plain and simple.

No joke, as I write this, pictures of Daisy adorn my new cube on all 3 sides, as do photos of John and my brother's kids. But the dog pretty much dominates the scene here at Office Land. And as if that is not enough, I also have a 2007 Springer Spaniels calendar hanging nearby, so I can admire the dogs belonging to perfect strangers as well!

During my packing/purge I also found quite a few pictures of my former skinnier self sporting the only patch of facial hair that I can grow consistently without looking like a small animal has attached itself to my face, and an animal with a case of mange at that! Both my brother and I inherited the patchy schizophrenic beard growth gene from our dad.

One footnote to my architect-bashing of last year: my new office is across the street from the Morgan Library, and I finally went inside, paid my $12.00, and basked in the cool tones and hushed reverence. It really is a special place, and the new lobby/atrium is much more appealing from the inside than the facade it presents to the passerby.

So I was proven wrong. Sometimes it's fun to be pleasantly surprised like that. As for the actual collections and the original buildings, they are all stunning. I highly recommend a visit. Ring me up and I'll meet you there, assuming they allow entry to Bridge and Tunnel riff raff like me.

New life

2007-03-22T17:41:00.000-04:00

Tired. Work has been insane, but I'm still happy that I made the move.

John's niece had a baby boy this morning, so he's a great uncle for the second time. Yay!

Daisy's mother had 8 puppies this morning. I got to hear them making puppy sounds on the phone.

The big move is supposed to happen next weekend. Change is in the air. Stress is in the air.

Fun!

Two Crashes

2007-03-09T11:02:00.000-05:00

On the subway coming to work this morning, I heard Grace Jones' version of "Warm Leatherette" come up on my iPod. What a twisted and yet somehow catchy song. The dance track really shaped my mood as I braced myself for the day and became swept up in its deliciously weird distance from all things emotional and its minimalist "driving" back beat.

I listened to the lyrics (Hear the crashing steel... Feel the steering wheel... Sound of breaking glass.... On the underpass.... Quick, let's make love...). I could not help thinking about how alluring and strange it is that car accidents are the subject of such eroticism for some people, and that the powerful pull both toward and away from destruction, is also the inspiration for some interesting artistic projects and themes. Horror films are not the only ones, although they do come to mind.

The subway train is barreling down the tunnel and I remember a film called Crash, starring James Spader, not to be confused with last year's Oscar winner of the same title. The earlier Crash, if memory serves, follows a man and a woman who are both obsessed with crashing their cars as a form of sexual release.

Creation and destruction. Not that I would know from experience, but the act of sexual intercourse between a man and woman would surely involve the instinct to create something, whether or not procreation is part of the picture.

The possibility of conceiving a new life must be there, even subconsciously. And yet for the car-accident fetishist, the possible destruction of life and limb is part and parcel of the fantasy. The very desire to "create" something new, even a new sensation in one's body and/or that of one's partner is tied up with running the risk of death and destruction. Two extremes combining in a speedy death-embrace. That's some seriously weird stuff, but compelling as an idea nonetheless.

Perhaps there is something undeniable about the aversion-slash-attraction of fresh chaos and carnage on the side of the road, or anywhere else. If you've ever driven past an accident, you know that most people tend to slow down to take a good look before they speed on past the wreckage. That magnetic pull is interesting to me, just as the aversion to gore is. And could they be the same somehow... Like allergies and addictions...?

In another film, David Lynch's Wild At Heart, there's a sickening, memorable, and sad scene in which the two protagonists played by Nicholas Cage and Laura Dern stop on an otherwise unoccupied stretch of highway at night when they see a car turned upside down. They are horrified and helpless to talk to a fatally injured woman who emerges from the wreck. The woman keeps scratching her bloody scalp and asking for her purse and hairbrush.

Because Cage and Dern are on the run from a former life and the law, they cannot call for help. And the woman is too far gone to be saved anyway, so all they do is try to provide a last bit of comfort before they drive away from the lifeless stranger and the overturned car.

* * *

The process of overcoming fear and aversion creates adrenaline and endorphins, probably because the human survival instinct is so ingrained in the core of our being, our thoughts, our DNA. And the release of adrenaline and other hormones is probably what we get hooked on, what we crave, at least those of us who slow down....

The main character in the film Fearless (played perfectly by Jeff Bridges) feels the urge to take bigger and more life-threatening risks to attain the same hyper-real state of mind that he was thrust into when he walked away from a horrific plane crash that killed his devious business partner.

He tries everything from pushing his wife away when he needs her support the most to walking on the ledge of a tall building and eating the very food, strawberries, that usually causes him to go into anaphylactic shock. Fear becomes his friend in addition to his enemy in an escalating game of self-dare. He eventually rejoins the world of the living, so it is a somewhat happy ending.

Skiing has similar quandaries for me. My fear springs up and demands attention, especially when I face the edge overlooking the top of a steep or otherwise challenging run, especially when I cannot see what is directly below my ski tips.... only the bottom of the hill. But something makes me choose to go over that edge and tackle the slope. Or, as I did quite a few times last week, I shy away from the predatory incline and choose a less threatening route down to the base of the mountain and the next ride uphill so I can do it all over again.

Crashing. Coming off a high, whether natural or chemically induced. Falling asleep. Colliding with a solid object, whether it's a wall or a pillow, a car or the ground... Crashing. Showing up at an event without an invitation. Experiencing emotional devastation after an exhilarating feeling of euphoria.

Antidepressants are supposed to smooth out the emotional peaks and valleys, because most of us need to live in the middle where things are a bit more stable and predictable and calm. But riding the waves, enjoying the roller coaster can be fun too, unless it makes you sick...

How do I reconcile my own adrenaline-seeking side with the devoted spouse, the responsible father to Daisy, the good corporate employee and coworker, the caring member of my family... A family all too familiar with losing people who flew off the edge too soon, men who forgot where the guard rail was, men who crashed for good. (?)

As usual, no answer springs to mind right away. But having things worth surviving for, being with people whose company is worth sticking around for, maybe that is all. Maybe just showing up for the peaks and valleys without trying to force the highs or avoid the lows is the secret. Maybe. Thinking about all these things makes me tired. I need to crash, but this is neither the place nor the time. There is still work to be done and it's only my first week. Napping at my desk might make the wrong first impression!

ZZzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

Back...

2007-03-06T06:56:00.000-05:00

Returning to Earth. Back home. So good to see John and Daisy but sad to come back to reality. In a couple of short hours I report to work at my new job. They've already sent me an orientation schedule. Nerves.

The Ski Bums trip to Whistler was a fun and fantastic success. I had planned to write a day-to-day report of my vacation here, complete with fresh pictures, but the condo I stayed in did not have the wireless signal that was promised. Plus I was either too busy skiing and socializing or too wiped out physically to venture out to the local Starbucks when there was a rare free moment.

Maybe the WiFi couldn't get through the 16-foot snow banks flanking our condo on all sides. Although it was hard to live without blogging and e-mail, it was a true vacation from everything.

Whistler Blackcomb is a skier's paradise. Blackcomb mountain was probably the biggest surprise, especially the area aptly named 7th Heaven, an above-timberline oasis of open powder trails, steeps, bumps, and cruisers that drops into some crazy expert tree runs that I did not attempt. Blackcomb also has a glacier that is open most of the year. The two huge mountains would be impressive by themselves, so together they form a sparkly white snow sports megalopolis.

The huge spanse and sheer variety of the terrain was mind-boggling, as was the amount of near-perfect snow. Three comfy gondolas quickly transport you to the high country and the village itself is charming, functional, and filled with all kinds of shops, bars, restaurants, grocery stores, hotels, spas, and even a pharmacy.

I had noticed some bad habits forming with my technique, so I took 2 private lessons from a wonderful teacher named Graham, a longtime British transplant. I immediately decided he was Yoda to my Luke. The biggest change he recommended was to use the shaped skis as they were designed, which requires less energy. I had originally learned on straight skis, so I was doing quad-burning pivot turns and braking a lot.

The weather was good, although we had poor visibility on part of the first day because of blowing snow and on the last day due to thick fog. Even though the snow was sticky because of a light rain and warmer temps, the final day was my favorite. The fog blanketing the base of the mountains gave everything an ethereal glow and added to the sense that we were floating down the slopes.

Thursday was a close second with gorgeous bright blue skies, sun, and crisp air. I also got to ski with two really nice guys from the group, Mark and Rick. Plus, that was the day we discovered 7th Heaven.

One of my last runs with Graham was called Log Jam, a challenging but not insane black tree run with big rolling bumps and a bit of powder. He said he likes his students to end on a high note, and we certainly did that! It was exhilarating to try out the the new approach on such an asymmetrical trail.

Favorite trail name: Bark Sandwich
Favorite non-skiing activities: laughing with new friends, hot-tubbing, eating gourmet food, watching bad Canadian TV, gazing longingly at fine Australian fellas who were everywhere

Off to the office!

Canadian Adventure, Day 0.05

2007-02-26T19:39:00.000-05:00

Yikes! The time really flew by and tonight as I write this, I'm making all the last-minute plans for my trip with the Ski Bums to lovely Whistler, British Columbia.

In a few hours I'll be boarding a plane to San Fran, then another to Vancouver, BC, then a bus to Whistler. It will be a long and exhausting day to be sure, but adrenaline and caffeine should keep me from becoming a complete zombie.

According to T-Mobile, my new Razr phone will work, at least at the base of the mountain. We'll see!

John has been my rock as always, helping me prepare in so many ways. He even bought me a nice little inexpensive digital camera so I can capture at least some of the gorgeous scenery for posterity. If all goes well, I will document the journey here for all my friends and family to see. This should be interesting since I've never attempted to ask my beloved laptop to communicate with a digital camera before. Wish me luck!

Excited and nervous don't begin to describe my feelings... Skis, boots, poles, and US Passport-check. Nerve? Wait, where's my nerve? Oh there it is, hiding in between the sofa cushions. It would be much safer to stay here with Daisy and watch people have adventures on the tube... but I would be disappointed later if I didn't push myself to take this risk.

It's not just the physical challenge. It's also a social one. I will only know a few people at the beginning, so I need to resist the urge to hide among the foliage. When I was a younger lad, making new friends was much easier. I just stood around and waited for someone to strike up a conversation with me. Now I need to make more of an effort. I'm not as young and pretty as I used to be.

A lot of the guys in the group would admit that they are looking for husbands. I already have one, so why did I join up last year? Well, John does not ski, and I thought it would be a way for me to bond with my peers while getting exercise and being outdoors. Of course there is eye candy to admire and the people are nice and there is a fun-filled atmosphere....

Maybe these folks are my slightly more sober, thirty-something version of the Dance Club Crew (DCC), the group of gay men I used to go clubbing and drugging with in my early 20s when I first moved to New York, well before I moved in with John. The DCC was full of drama and my participation in its messy outings was short-lived, but it was still an important part of my transition into city life from the very different worlds of my college and hometown.

The nightlife scene back then had peaked but was still in its cups. Giuliani had not yet busted the likes of Peter Gatien and other clublords and denizens. Wigstock moved from the park to the pier but still had not gone bust. The Palladium had not yet been razed to build NYU dorms. Tunnel, Limelight, Roxy were all well-oiled machines.... living parties. It was a good time to be young and gay and to think that you knew how to dance.

Anyway, now I'm going off to do the snow dance Canadian style. Who's got a bump?!

Fun with follicles

2007-02-16T14:00:00.000-05:00

Drumroll please. I now have a new favorite Web site.

Enjoy!

Job

2007-02-16T13:55:00.000-05:00

In case you missed the bulletin, when I return from Canada the first week of March, I will be employed once again.

Do I really have to go back to work? :)

Actually I'm excited and a bit nervous.

Suddenly I see...

2007-02-15T01:24:00.000-05:00

John and Damon and I had brunch last weekend with a friend who is making a film about the myths and the realities of the Southern Plantation and its effects on the intermixing of the races, among other social phenomena. In his case, the making of the documentary revealed several black cousins he never knew existed.

My first thought was of the Sutpen family in Absolom Absolom, the Faulkner novel I never finished in high school. The owner of the land and the slaves planted himself wherever he pleased, and the rest of the community dealt with the consequences.

Life feels like the impossible maze of Faulkner's world, the onion skin that keeps slowly unpeeling, revealing new questions and sometimes obscuring tried and true answers from view.

On the positive side, I found a new job (Yippee!), which starts 2 days after I get back from Canada. That is a huge relief, although I would prefer to work now and next week and earn some extra cash for the trip.

It's a full-time copywriting position, so now I can face a whole new set of issues! Needless to say, I don't think I will miss being an editor too much. Hopefully all the editorial skills I have refined over the past half a decade will make me a more careful and responsible writer.

Still I wonder if this is really what I am supposed to be doing. The dangerous idea of living a life of purpose and meaning still pesters me; I know that helping big unseen clients sell drugs to unseen doctors and patients is not exactly soul-enriching.

On the other hand, it is a great opportunity to be more creative, which could be fun and rewarding. And it will keep Daisy in kibble and help pay for the new mortgage.

Ah, bills. They just keep coming.

Maybe I should pick up that convoluted southern novel again, and at least read a few pages. It cannot be any more confusing than the thorny narrative in my heart and head.

Speaking of thorns, John gave me some wonderfully fragrant roses for Valentine's Day. I gave him a gift box of luxurious cleansers and lotions from Kiehl's. I prefer those useful gifts, things I know he wouldn't think to buy for himself right now. We are so different and yet so much the same.

We both clapped and cheered from the comfort of the sofa as Daisy's distant cousin James won Best in Show at Westminster last night. Next year, I hope we can attend the dog show in person like we did last year, when we petted James after he won his breed competition.

Funny. Meeting James is more of a bragging point to me than any of the celebrities I've met over the years! Springer Fever is a lifelong disease indeed, but I am happy to be afflicted.

The Recruited

2007-02-06T15:20:00.000-05:00

In his first-ever film that made critics laugh and prompted the Academy to ask for one Oscar back, Jack Nicholson stars as the boss of a major family of corporate recruiters and temp agency employees who unwittingly hires an undercover labor-union rabble-rouser, who looks a LOT like the corrupt ad agency recruiter who sends Nicholson tips and leads. Strangely, there is only one female character, a winsome shrink who tries to counsel the ad recruiter while bedding the union boss.

I should work on that one. I like and loathe recruiters of all kinds for all sorts of reasons. Yes, I admit that they provide a valuable service by "introducing" you to potential employers, for which they take a handsome cut of anything you make. If finding a job were like finding a mate, recruiters would be somewhere between Match.com and street pimps.

They make their "merchandise" (you the job-seeker) look good because it increases their bottom-line earnings. They have no real interest in your career path. On the other hand, few people in life are able to listen to your gripes about the latest in corporate soul-crushing procedures the way your recruiter can.

Over the years, they have heard everything. And yet, many of them manage to avoid becoming ultra-cynical. Why is this, I wonder? Maybe it is because for every 10 temp-exploiting, nickel-and-dime deals they sign, they are able to help one person "find themselves," and that has to be satisfying... Unless of course one is a complete misanthrope! No, this rent-a-cop version of human resources still attracts humans who like other humans, otherwise they would all go insane, or even go postal.

You never hear a headline like, "Corporate recruiter wipes out half of billing dept at law firm," although it is not completely beyond the realm of possibility. Anything is possible. Yes, the occasional person slips into this bizarre business and has no social skills to speak of, but this person simply would not last.

One thing I've noticed lately about my own interviewing skills and/or lack thereof is what I not so lovingly call The Glaze. This is the tiny moment during the conversation when a strangely ethereal lull happens. I know I should ask that 4th or 5th incisive and intelligent question from my mental list, but instead I just look at the person, whether it is the HR rep or my potential boss....

Maybe I notice the color of their shirt, how much sunlight is filtering into the office or conference room where we are seated, or my mind just about completely blanks out. I feel like floating off into the light or simply falling asleep.

My eyes, I worry, have glazed over. But instead of following any of those dangerously unemployable trains of thought, I DO pose another question, or my counterpart does the same. I smile nervously and we move on with the interview. The glaze is off, and we are up and running again. This nanosecond seems to last awhile, but once it is gone, I can focus and concentrate again as if no time has passed at all.

This reminds me of something I read once about acting and then remembered having experienced. I think Uta Hagen wrote it. The actor is "in the moment," for lack of a better expression. He or she is organically filtering all the impulses, feelings, and physicality, the interior being of the character.

He or she may even lose themselves in the character. (Uta preferred to say that they "found themselves" in the character.) And then time seems to slow down... The actor suddenly becomes hyper-aware of the surroundings as he/she speaks the lines, executes the blocking, listens to the other characters onstage.

I assume that some performers freak out internally because they have done all their homework just to make sure this exact phenomenon does NOT occur. Suddenly the challenge becomes actor versus self and the worry is that the character has fallen by the wayside, even though externally nobody may have even noticed the shift in perception.

It is a creeping fear that one is not only being untrue to his/her character, one is actually painfully aware of one's own bad acting. And the worst part is, you cannot get out of it except by muddling through it. Maybe a shorter version of this is what happens just before an actor forgets a line or it comes out a bit different than usual... This also happened to me a few times. And all I could do was "recover."

In a way, you are trapped up there on that stage. You cannot run away from the audience or your cast mates, so you start the sentence again, you move on. The scene progresses and you exit and then backstage you can weep or moan or laugh or otherwise lose your composure... What is it that enables us to do this? Drive, ambition, insanity, comfort, insecurity, courage, fearlessness, strength, talent? What is it that keeps me in the seat during yet another boring interview, smiling at my interviewer, maintaining my blocking? What is it that keeps me from running away?

The stage-panic version happened to me many years ago while I was playing the title role in a mediocre college production of Agamemnon. As I stood there, delivering my entrance speech (that critical moment when Agamemnon returns home from the war and tries in vain to convince his estranged wife not to tempt fate by rolling out the finest red carpet and washing his feet).

As I say the lines and look directly at the other actors, I am suddenly acutely aware of the color of the lights, the shape of the audience in their chairs, the places where my costume could fit better, the light filtering in through the curtains, the sound of my voice as if it were coming from somewhere besides my "mask."

I continue speaking, even though I feel betrayed by my own lack of commitment to stay in character. Maybe I am just trying too hard. Actors are supposed to be empty vessels, remember? Relax and focus. Somehow I make it through my speech and the play goes on as it must. I survive.

Needless to say, this is not something I miss about acting. But getting all dressed up for a job interview is not that different. I am auditioning, playing the part of an interested candidate, trying to stay awake. Maybe the knowledge that an interview will never give you an indication of what is in store for you months or years down the line is part of the problem for me. Nobody can predict the future, and the true test is to work somewhere for a good long time...

I sometimes wonder if I should become a recruiter. Many of my friends are aware of my uncontrollable matchmaking tendencies. And I genuinely like to help people when I can. One recruiter my age has already retired and bought a house in the Hamptons. Maybe he is the exception. Or maybe he stole more than the usual 15% from us temps! Perhaps I should find his house and reclaim my wing there.

Ah, wings. In the great Platonic cycle I feel all covered in mud, wing-free, blind to the Forms, in love with the shadows of mere puppets, crude representations of the real world. When will the great wheel take me back up to the stars?

Trial by flurry

2007-01-30T07:24:00.000-05:00

Nerves. I have a job interview today, so I'm taking a long lunch from my freelance job. I cannot help thinking about losses and gains, whether or not one can change, being in flux.

It seems like everyone and their grandmother wants to hire me as an editor, but that's not what I want. I want to write and never pick up a red pen again.

Still, there are bills, responsibilities, dog food to buy, mortgage payments to make....

And all I crave is escape. To the slopes, to anywhere but here. Running away not running toward. Running.

I'm teaching another class in May, which should be fun. And I'm very close to narrowing down a graduate program. These are good things...

I miss my uncle. I miss my family in Colorado. Mom reports that puppies are coming in March--Daisy's siblings. We plan to fly out and see them. We may even bring back a brother for our girl. Puppies and skiing and seeing mom and going back to school. Try to think positively... Try.

Shout outs

2007-01-17T02:09:00.000-05:00

To my Dear Bro,
That was an amazing performance, and I would say that even if we weren't related by blood, shared tragedies, and shared laughter.

To my Deer-Hunting Kenny,
I finally found the guys you told me about. I present to you clever readers The Sprinkle Brigade, a genuine New York City original. And you thought I was running a high-class operation up in here... Ha!

Peace out.

Things

2007-01-17T01:12:00.000-05:00

Little things I like lately:

Daisy's ears. I spray them with a bit of water from a bottle and brush out the knots. She is patient with my neurotic approach to her appearance.

Getting out of the apartment. Unemployment usually means making sweet love to the surface of my sofa with my backside, but I went out this evening. Even in NYC you can find fresh air.

The fact that January is half over, which means I am closer to my trip to Canada. I have fallen way off the diet and exercise wagon, but there is still time to get ready for the powder.

Getting in touch with old friends while job-hunting. Much more pleasant and productive than relying on temp agencies.

Little things I hate lately:

The cold virus. The amount of money left in my checking account. Dog hairs on my black long underwear. The puny minds of construction inspectors in New Jersey.

Nagging voices of suspicion, uncertainty, and doubt in the back of my mind. Keeping them small is a big challenge.

Big things: love, death, moving, career, marriage, my waistline (?!)

Little things: kindness, a song lyric, floss, voices of dissent, the breath of a baby asleep

The Circle Game

2007-01-07T09:53:00.000-05:00

Death and birth and life and aging and youth.

Thirty-three years ago today, my baby brother was born. Happy Birthday Broseph!

My first memory of him is murderous. He is in a high chair which towers above me. He has interrupted the blissful trio of Me, Mom, & Dad. He has taken attention away from me, pulled focus, as they say in the biz.

And so he must be destroyed, or at least toppled from this throne, this position of power high above me.... I never pushed him, but I sure wanted to.

In the last 33 years, he has become a friend, a teacher, a student, a father, someone who understands my past because he was there, and vice versa. Life would have been boring without him, so I'm glad I spared him the fall from such great heights. Of course, knowing him, he would have survived, crawled away, and done something charming to distract my parents from the mess.

Now the loss of another uncle brings us together again. I fly to Denver in a few hours. My uncle died earlier this week, one day after my 36th birthday. Chris was a prankster and an angel. Maybe they missed him up in heaven.... His last days here were awful; cancer is ruthless, gruesome, heartbreaking. We will all miss him terribly.

Last night my friends took me out to a joyful dinner for my birthday, which was on Tuesday. We went to a posh Asian eatery in the lobby of the Hotel Gansevoort. I had a piece of Spicy Tuna Roll that was the best I had ever tasted and a cocktail that was divine. And of course the company was fabulous: John, Mary Jo, Peter, Marney, Damon, Tim, and Angela. I'm a lucky lad of 36. Strange number, It does not engender much of a reaction in me, certainly not like 30 did.

The months leading up to my 30th birthday were filled with angst, denial, anger, and depression. I was not ready for it. It was like an internal tantrum waged against the great inevitable. "You can't make me turn 30!" But when the day came, friends arrived at our place, and I began mixing music and cosmos... and everything was fine.

False alarm? All hype and no actual pain. No shock; just a celebratory dance amongst loved ones. I remember that we ran out of cranberry juice. Twice. The second time it happened, I improvised and used red Gatorade instead. The final product got mixed reactions, but I thought it was inspired. Maybe all those electrolytes in the first-ever sports drink helped our pending hangovers from becoming epic.

Birth, life death, rebirth. The circle. Makes me dizzy. Makes me grateful, sad, wistful, peaceful, restless....all part of the cycle. All one.

Seasons don't fear the people

2006-12-29T05:33:00.000-05:00

....but it sure seems like some people fear the seasons! Others fear seasoning, my new euphemism for enhancing one's consciousness with the use of good herb, but we'll discuss that another time.

For now it's the fear of seasons that is heavy on my head. And it's not really the fear of seasons, but the fear of a particular wintry white particle/substance/blanket of natural cocaine that seems to have caused so much distress to so many people in the last week, John and myself and our family included, although we had it way easy compared to those people stranded at the only airport I can think of whose initials sound more menacing than DDT.

Yes, it's good "old" Denver International Airport, where our bags stood unguarded as we stood in lines at LaGuardia... that's what the holidays are all about, right? I still remember the previous Denver airport, named after a person I think, Stapleton International Airport. It was actually within the city limits, or at least the suburban limits. It was probably smaller than the current one, although in my memories from childhood it loomed large and mythical. Stapleton was the place where we dropped off and picked up Brent, among many others. I miss those days.

Back in the present I am grateful that we got here safe, saw the family, exchanged gifts, skied, laughed, cried, and caught up...and I'm glad our bags were still here when we arrived two days after they had.

I am slowly rewriting our National Anthem, or at least one of many anthems of the bittersweet adventure John and I have shared:

And the daylight's bright glare, airplane smells in our hair,
Gave proof through the fight that our bags were still there.
O say, does that snow-crippled banter yet rave
O'er the land of the sleet and the home of the slave?

What do you think?

I realize it's not patriotic. Perhaps it's even tacky and seditious. But I tend to agree with my better half that the National Guard should have been picking up all those stranded people from DIA and that our government is too focused and too fiscally invested in Iraq to take care of its own people when they need help the most.

It even reminds me of Katrina, although some peeps might argue that it's not a valid comparison. The loss of life in the first of the two December 2006 Denver blizzards was indeed far less than that caused by the hurricane. And unlike Katrina, the DIA situation was "fixed." It took a few days, but the airport and the city slowly plowed, waited for melting, grinded back into motion, and the wheels of civilization and progress turned as many of us rely on them to turn....

You know, I really did not plan to go off on a political tangent. I was waxing philosophical about a less volatile subject: the fear of snow.

That's right people, I'm talking about the dreaded Snowphobia, and I am at a very unique vantage point (Denver, Colorado) in recent history (the past week or so) to observe this gripping phenomenon firsthand.

It seems like this is not a fear that enthralls just a few poor souls. No honey, we're talking about a massive and bizarre fear-slash-wish fulfillment thing. The meteorological version of Groupthink or Adspeak. Yes, it is that insidious and that hard to spot in one's own thinking, much less in anyone else's. Unless one has experience of course. Remember Hendrix' album title, "Are You Experienced?"? Just as Jimi and his music were and are the jolt that continues to make Rock and Roll interesting and spiritual, so Snow Experience is the antidote to Snowphobia and as such, it can set you free, or at least freer.

It might be far-fetched to say, but Snow Experience could even save lives right now, if just one clever reader sees even the smallest and most remote kernel of truth in my bold seasoning-addled statements. All you have to do out there is spread the word to just one other moderately intelligent human being with an opinion, a heartbeat, a snow shovel, a car, or an airplane. Tell them they do not have to be afraid.

Snow is like money in a certain respect. It is not necessarily the money we sweat to get, that we like, want, fear losing, and struggle to save. It is what the money means. What it can do, buy, change, accelerate, engender, and acquire.

Snow is not what people should fear. In fact, it is a relatively harmless collection of H2O particles that are in a frozen state of suspension between crystal and liquid form. Maybe I don't know much more about the scientific explanations for the unique properties of snow, but I do know that lately snow seems to have a deleterious effect on people's hearts, minds, bodies, wallets, schedules, and plans, just like the media does, or just as mass hysterias disguised as religions do...

Strike one, politics
Strike two, religion
Strike three, snow police?

Phobias can be fun in a way, especially if you are the kind of person who is willing to explore the possibility of facing one's fears head on and still manage to maintain a mental safety net woven by the utter unlikelihood of events turning disastrous, deadly, or merely dark and depressing. In other words, if one is ready, willing, or able to let go, one can have fun and be scared at the same time.

And to me, nothing is scarier than facing the ridge of a run from which the bottom of the mountain is not visible, and neither is the potential scattering of ice patches, wind shears, moguls, trees, other people, and general obstacles to one's safety, sanity, and skiing path.

It is the fear of a blank page, the fear of the unknown, the fear of injury (or worse). It could also be the basic fear of letting go. But that moment of choice, the quickness of breath and heartbeat as one's speed increases and one's worries melt in the cold white beauty of the contact with the mountain, the motion of tandem planks buckled to one's feet.

This is an unmeasurable euphoria of discovery after lesson after fear after satisfaction after accomplishment after fall, after getting up, after lift lines and helmets and laughter and pain. Many of these perceptions counterbalance the fear.... Other driving forces behind my search for perfect powder, or "pow pow" as my brother aptly calls it, include the sound of the skis as they trace the line, the floating sensation, the visual whimsy of your skis disappearing under the fluffy goodness, these also help me use experience to wage war against fear.

Snow does not directly hurt people, at least not very often. It can lift you, propel you along, cover you, and even kiss you if you let it. Some people see their ancestors in the stars. Why not see them in snowflakes? After all, it is true that each snowflake is unique, just as we all are unique expressions of the unified sameness in joyous juxtaposition to the violence caused by the illusion of our varied differences.

Speaking of ancestors, I saw my late father in the shiny black face of the flat mossy boulder upon which I landed spread-eagle after a fall in Vermont. My father saved me and I thanked him out loud. Who else could have intervened so quickly and seamlessly on my behalf? I LANDED ON A ROCK PEOPLE! And after that, I located my skis and poles, stepped back into my bindings, and floated down the mountain unscathed, except for a 3-inch tear in the ski pants I was wearing. No pain, injury, or physical aftermath. Just gratitude and awe that I was still alive.

It's odd because this kind of spirituality has a God-ish aspect to it, but I suppress that kind of thinking. Maybe I should not be prejudiced against "religion" because that is like criticizing the air. Religion is too general a concept, so I should break it down into Christianity, fundamentalist, et cetera. Instead I infuse my own sense of spiritual life with the souls of people I have known or wanted to know who have died.... Interesting.

I visited the blog of a friend of mine from college and was surprised that much of the site is devoted to the interpretation of scripture, the philosophy behind the Christianity my friend adheres to, and a few odd links to a gay Christian group that he associates himself with.

I struggle with seeing this because I think of this man as my former lover, friend, and confidant, and in some ways the “God-thing” seems like he’s flirting with the enemy.... Of course it is not so simple. Gay Christians could change things like antiquated marriage laws. They could even transform the most hateful attitudes of the loud minority known as the Religious Right into more tolerant voices for positive change. And they would be doing it organically, from within the belly of the beast, so to speak. And why do I even refer to folks like my old college flame as “they?” Many of my own beliefs overlap with my friend’s. I believe that there is a Right and Wrong and that morality has a place in society...I even pray to the Catholic God of my childhood. But I do not think of myself as a Christian. Isn’t that odd? Maybe.

I will say that whomever or whatever created the pale warm pink color of the night sky after a snowstorm was an artistic genius, or at the very least, an extremely organized, lucky, and motivated group of atoms. Or something else entirely....

And that brings me back to experience. This is what helps us turn one blizzard into a learning experience to prepare us for the next. You get the idea. Keep the lesson. Keep the experience too, unless it holds you back from letting go of your fears now or in the future. In that case, make peace with the experience because it is in the past now. And the past is no place to dwell for too long. Who can remember it anyway? If we are lucky, painful memories fade just as snow melts and the happy memories swell like the storm clouds over this city....

Good night, and be nice to the snow. It may help you someday. It sure has helped me, in spite of the muscle cramps, shortness of breath, and head-to-toe sweat on the slopes. Maybe that was the dreaded Altitude Monster!

Happy Holidays from a mile high

2006-12-26T04:30:00.000-05:00

The storm and a forgotten bag kept us in New York two days later than planned, but we are finally in Colorado. The mountains and snow are beautiful and it is great to see everyone in my family.

My insomnia is acting up in full force. Lately I go to sleep around 9 or 10 pm, wake up after midnight, and am awake for several hours...as I am now. Sometimes waking John up and talking to him helps, but he is fast asleep now--enjoying a well-deserved nap after three trips to two airports since Saturday.....waiting on standby like souls in purgatory....

I'm sure the stress of leaving my job has a lot to do with my odd sleep patterns of late, on top of the usual mad holiday rush, the new apartment, traveling this time of year.....the fact that my uncle is dying too young and all any of us can do is watch, tell him we love him, and provide a modicum of comfort in his last days.

It's a lot to handle.

I'm also thinking about the heated argument with my old boss that was sparked when I said I wanted to resign. It is a painful memory, but one that will fade I suppose. Of course I wish it had not happened, but a large part of it was out of my control. There are many promising things happening in my career to soften the sting. It is great to be in demand for my work, and at the same time I have a detached attitude. I am in no rush to jump into a full-time commitment, and I may never have to.

The corporate world may not the right kind of place for someone like me. I can survive in it, but if I can manage to remain on the periphery, why bother?!

Music is a great comfort this time of day, when my brain won't switch off, my emotions are a carnival ride, and the uneasiness creeps into everything like mold after a hurricane.

Everything could not possibly be as it seems. I am so happy to see my family, and they are thrilled to see me, but somehow I don't trust it. Happiness is for people in movies, right? Not for people who stay up late at night and think.

Thinking is one of the things I do best (and worst). It is not always good for me to think so much, to try to analyze every event, detail, feeling, person, situation, and relationship. But I can't help it.

I think I should try to sleep and I think it's time to wish everyone a good night and a happy holiday. Maybe I'll write again after skiing with the crew (if I can move). Be well. Be crazy. Be happy if you can. And if you can, tell me the secret!

Silly business

2006-12-21T21:00:00.000-05:00

"Silly Bizness" is one of my many pet names for my pet, Daisy. "U R Da Bestest" is another. Funny that with dogs, the tone, the inflection, and the intention are probably much more important than the actual words.

But it makes me feel that I am getting my point across when I tell her how pretty she is in the lovingly varied slang that I invented for her. Does she really care or understand whether I say she is beautiful or ugly, good or bad, so long as she has food, shelter, exercise, and affection?

It reminds me of the voice of the teacher in the Charlie Brown cartoons. Remember that?! "Wanh wa wan wuh wa wawa." So brilliant. As if adults really were actually incapable of speaking in a language children could understand, or, as if children were truly incapable of hearing anything worthwhile coming from the mouth of any adult.... The truth is somewhere in the middle, but the extreme example is funny.

With my old friend Pavlina, we used to laugh ourselves silly. We called them "laughing fits." We would get to laughing so hysterically that tears would stream down our cheeks, our bellies ached from all the diaphragmatic activity, and we usually crouched over or rolled around on the floor or ground. One time in particular, she and I were just about to get out of her car in front of my mom's house in Englewood, Colorado.

Pavlina was dropping me off after a night of revelry when "Peggy Sue" by Buddy Holly came on the radio. It hit us both like a bolt of lightning and we immediately began doing our twisted imitation of the classic tune. For some reason, what came out was our un-PC take on a retarded person singing the song. This sent us over the edge of laughter and we ended up lying on the cool summer grass, belting out the chorus.... I suppose we were making fun of the song, the singer, and the mentally challenged all in one fell swoop. Whatever it was, we laughed until the pain in our abdomens could no longer be tolerated, so we stopped with a few ebbing bursts of giggles and guffaws.

Anyway, so many people ask me why my nickname for myself is Aaron Sue. The answer is that it is my tribute to Pavlina, to the laughter that kept us up at night but out of serious trouble, maybe even a tribute to Buddy Holly for sending us into such a tizzy. Who knows really? I am a complex and high-maintenance person with many aliases, alter egos, and pen names. I suppose that is what makes me creative, but it is also what makes me a bit crazy.

Oops. I did not mean to go there. The line between silliness and craziness is slim indeed. Anyway, that's the story of a Boy Named Aaron Sue. Thanks, Johnny Cash. I hope you and Buddy are making sweet music up there!

Misery loves companies

2006-12-18T23:52:00.000-05:00

It is my first time freelancing in a long while. I forgot just how freaky some of the other editorial-type folks out here really are! Talk about the sweet, the mean, and the slightly smelly!

The big Dodger Holiday party last night was a lot of fun, and I even got to see Auntie Henry for lunch today. That was a nice bonus. He explained to me that he is a descendant of Roger Williams and some other famous colonists. After all these years, I never knew that about him!

It was a fun/hectic/productive weekend. John and I made progress out at the construction site and Damon came to visit us here in Manhattan. He always makes me laugh, even when the external circumstances are crappy and uncertain. I forget how many amazing people I have in my life.

Speaking of great folks, Katherine and EJ's soiree was wonderfully pleasant and relaxing, even though I was constantly trying to steer Daisy away from the "people food." I was also aware of the bittersweet nature of my departure from my former place of work. I made some good friends there and miss them already, but I also feel relieved, vindicated, motivated, freed up. One can only make the square peg try to fit in the round hole so many times!

My job interview this afternoon went well, and last night I finally finished my first big journal ad for the portfolio or "book" as they say in the biz. Alternatively, it is extremely anxious-making to be wrested from the familiar stability of full-time employment, especially this time of year.

I'm also finding the adjustment to a different schedule difficult. I always thought part of my answer to the age-old question, "What would you do if you didn't have to worry about money?" was that I really needed some kind of steady structure, so I would try to work part-time, or even volunteer. But really, when it comes down to it, I would most likely go back to school. That is where I was happiest and where my gifts really shined and served the greatest good.

All in all I cannot complain. In 8 days I will be on the slopes with my kinfolk, skiing through the dry fluffy powder you can only get out West. And it just keeps snowing in the mountains of Colorado!

The veil of sleep

2006-12-13T14:50:00.000-05:00

Sleep. On my way to work this morning, I see a taxi parked on the side of the street, just off Union Square West. In the back seat of the cab, the driver is sleeping in what looks to me to be a very uncomfortable position. His head is dangling off the seat on the passenger side and his feet are splayed across the inside of the driver's side door.

Maybe sleep is what wakes me up in the morning; how can that be? No, I'm almost sure of it now. It's not the sound of the apartment building coming to life, it is not the creeping warmth of daylight or Daisy wagging and kissing my hand or my face, or even the gradually increasing volume of my alarm clock.. (beep) beep beeep Beep Beeep BEEP BEEP BEEEEP!

Yes it is sleep itself, the alarming wresting from which is such a brutal shock to my system. Maybe it is surprising to move from an utterly vulnerable state of enveloping slumber into the stable and solid verities of the so-called real world.

In air travel, the journey through the skies is usually the longest and most uneventful portion of the trip, whereas the take-off and landing are for me the most tense, exciting, fun, and scary, all at once. So it is, perhaps with falling asleep and waking up, especially the latter.

There is a split second in between full sleep and full consciousness when I am not sure what is real and what is dream. And that is a special fleeting glimpse into some other world where the concrete is fluid and the laws of physics, space, and time bend as easily as tree branches in the wind.

This morning, I do the usual recap of any dreams I can remember, and since I had nightmares, my feeling of shock upon awakening gives way to relief that the horrible events I just lived through did not in fact happen. There are no consequences to sort through, no ramifications to face, no villains from which to hide. Just John and Daisy and the quiet dark bedroom and the promise I made to myself last night to go to the gym before work today, a vow I so easily break, choosing to go back to sleep instead, only to risk more torture, joy, danger, ecstasy, humiliation, and forgetfulness.

Ironic that the power of sleep as a restorative is in its ability to let us break free of the concerns of the day, and yet those very concerns are usually the subjects of the most intense dreams, whether nightmares or pleasant fantasies. We work out in sleep what we could not during the day. Or we don't work it out and nightmares become more and more haunting.

Sleep is delicate and so easily disturbed at times, and at other times it takes jackhammers or doorbells or arguing neighbors or the dog pouncing on your leg for the fifth time in an hour, just to force those leaden eyes open, and open they must. For life has another day to dish out, if we are fortunate...

Life must seem like a nightmare to my uncle, and yet the cruelty of its brevity, the flightiness with which it threatens to abandon him, must all create an emotional and mental state fraught with peril and pain and hope and confusion and anger, not to mention what the cancer is actually doing to his body. I know his jaws have deteriorated, along with many of his salivary glands, cheek tissue, and teeth. The tumors are all over the outside and the inside of his mouth now.

My other uncle Brent got furious and lost his temper easily in the months before he died. Luckily I was not the target of his wrath. I could still worship the man I knew him to be, even though that man was being slowly torn apart by HIV and what was left was not necessarily pretty or civil or polite.

At the shore of the lake Brent yelled at some people in a boat because they had created waves in a no-wake zone. His outburst surprised me, but in retrospect he was probably lashing out at the larger loss of control he felt. There is always something we do not see that fills in the story, the perspective of the second or third person, the clarity of memories seen after a span of time. Maybe sleep too is home to clear vision, unfettered by the ongoing monologue of conscious thought, the thought that is tied to every waking action, movement, and sensation of the body.

I hope the man in the taxi was asleep and not dead. Yes, sooner or later we all fall, succumb to the end of life, but I am not ready for that. Not yet. I have things to do, places to see, an apartment to fix up, a dog to lavish affection upon, a job to do. But what if all that is just meaningless busy-ness? As usual I do not have the answer to my own question.

My mind seeks what is just beyond its own comprehension, and sometimes it even admits that what it is searching for is not "out there" or "in here," or anywhere. It is the searching that is life. The searching defines me as I suspect it defines others.

Don't we all want a piece of something intangible? Fame, love, a ticket to the correct locale in the afterlife, and perhaps conversely, don't we all want to feel like we ourselves are a part of something greater: a community, a movement, a relationship, even a part of history-making.

So we are points without parts, looking for our whole to get rid of the hole, to fill the gap, to obliterate the emptiness, or at least to forget that the emptiness is waiting for us someday. And it has more patience and constancy than we do. But I bet the emptiness cannot sleep nor can it dream, so we are one up on it. At least there is that.

blogslacker (n) someone who neglects their blog...

2006-12-10T17:48:00.000-05:00

Yes, that's me, the busy bee. Work has been a bit better, although the amount of bureaucratic red tape and politics still frustrates and amazes me. It looks like they are going to give me a chance to write starting next year, which will probably be both a blessing and a curse.

My uncle Chris is in the last stages of terminal cancer, and naturally he has been on my mind a lot. I feel so helpless to do anything, and when I call him, I don't know what to say. Being with the family in a couple weeks for the usually joyful holiday madness will be bittersweet, to say the least.

Daisy is doing well. John and I are both busy and tired a lot.

There are delays upon setbacks upon challenges with the renovation, which actually seems to be the least of my worries these days. Still, it is an area of uncertainty, an ongoing project with no clearly defined end in sight. That is not the same thing as a new home (far from it), but it will have to do for now.

Just a few more days of work and I will be on the slopes with my brother and nephew and cousin. That will be great. Then more work in January and then I go on my first-ever ski trip to British Columbia in late February. That should be amazing, especially since I plan to try helicopter skiing. Yes, I am an adrenaline junkie in my own way. I have a feeling it will be one of those rare highlights that will stay in my memory for a very long time, so I am already trying to get in better shape.

When it comes to diets, I am great for a day or two, and then I fall off the wagon, so to speak. My history with sticking to a regular exercise plan is even less stellar, but having this big trip is a good motivator for me. After all, I don't want to make a fool of myself on the slopes... Maybe this big boy from Colorado can even teach those Canucks a thing or two!

This new trimming-down plan is sort of my version of the bikini-season diet. I'll keep you all posted about how it's going.

So far, I worked out at the gym 3 days last week, instead of the usual 1 day. So this week, I'll try to make it 4. I have not seen any changes yet, but I do feel better. Yesterday my lazy buns made sweet love to the surface of my beloved sofa for hours at a time, so that was a slip into old routines. Change is not easy or linear.

Peace and love and joy to everyone. I'm sure I'll be blogging from Denver.

Sometimes I remember...

2006-11-27T14:11:00.000-05:00

..why I left Colorado!

One?

2006-11-22T09:57:00.000-05:00

11/22/06
Pre-Turkey Day

"Thank you" is the least the early settlers could have said to the Native Americans at this time many years ago. "We're terribly sorry. Here's everything we ever stole from you and more..." would have been even better, but then, would overfed whities like me still be here? And isn't it good to be here?

I do feel grateful today for not living in Iraq, having a wonderful man, a steady job, a new apartment, a loving family, lots of great friends, my daughter Daisy Mae, and relative security and contentment. Thanks to the troops. Seriously. Thank you soldiers. We owe our liberties in part to your sweat and sacrifice.

Still, I strive for more. A deep-seated vein of dissatisfaction with the status quo runs through my personality like fool's gold. Taking responsibility for this critical inner voice is a lifelong challenge, but I've made strides. In spite of a promotion that vaporized almost as quickly as it was suggested, I have stayed with my employer for almost 18 months, a personal record.

* * *

11/26/06
Post-Turkey Day

Thanksgiving has come and gone. John and Daisy and I watched the big parade that was happening two blocks from our living room IN our living room in front of the TV. In fact, I have never watched the parade here live and in the fall-colored, feather-coated flesh.

Sometimes I feel guilty about that because I like the idea of trying new things on principle, and also because I feel like I hardly take advantage of a large enough fraction of all that this great city has to offer.

I was in a cab earlier tonight that was traveling down 5th Ave and I stared in admiration at the passing pictures of the Metropolitan Museum, The Plaza, the Harry Winston store, and the New York Public Library. And there was that tinge, the sting of having missed several other experiences. Sure, I've been to the Met and the Plaza and the Library, but not lately.

And as for Harry Winston, is that even a store you can just walk into or do you have to have an appointment and some kind of ineffable proof of your multimillion-dollar net worth?

Either way, bling has never been my thing, although I am curious what it would be like to hold a necklace for which the total value could easily purchase ten New Jersey apartments identical to the one John and I just bought this summer. What must that feel like? I do wonder, but that is not what is keeping me awake at this absurd hour.

No, the thought that I wrest with at present has to do with the soul. Mine, yours, the general soul. Why, you may ask am I plagued by such a lofty idea? It has been germinating for quite awhile now, but I think I'm on the verge of a revelation. Maybe not, but here goes:

Whether or not it was wise to attend a 4-year-college that instilled a multilayered appreciation for the questions in life, the philosophical quandaries, especially in today's technocratic, high-octane, faster-pussycat-kill-kill culture, remains to be seen.

Before I went to college, I certainly knew that I had a soul because I knew what it felt like to lose a part of it when my father died. I was 9, and I was trying hopelessly to deal with and manage all those feelings of excruciating loss, grief, anger, and sadness. There was also joy, hilarity, security, and safety.....But that's a lot to deal with as a little boy I s'pose.

So it was not until I began to study the works of both the famous and the infamous "dead white male European authors" that I realized my soul could be crafted, fed , nurtured, harmed, changed, renewed, challenged, jilted, held aloft, thrashed about....and that all these movements shared a significant relationship to the movements of the souls of other people.

Granted, I was not really aware of much of this at the time. Back then it seemed like I was more concerned with mundane things like getting laid, getting decent grades, making it to class on time, finishing all that reading, participating in class without looking or sounding like an ass (or maybe that was the point--to feel safe enough to risk public embarrassment all in the name of education, the betterment of not only myself but the selves that made up my classes).

And so the soul is what I ponder now, all these years after reading Aristotle and Plato and all those other wacky writers. And I wonder why it is that I am not actively working in some way to nourish, exercise, feed, offer, give, tutor, test, drive, feel, discover, uncover, protect, and provide for my soul and/or the souls of others who are interested in pursuing a similar path.

What does all this mean? It certainly does not mean I want to turn to religion, although I continue to contemplate the resonance of Buddhism in my world view. At dinner last night Patrick and I talked about Sidhartha (the Buddha) and the book by Herman Hesse.

As Siddartha stood on the river bank, he thought of the water, the droplets and the river as a whole, the water that had not yet passed the spot where he stood, the water that was passing in front of him, and the water further downstream, and it all was one. The water was one and this oneness was at once universal and simple, not a magic pill or the revelation that he sought, but a calm acceptance of the nature of nature, the oneness that is truth.

Yes, it was light chit chat at the dinner table! But really, that is how I remembered the book. And the mystery of oneness still fascinates, inspires, and eludes me. It is somehow pure form and symbol and point and part and substance and substrate. Oneness with regard to people is probably even more profound. Whatever I do to anyone I aslo do to myself and to everyone. Yup.

What it all does mean is that I miss studying philosophy. I miss studying the soul from the point of view of philosophy and I miss studying philosophy as it relates to the soul. Lately my missing of it feels like a hunger pang.

And yet, the outer trappings of my life keep moving toward domesticity and sameness, at least when it comes to my current choice of a career. And since my most profound and prolonged experience of soul-feeding to date was when I was in college, it would make sense to pursue some kind of educational path, whether full or part time. I have even thought about getting into teaching and trying to get a job as a tutor at St. John's....

But for some reason, I am not ready to give up the city, the job, the money, and all that comes with it. And this is really weird because my feeling of dissatisfaction at work continues to increase and my motivation feels like it's declining daily.

This feeling may be somewhat illusory and not based on anything. I know that several aspects of my job, my home life, my responsibilities as a partner to John and dad to the doggie are rewarding and worthwhile. And yet I still feel like it's just not enough. I still struggle and strive. I still feel the pang of lacking something more, something better, something different than whatever I have...

This nagging, questing, never-satisfied nature can really be a pain in the ass. But in that taxi tonight, I was trying to think of some way to combine my need to pursue philosophy with the current paradigm I've constructed around me. But how? What would this hybrid of work and school look like? Or if school became my work, how would I pay the bills?

It's a sticky wicket indeed. And at the moment, there is no revelation as I had hoped there would be by now. Somehow I thought one would appear just by virtue of writing down the problem as I saw it tonight for a brief moment of clarity. There is no answer yet. Only questions.

Another underlying concern of mine is that this very line of thinking is self-indulgent and therefore not really of any value or interest or help to anyone else. There is a huge part of me that wants to help people, although sometimes I wonder if what I want even more is to be perceived as less selfish by people.

Less selfish than what though, or whom? Good question. Thank you! Yes, I'm officially at the last stage of insomnia where split personalities seem like a whole lotta fun and/or the only logical explanation for one's thoughts... of course I left out the fact that I am a bit drunk.

Alcohol keeps me awake and tends to contribute to the racing thoughts that are the opposite of sleep-inducing. It must be the liquor's fault! It was the bottle of beer with the opener in the drawing room!

But seriously, what does one do when one does not know what to do or how to go about doing something that may lead to greater happiness, but also may not?!

How/why/when/what/where/who/how much?

I am at a loss. And it is uncomfortable. So maybe I just need to sleep it off and start again later today. The sun is up now. Daisy and John are sleeping. Why shouldn't I give that a try? Why not? Why not, indeed!

Leaning toward lethargy

2006-11-14T20:15:00.000-05:00

Lately all I want to do is hibernate, crawl under the covers with a big bar of dark chocolate, and call it a year. Maybe 2007 will be less anxiety inducing...

Work is insane, as are our clients, but they do pay us, so they gets mad respect...or something.

I've seen two films since my last entry here: Borat and The Prestige. The former was definitely hilarious and managed to offend just about every group I can conceive. Sacha is in top form throughout the absurd farce. I went with John and Damon and Adam, and we all laughed our tushies off. The icing on the cake is that HBO is replaying all the episodes of "Da Ali G Show," where Cohen first brought Ali G, Borat, and Bruno to life.

The Prestige is not as successful, but still engaging and watchable, although it's not a comedy, so it's light years away from the hijinks of Kazakstanis in America. It is a lengthy morality play that thinks of itself as an epic tragedy about the obsessive, danger-seeking rivalry between two magicians.

Aside from a gem of a cameo by the ever-stellar David Bowie, who plays the real-life scientist Nikola Tesla, the performances in The Prestige are solid but not great. As the engineer/impresario who introduces the two anti-heroes to each other, Michael Caine has little to work with, although his voiceover narrations that bookend the story are somewhat chilling. Of course, you can hear those in the trailer!

Christian Bale and Hugh Jackman have good moments, as does Scarlett Johansson but their usual magnetic power is befuddled by a story that tries too hard to be three steps ahead of the viewer. Granted, it does take some truly unforseen twists and turns, and I found the ending to be thought provoking. But it also preached at me, a quality I disdain in films.

It's the same way I felt about Born on the Fouth of July, Oliver Stone's overwrought indictment of American contradictions as told by the saner Tom Cruise of times past. Cruise pays well-deserved tribute to a real-life war hero, but the direction was far too heavy handed for him to attain real brilliance.

So that's it, sports fans. Napping is what I crave. Somebody wake my ass up?!

High five.

Go Amurica!

2006-11-09T15:17:00.000-05:00

Yes, the voters have spoken. How cool is that?! Rumsfeld is out of office and there is a tremendous opportunity for change in Washington, DC and in Iraq. I wonder how long this feeling of victorious exuberance and optimism will last. For now, it's wonderful to be a Democrat.

I almost got choked up about my last chance to vote at the nondescript school on West 76th Street where I've been voting for the last 9 years. Change is scary and fun, but I will miss the little things. Tuesday morning John and I took turns watching Daisy as the other went in and turned the levers of those big old gray machines one more time. We didn't even have to wait in line.

Afterwards, we laughed about the fact that we both made last-minute reversals of our earlier decision on the Alan Hevesi conundrum. Earlier that morning, NY1 aired the commercial in which Hevesi apologized, and that was enough for me to change my mind and vote for him. Yes, in spite of his non-Comptroller-like behavior and misappropriation of funds, probably taxpayer money, I cast my vote for the guy.

Why? Well, when was the last time a politician actually said the words "I'm sorry" and on TV no less? On the other side of the coin, John had a last minute tinge of conscience perhaps about Hevesi's embarrassing gaff. He had not seen the commercial. So he voted for the other guy!

* * *

The Tao of Steve
A few coworkers and I got together to celebrate an early Halloween and dress up as Steve, an icon who left our team. That was fun. On the actual day, John and I watched the Halloween parade on TV and went to bed early. This whole real life thing can be so exhausting!

* * *

Some of you may have noticed that my postings have been absent for several weeks. I suppose it's because of work, and my new focus on writing Rx ads and moving away from editing them. This time of year feels like being squeezed through an ever-smaller opening. Time rushes by; obligations and social invitations stack up like holiday cards in the mail, and the stores replace their spooky ghosts and skeletons with paper turkeys, Christmas trees, Kwanzaa colors, and menorahs.

There should be more time between the holidays! Time to rest, recharge the old batteries, reflect on the year thus far. But it is a season of holidays. No time to adjust. Just the rush to get it all done, purchased, seen, heard, and survived. And then the long slow lull of post-New Year's drags itself in like a hungover house guest. And then spring and summer and fall and we do it all over again. That's the cycle.

What can you do? Drink eggnog and bear it? I suppose.

Happy Birthday to Henry!

Go Jersey!

2006-10-26T15:55:00.000-04:00

Yipee!!! The New Jersey Supreme Court ruled in favor of marriage equality for same-sex couples yesterday. This is especially encouraging because John and I will be living in New Jersey in 2007, when the lawmakers will come up with a plan for implementing the court's decision.

I would be lying if I said I was not irked that the court merely referred the issue of "enforcement" for lack of a better term to the state legislature, which could compromise by creating civil unions for lesbian and gay couples. My understanding of civil unions is that they convey a "marriage-lite" set of rights and responsibilities on the happy couple. Sounds like separate and unequal to me.

But it is still a judicial and morale victory for the civil rights of a minority group to which I happen to belong. Wait a minute! "Happen to be gay" is a phrase I have come to dislike because it is neither progressive nor rings true. One happens to fall into an open grate or a manhole (bad pun). One does not happen to be gay. One is gay or one is not. Just as one is bisexual, straight, questioning, or attracted to all living things. Believe me, if chocolate were a sentient organism, I would be a chocosexual.

I remember meeting a guy once who asked, "Are you 'gay' the sexuality or 'Gay' the political party?" He noted the capital G in the latter choice. Needless to say, I inherently understood what he was getting at, although I thought his ill opinion of gay activism was short-sighted.

When I was in high school, my mom said that she wished I would not "broadcast" my sexuality, in large part because she feared what might happen to me. But I do not think someone can truly broadcast their sexuality unless he or she is on a stage or in front of a camera and engaging in a sex act. Even pornographic performers cross the boundaries of self-identification in "gay for pay" scenarios and countless other incarnations. The whole range of behaviors and sensibilities that we call effeminacy, masculinity, "butch"ness, and androgyny are different. These do not always exist under the surface or behind closed doors, and why should they? Some gay men are "obviously" effeminate, flamboyant, androgynous. So are some straight guys (metrosexuality), just as there are masculine straight ladies and lipstick lesbians.

The gay sensibility, even humor, stems from the particular brand of irony that is royally self-referential. Many gay men are really into dressing, acting, looking a certain way, and I think it is because of self-awareness of how we are perceived by those we want to be like, and/or be with. I don't mean to make sweeping generalizations here, but "camp" to me has to do with irony mixed with a weird cocktail of self-effacement and self-aggrandizement. A man who is attracted to and by other men can turn on a coin in that regard. And that is part of the fun!

But I do understand that my mom was not trying to judge or condemn me. She just wanted me to be protected from the hostilities of a few raving homophobes who would seek to judge and condemn me, and they still do. Of course, living a life of honesty is always a risk, no matter who you are. And it has the potential to be more rich and satisfying than a merely safe life.

So I came out. One facet of my early camp sensibility and the "broadcasting" that mom observed way back when is the tremendous feeling of jubilant relief I experienced when I began to stop putting so much time, energy, fear, worry, concentration, and focus into hiding the truth about myself and worrying about the unknown consequences of dropping the lie.

Imagine my relief when nobody I cared about told me I was destined for hell, unhappiness, or some other evil fate. On the contrary, my friends and family were supportive, loving, even nonchalant (how rude)!

The point is--when you start to let go of that kind of emotional weight, you want to throw a party on top of an orgy on top of a sundae on top of a mountain and invite everybody you've ever known to at least take a look at the nifty cards you printed a million times. And so in my experience, no matter what age a guy is when he comes out, he goes through a stage of giddy adolescent disregard for social pressure and rules.

It is a much-needed making up for lost time and usually he is in a huge hurry; it's a natural rebalancing of one's energies. All that pent-up fear, frustration, confusion, and desire have to GO somewhere. Out, out damned self-oppression. That's why the saying "light in the loafers" is so silly and yet so apt! It is an enlightening experience to come out, both literally and figuratively.

Monday

2006-10-23T10:45:00.000-04:00

I couldn't find my keys before I left for work this morning. Oh well. At least it was a good weekend.

Saturday afternoon MJ and I saw The Departed, a well-crafted story about an undercover cop who has infiltrated the mob (Leonardo DiCaprio) and a corrupt, ladder-climbing, mop-tipping cop (Matt Damon) who are both racing to find the other out first. Of course they fall for the same woman too, a wounded waif of a police shrink played beautifully by Vera Famiga. She gives it her all, in spite of Scorsese's notorious neglect of his female performers.

It is not that the famed cinematic impresario dislikes women, it's just that he does not find them as interesting to direct. So it is in the world where he shines the most that the film is set, the male-dominated Boston police force and the Irish Mafia boss and thugs they chase.

And of course Jack Nicholson just keeps getting better. Unlike the Times critic, I have no problem with those inevitable moments when Jack all but hijacks his own character and the film he is supposed to be there to serve. That is what Jack does, folks, and he is a master.

As his masks drop, Nicholson stomps upon them with glee and then recreates them in a fierce nanosecond. Through the thinnest veil of the character he has just about pulverized, Jack speaks directly to his audience as he is. The character is a mere offering on the altar, barely breathing, but still alive somehow and oh so watchable and most importantly, believable, even touching in a sinister way.

Granted, actors with a little less talent than Jack would make cheap fools of themselves, their directors, and their audiences by even attempting such scenery-chewing tantrums of brilliance. But in Jack's hands, the performance is both transcendent and beside the point. His acting chops are a given. It is where he wants to take you, and where you are willing to be taken, or unwilling to go and yet still able to be won over, mesmerized, and convinced... That's wherein the magic lies.

The film itself does devolve into a near-Shakespearian bloodbath, especially in the last 15 minutes, but that's the way Scorsese does crime. Blunt and brutal. It is a journey not without its pitfalls, but it is totally satisfying, as much rarefied gourmet 6-course meal as guilty-pleasure comfort-food binge-fest.

Speaking of food, we joined Ardra's charming parents for a delicious dinner at French Roast on Saturday. The food was good and the service there has improved, although the manager's refusal to bring us another table was annoying.

Fresh from her cruise to the Caribbean and back, Jen regaled us with stories of her on-board conquests. Decorum be damned? Apparently so!

Sunday John and I took my Aunt Susan out to the new apartment after eating late breakfast at a local Jersey City diner. It was so great to see her. After dark I took Daisy to a well-lit meadow in the park and then to the dog run. I love to watch her in fast motion.

Work is the same.

Good news about the new apartment! We finally got the work permit, and already the walls blocking the sun are being demolished. John and I are also one major step (onto porcelain tile) closer to making all the major decisions about our new kitchen. Of course, the prices of the kinds of furniture I like continually appall me.

I wonder if voting for the Democrats in 2 weeks will have any effect whatsoever on our bloody entanglement in Iraq, but what's the alternative?

I look forward to spending Christmas in Denver with my family, skiing, and wrapping up 2006 in a bow and kissing it good-bye.

In the meantime, I wait.

Namaste, TC.

Serious about buckwheat

2006-10-12T15:50:00.000-04:00

Now that my "mood" has passed, I want to thank Marney's Mom and Dad for a lovely dinner at Soba Nippon last night. You are a truly sweet pair.

I tried octopus balls, Miss M sparked a lively discussion about sports, and Peter got all mystical on buckwheat.

Also, the Lady Liberty Umbrella made me smile, in spite of getting poured on by Mother Nature.

You all rock!

Mundane to masterstroke

2006-10-12T13:24:00.000-04:00

Imagine that little black-on-white bar code printed on the back of your box of cereal, fashion magazine, or DVD. It is plain and angular and unobtrusively simple. Now imagine it as a canvas. That's what a small Japanese design firm has done. Now why didn't I think of that?

Genius. I love and I hate that word, but some ideas can only be described that way: genius.

* * *

I decided earlier today that I am at war. It is a quiet internal struggle (man vs self). The perfectionistic, questing, restless spirit that keeps me from feeling generally satisfied about the state of affairs in my life. It motivates me, but lately it also makes me miserable.

The most recent example: I ordered a salad for lunch, but to reward myself, I also ordered something sweet. Salad and a beignet. One cancels the other out.

Yes that's me. Locked in a dizzying tennis match between yin and yang, restraint and reward, virtue and vice. I may as well declare this struggle a war, for there seems to be no clear winner and no end in sight. Yes I'm in a foul mood, I confess.

It's a grim battle, and I am usually the sole casualty, except when I unleash my temper on others. This happens much less often than it used to, thanks to many years of therapy, but it still happens.

I suppose there are glimpses of satisfaction and peace within the war zone, like rediscovering my old DJ mixes on cassette at my brother's house and in his car.

Creating DJ mixes is an example of a project that I once pursued with passion and rigor, but only until my frustration outweighed my persistence. Because I was not seeing immediate results, or even the kind of great results that would somehow fill the inherent hole in my soul, I gave up.

And yet, all these years later, as I see and listen to these tapes, something dawns on me. I realize that the fruits of the creative labors I so casually dismissed way back when are now giving someone I love great enjoyment. And that is very rewarding for awhile at least.

It's like that Jimmy Stewart movie where the guy does not realize the breadth and depth of his own impact on the people and places around him.... You all know the title. I'm too miffed to even type it in here. But you get the idea.

Now I am back to thinking about those baneful beignets. I hear that Cafe Du Monde in New Orleans serves the best ones ever...I suppose I am focusing on my lunch in order to avoid the deeper feelings of disappointment, anxiety, and dissatisfaction with my career and the perpetual limbo state of not moving to the new apartment.

Surely these larger issues are more troubling and more worthy of my attention that what I ate for lunch...But somehow I worry that it is all connected, that one misstep will trigger an avalanche of negative consequences. I am being pessimistic, yes. The world is probably not out to get me, but sometimes it feels that way.

* * *

One postscript: John and I finally got our work permit from the office in Jersey City whose shining beacon of efficient government service burns so brightly that it lights up all of New Jersey, nay the entire Eastern Seaboard. Bravo to them. Now, where on Earth did I put my sledge hammer all those months ago?

Zzz Me

2006-10-09T16:16:00.000-04:00

10/9/06
OK. Whoever invented the red-eye flight should have been drawn and quartered while being simultaneously tarred, feathered, and eaten slowly by several species of mountain goats.

I am literally finding it a big challenge of will to keep my head from banging down onto the comfortable looking desk here at work. This is not good. In actuality, it is not a comfortable desk. If it were, I would never get anything done. So how is it that today, it looks so soft and inviting?!

red eye + desk = bed
desk bed
deskbed
beddesk
bedesk
besk
desbed
deb
ded
sked
skebed
keyboard = pillow
keys leave a mark on face
face drools on keys
eyelids droop
coffee like water
just
can't
wake
up

My eyelids hurt. So do my teeth and my elbows. My hurts hurt. Ouch.

Other things are happening out there. After a period of relative silence, North Korea has exploded an underground nuclear weapon as a "test." Something tells me that President W does not like taking tests. He never did. So once again his leaden tongue will save us mere mortals again from the evils of complex diplomacy. Save us Georgie!

10/11/06
Much better today than yesterday, energy-wise. Sleep is magic. I miss my family in Colorado, but I'm happy to be back with my NYC family (John, Daisy, friends, even coworkers).

My writing voice is still looking for other ways to speak and grow and excel. I'm working on switching day jobs from editor to writer, hopefully within my current company. That should prove interesting.

I also want to take a writing class or two. It's high time. When my brother's first album comes out, I will review it. He has all the raw materials and is really honing his talents and artistic style. That's so exciting to watch. Masons are a creative bunch, that's for sure.

I really should get back to work now.

"Work is a four-letter word." -The Smiths

THC Me

2006-10-07T05:43:00.000-04:00

"The West is best." -The Doors

Being back in Colorado with family and friends has been a wonderful journey. I had almost forgotten that October is so eerily brilliant here, with the gold and red hues of the leaf-changers dotting the evergreen mountainscapes. The sky is cloudy, but the sun is still doing its magic too. They waltz. Sun sun clouds one two three sun sun clouds, one two three. Keep dancing.

Was I running when I moved away from here? Probably, but running to something more than running away. New York moves me. Colorado caresses me, so I can go back and be moved some more.

Of course, there are painful memories here, like the death of my dad, but some of my favorite living people are here. And we are survivers, all in our own way. we are strong. And there is so much love, love I have for my kin, love they have for me. And isn't that what life should be?

Waxing poetic is easy here. My brain definitely needed a trip to the day spa....

Chris and Terry and Deke
Jose's with the Masons
Window shopping with Shannon
The breeze through the Aspen
My brother on guitar and on Basil
Grams' house and her humorous heart
Wonderful food
The kids, all three
Back yards that open onto the Rockies as effortlessly as people open their hearts and homes
Long hugs from Mom (HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO HER!)
Lots of laughs and reminiscence
Dog talk with Kenny
Fresh air
Ordering the platter
The Carlberg Chemistry
My cell phone ringing and I don't even look to see who's calling. I just pick up because I know it will be John, Mom, Bro, Brian, Gram, Kris, Terry, Chris, Marcia, Conner, Monica, Shane, Shannon, Tom, Kenny, Meghan, Colleen, George, Margi, (catch breath). Someone I want to see. Someone who wants to see me. And doing it all, seeing everyone and still planning as I go, this is a dance. Sometimes it is a slam dance, sometimes a waltz, like the skies and mountains and leaves and grass and sun and moon and stars here. All dancing.

And one memory not of Denver but Santa Fe: It is snowing and I am standing behind one of the dorm buildings, looking at the enormous flakes falling in the hot cluster of outdoor lights pointing from the corner of the building onto the lawn and the balcony and the empty driveway below me. The snow seems to catch fire as it falls.

Sleep wants to steal me away, but I am here and awake and writing to capture these moments before they fly away. Feeling this tired, and not the stress-tired of a crazy week at the office, but the pleasant whirr inside, the slowing of time, the heaviness of everything. This is different indeed.

Sleep is clawing at me now, and still I resist. Because I do not want to surrender these moments. What if they are not here tomorrow? Better to protect my memories, catalogue them here in Cyberspace before sleep punctuates the day and the night. The pause is ucertain, unknown country. Sleep shifts the sense of time around its own schedule, not the schedule of the will but of the body clock. Epic dreams last seconds.

Trust then. That's all I can do. Trust that the night will not snatch anything away from me as I lay sleeping and vulnerable and still. Trust.

There's a reason it's called falling asleep. What will catch us if we fall too far or too deep or too wide...? Embrace me, sleep, but do not keep me away from waking too long. I have so much to do.

So much.

So.

Sleep.

IFC Me

2006-10-03T16:57:00.000-04:00

Yup. The Independent Film Channel (IFC) pulled me in again last night. The first flick to catch my eye and my rapt attention was The Tao of Steve, a flawed but fun story set and shot entirely in Santa Fe, my long lost college home. I had seen it before, but it still surprised me at times.

Not many light romantic comedies can get away with multiple allusions to Buddhism, Kierkegaard, Taoism, and Mozart and still maintain an effervescent sense of relevance to the average viewer. But this semiprecious gem is a success in that regard. Of course, I am probably a far cry from the "average viewer." The pacing is odd. The last 10 minutes of the film seem particularly rushed and yet unfocused and forced. But it sure beats a tepid Meg Ryan/Tom Hanks formula any day.

Then came The Rules of Attraction, a visually stunning train wreck of a film from which I could not wrest myself, in spite of having seen it several times already. The startling poetry of many of its voiceovers, the flawless execution of most of its attempted screen tricks, and the amazing soundtrack stand in stark contrast to the spiritual void of all the characters as they flail about in their own spiral of amoral entropy.

In the face of being rejected and hurt by classmates who cannot possibly requite their love, these wasted souls try to escape in every manner of chemical and sexual abandon. They are at once dazzling and repulsive as their layers of protective apathy and disdain are peeled away to reveal still more apathy and disdain. And yet, I find them infinitely watchable zombies, especially in the rare moments when they suggest the fleeting hints of humanity beneath the hideously decadent cartoon.

Bret Easton Ellis, who wrote the novel the film is based on, never ceases to shock and amaze. Perhaps I should sit down and read the inspiration behind American Psycho....I loved that film too....but who has the time?

The third and final blow to my consciousness was "The Henry Rollins Show," which I was a bit too sleepy to appreciate fully. I do remember Henry interviewing Matt Dillon (two studs for the price of one).

Dillon was there to talk about a film he did last year, Factotum, an adaptation of a Charles Bukowski novel. Interesting stuff indeed. I just wish I had some speed.

I like Rollins, especially the deft delivery of his political rants, but his latest music is not my style. He has reunited with the Rollins Band, but by the time they played, I had had enough visual, aural, and emotional stimulation for one night. So I turned him off...

if only it were that easy to turn me off

Off off damned spotlight

Off Off Broadway babe

Off off with his head

Off off you go

Off off color

Off off

Off

Of

O

ff

fi

fic

IFC

FIN

The Orange Pill

2006-09-26T15:09:00.000-04:00

In retrospect, this weekend taught me that "daytime" cold medication and The Matrix do not necessarily produce a soothing or healing mixture, but Oh what a ride! I suppose I used the odd combination (or did it use me) in my own way to hatch some recollected notions and ideas that I will attempt to put into words here.

The ongoing emblematic theme of human(s) struggling against nature(s) in artwork has now become human(s) vs technology(ies), at least to a degree. That is the underlying conflict of The Matrix: people originally build machines to help them. Eventually people need machines in order to live.

(And this is the sci-fi part:) the machines develop great intelligence, evolve, and revolt against their makers, enslaving them in a world designed to keep them docile, bland, and productive. So the natural question upon returning even briefly to the "real" world is this: Do we need technology more or less than it needs us?

Some of the empirical philosophers of the mid-late 1900s might say that the power tool, the DVD player, the handheld computer, even the superconductors do not exist per se. They exist only insofar as we experience them as existing and we use them for a specific purpose. We assign meaning to the word "computer" and the object so named by us. The tricky part is to question when is it that the scales tip and the exciting symbiotic usefulness most of us enjoy actually disappears and replaces itself with something more sinister.

A close friend of mine recently went through a monthlong ordeal. His husband (yes they wed in Canada) had a ruptured appendix that went septic. My friend dropped everything (work, family, pets, social obligations) to be by David's side and wait and pray as doctors operated and tried to save the man he loved. Luckily, David recovered.

My friend says that he does not want to check his e-mail now; he knows his inbox and his psyche will both be overwhelmed by all the well wishers. And he is just not ready to relive the past 30 days, although he did save the e-mail I sent to everyone in my address book when I started this blog, because he thought it might be important later.

Without pride or shame he confesses that he has no idea what a blog is. I try to explain that it is a kind of Web journal. "Are there stalkers?" No, not yet. But there's always tomorrow! The point is that through the conversation I discover that my friend has no use for the computer. As a ballroom dance instructor, his body, mind, spirit, and sense of rhythm are the only tools he needs to do his work. He also works for a studio, who provides all the things an employer usually does....

I try to picture what would happen in my office if all the computers suddenly stopped working all at once. Everything else is fine, not like a blackout, just a massive systemwide crash. People would NOT be happy, and they would soon clamor to call it an early day, because all or most of our productivity is interconnected with this dazzling screen, hard drive, monitor, mouse, and all the servers and software systems supporting it.

* * *

Back in Matrix-land, I sit watching the battles on my TV screen, adjusting the volume with my remote control, trying not to think of the remote as "needing" my hand to give it a sense of purpose, to even exist at all. As I wonder... My DayQuil-addled thoughts wander back to college, to atomic theory, philosophy, the age-old questions of how one comes to know something, predetermination vs free will, determinism vs objectivism, etc etc.

Some ancient philosophers believed that the universe was run by primitive (nonsentient) machines. Atomic theory started in ancient times too and up until what would become quantum theory, Newtonian push-pull, action-reaction mechanics ruled the way that physics mapped the universe of matter and motion.

In describing motion, Aristotle asserts that every object regardless of size, either moves or is moved by another object, or both. However, because he cannot tolerate an infinite regression of these "moved movers," Aristotle posits an "unmoved mover," a substance without parts that moves the objects around it without itself moving. Sort of a vortex of pure being if you will.

Some call it God. Other objects are moved by this principal nonobject or entity as love moves the soul or magnetism and gravity attract objects without any sensible bells, whistles, or Newtonian pulleys.

It has been a LONG time since I actually read Aristotle, but I see some contradictions... at one point I swear that he defines life in terms of motion. Animals are "animated" by the life force (motion force). And yet, if the source of all motion does not move, and if the source of all motion is God, then how can God be alive?

Skipping ahead a few centuries, Nietzsche says "God is dead." I disagree. She may enjoy napping for millenia at a time, but she is alive.

I believe that Plato was onto something when he talked about the Forms. If there is no absolute Love, how can we mere mortals develop our puny concept of individual love? And the same for Justice, Peace, Happiness even... And so, if there are absolutes in the world, how did they get there? By accident? I doubt it. By chance? No, Chance was too much of a player to ever settle down and build anything. What a cad.

Some people think that language provides the Form, the very structure upon which ideas are framed, built, expressed, and reworked. But where did language come from?

Foul language is said to come from sailors, but this is of no help. Intelligent sea creatures like dolphins squeak, polar bears roar (unless nobody hears them), and killer whales moan, but none of these could have taught a sailor such a mellifluous expression as "Die you motherfucking son of a bitch." Sea creatures are far too elegant for that. Except when they're eating penguins and seals....

Yup, Nietzsche did not really keep me interested back in school. Atheism did not suit the philosophies that resonated most with me: Plato, Plotinus, Leibniz.... Now I have completely lost the train of thought.

Let me regress to the moment of clarity to find the chain again: I'm on my sofa, high on over-the-counter palliatives, holding the remote, watching Neo and company do battle against the machines, and I'm having the most profound thoughts you can imagine, only............................ I cannot retrace the thread. I know that I was thinking about magnetism and mechanics and free will. And it all made sense at the time.

MAN SUES THE MAKERS OF DAYQUIL OVER LOST PHILOSOPHICAL TREATISE...
(Crickets chirp.)

OK, since I've opened this up, I'll continue. Plotinus wrote of a pre Christian trinity of governing principles/principals in the world and at the top of the pyramid is "The One."

Leibniz wrote of monads, sort of proto-atoms as we know them, little mirrors of pure undefiled being reflecting the truth back to us and existing all around us... Monads are too small to have parts but they exist in time and space. A google-plex trillion little gods and godesses running the show just beneath the level of precipitating, or below the level of probability....Talk about monotheism!

And Quantum theory as I understand it? Matter and energy are not always different categories. Neither are particle/wave (in terms of light), space/time, Democrat/Republican, you get the idea. Not the best explanation, but it's what I can coddle together.

And why, pray tell, am I doing this? Maybe I just like showing off what little I remember from my education. Maybe I just like to ask a lot of questions that don't really have answers, at least not the kind you'd find in the multiple choice section of the test.

Neo expresses choice as he evolves in his phenomenological knowledge of choice. He embraces certain contradictions and rejects others. The same with Agent Smith. They are brothers, yin to the other's yang. Their struggle is the struggle to conquer demons. My struggle is to conquer denims. That's it. Jeans are the answer, not genes.

If only life were as simple as picking out a pair of jeans. After all, there are only 497 brands to choose from, give or take a few.

Freedom with structure. Maybe that's the answer for now. Structure is the set of sensible fabrics that hold the world together: mathematical constants, the social contract, bad poetry, the opportunistic infection and sublime experiment that is human nature. Freedom means we get to choose our poison. But poisoned we must be. "Be drunken!" was Rimbaud's advice, but he certainly would never be presumptive enough to tell anyone which drink they must be drunken on. Yes, that's a preposition, so sue me!

Slacker

2006-09-20T18:53:00.000-04:00

Yes, I have been a slacker here with the blog. Trouble is I'm having trouble at work but some of my coworkers read this thing, so I cannot go into gory detail. One would think that the sky would drop if I did anything UNprofessional. The next blog I do will only bear the name of my fictional alter-ego, and only a couple of you out there know her.

One thing that cheered me up today was actually going OUT to lunch with a friend from work. That was fun. He makes me laugh. Plus, I bumped into an old friend and theater person at the restaurant. She is directing a cool new show at the DR2 Theater off Union Square.

On my way home from work I ran into a former coworker who happens to be a new dad. He showed me pictures of little Zavier on his cell phone and we chatted for a few minutes. He works for the consumer division of my company and said he's way too busy and (like me) exhausted. Apparently the baby wakes him up at 3:00 AM. That would drive me to drink!

For once, I'm not busy at work. Maybe that's why I've been feeling so down. Perhaps I like the chaos and the adrenaline...I could even be addicted to it. So when things are slow, I think too much and feel unproductive. Feast or famine. No middle ground.

Wish I could learn to just relax and enjoy the down time. Daisy is waiting patiently while I write this. She needs to go out and run and pee and smell everything. Bad dad! I'm convinced that she is jealous of my laptop. Doesn't she know that I was a professional slacker before she came along? Can someone please tell her? Thanks!

The Dying Swan

2006-09-13T09:39:00.000-04:00

She is elegant, she is pure
Slightly skewed and yet, demure
Wings no longer carry her
Downward arching feathers blur.

Hyperbole has always attracted me. To say I am a drama queen, albeit a slightly butch one, is a gross understatement.

Searching the Web for family inspiration, I found this image instead of my uncle's:

He was in the original company of the Trockadero, an all-male ballet company that sends up the classics as well as the moderns of the dance world.

"Drag" hardly does justice to these performers, although it's an integral part of the absurdly enchanting picture. They are a patchwork cast of graceful, burly, and highly athletic--dancing en pointe will do that. They play both the men and the women, so their versatility is part of their charm.

Back in Littleton, Colorado, my family gathered in front of the TV in my grandparents' living room to watch Brent and his strangely ethereal companions dance on The Shirley MacClaine show. I was probably 7 at the time. The decor in the living room is post-1958 tacky, but people don't necessarily know that. My uncle certainly did.

I remember only brief flashes about the performance, although none of the adults could satisfy my curiosity and explain why Uncle Brent was dressed as a robust ballerina with highly stylized makeup and pulled back hair...

Back then, all I knew was that Brent had become part of something that the sensibilities of Littleton could not fully nurture. On the other hand, it was my grandmother's wigs that drew me into my own drag persona, so that when the Church Lady appeared on TV a decade later, she was like a long lost soul sister to me. So, too, my grandmother must have inspired her son, with her closet full of polyester pant suits, wigs, and her sense of personal style and home decor straight out of the Avon catalog.

Many years later, I took John to see the Trockadero at the Joyce here in the city. It was at once farcical and endearing. The men were not commenting as much as paying the ultimate tribute to their female counterparts.

Don't get me wrong, the show was madcap and hilarious, but it was sweet in its spoofing of all the tension that goes into a flawless performance of any kind. On the surface, they seem to be making fun of women, but they are in fact making fun of themselves, of the absurd demands placed on women in dance, of the feelings that we all have when we just want to get it right and yet, everything seems to go horribly wrong.

It is a fine line between mean satire and loving spoof and the Trocks tiptoe around that line perfectly.

Anyway, it's much more fun thinking about queens in toe shoes than my own problems. Work is a pain in almost every way, but stay I must. Daisy and I miss each other.

John and I are in a holding pattern with the renovation. Still no permit yet, but our current landlord is giving us a break on paying rent this month, which is a huge relief. I no longer think he is evil for not allowing pets in the building. Greedy, maybe, but not evil.

Daisy is his million-dollar dog, and in return, he is very sweet to her. After all, she is the catalyst for the big move, even though we humans talked about it for years before she was born.

And, indirectly, she is responsible for the huge rent hike the landlord will profit from after we have moved and he renovates the place, for which he will get a nice tax break. Yes, we are crazy to give up our rent-stabilized oasis in this market. Love makes you do crazy things I guess. Divine madness is the phrase the Greeks coined for love. Who can argue with that?!

Writer's block

2006-09-08T14:19:00.000-04:00

(See below.)

Nope, nothing.

Still nothing.

Crap!

A little sunshine

2006-09-05T16:37:00.000-04:00

It's amazing what some direct sunlight can do for one's mood! The latter part of the weekend was much drier and brighter than the first. What a relief.

Pouring

2006-09-02T12:22:00.000-04:00

Rain. Tears. Money out of my wallet. Pouring out. Falling down.

I brushed Daisy's ears out this morning. It was after John gave her a bath, so they were slightly damp. It's so much easier getting those knots out out of her coat than it is getting my own knots out. Knots in my stomach. Knots in my career path. Knots in the road to the future...

When my brother Brennan brought Daisy here over a year ago, she bumped her head on our glass-and-metal coffe table a lot, probably out of sheer excitement. He remarked, "So that's why Kenny [our stepfather] calls those dogs Knotheads!"

I need a massage, a steady internal rain to wash away these blues, knots, worry, tension, stress. For now, I get IKEA instead. I'm not complaining mind you. A retail vortex of affordable Scandinavian furnishings is not a bad place to be. There are far worse places. Still, the general lack of sunshine this week is contributing to my lack of optimism.

So let it rain. Eventually it will end, right? Eventually....

Symptoms and Signs

2006-08-24T09:44:00.000-04:00

Scattered. Listless energy. The week began with stomach cramps and insomnia, probably symptoms of anxiety about the little demolition projects happening at the new "home," the impending move (packing?!), and the uncertainty of the timing of it all.

It just occurred to me that this will be the first time I've moved in almost 11 years! That's a long time. So it makes sense that my insides are doing a crazy dance.

The bureaucracy in Jersey City is delaying our permits, so we will definitely pay at least one month of rent on top of the first mortgage payment. The weight of that financial burden is staggering; I'm glad John's signatures are on the checks. Of course, mine are on everything else!

* * *

We are now in a new phase of our partnership. It is wonderfully scary. But I realized the other day that I moved to New York in large part to find John. Back in 1995, I wrote in my journal, "I just know that I will find the man of my dreams here in New York." And I did.

But how could I have known that with such certainty before the fact? Was my journal entry more of an affirmation than a prediction? They are probably not so different. Much of life is beyond our control. But within the framework of chaotic random tragedies and comedies, there is room to choose what kind of path you will travel. Of course, choosing requires some level of consciousness. Otherwise, we are merely reacting.

Maybe the effectiveness of my husband-hunting mantra was so clear because my late uncle Brent found his husband here and Brent was my idol. For awhile I wanted to be like him and do everything the way he did.

Or it could have been the realization that I could not leave my family, face the pressures of surviving in this city, and begin an uncertain career path all on my own. People do it every day, and I admire them, especially the wacky single gals like Carrie, Miranda, Charlotte, and Samantha (or substitute Dorothy, Sophia, Rose, and Blanche). But maybe my strength was knowing I was not strong enough to fly solo. Not here and not back then. I was a struggling actor looking for a patron or a muse.

In 1996, I attended one of those big showbiz conventions for performers sponsored by Back Stage. They featured massively-attended lectures given by panels of writers, actors, producers, directors, casting agents, etc. One casting agent actually said that her advice was to marry a producer! No, don't work hard or persevere or any of that stuff; just marry into the business! (So I did.)

* * *

As John and I waited for a taxi in front of our new apartment building two days ago, we looked up beyond the vaguely Moroccan/Baroque rooftop to see a rainbow reflected in the sparse clouds in an otherwise bright blue evening sky. A Sign of good things to come?

It reminded me of the time I said good-bye to one of my more intense college crushes many years ago. His name was David. He was a nice nerdy Jewish boy from Westchester on the verge of converting to Christian theosophy. (Can I pick 'em or what?!) In fact, David left St. John's after studying the Bible and the theologians sophomore year to do more of the same...

I always thought that was a shame and a waste, not just because I wanted him, but also because I felt he was tossing aside the next and possibly most important two years of the Program, which would bring all that contentious "God stuff" into a healthier, more reasoned perspective. He was deliberately missing out on Cervantes, Kant, Woolf, Newton, Einstein, Tolstoy, Hegel, Austen, Kierkegaard, Maxwell, and many more. I was also missing out on the chance to attack another windmill, roll another stone up the hill, pine for a man I could never have...

Like a gypsy or a thief, David left school at night. We walked from the Upper Commons to a big clearing between the dorms, the classrooms, and the parking lots. He said that he would never forget me. For the first and the last time, he gave me a Platonic hug, and as I looked up into the deep starry sky behind him, one of the stars brilliantly fell, and then was gone.

Had I closed my eyes, I would have missed it. But it was a romantic embrace solely for me--not for him. So I had to be wary, keep my guard up, hold back the emotion before it overwhelmed me and I made a scene. Maybe I just wanted to avoid the agony, the reminder of old losses, the sting of another rejection....So I kept my eyes wide open and my heart as closed as it could be.

David lived upstairs from me and we ate lunch together between classes. He once told me about a dream he had where I was trying to get into his room late one night. I actually had the same dream that same night.

In fact, it was as if I was floating above my sleeping body on the bed and drifted up the stairs to his door, where I hesitated. After that, I don't remember too much. I may have opened the door or drifted through it, only to watch him sleep...

It was not a sexual dream, although much later someone suggested to me that it was David who seduced me psychically, transgressing my boundaries and making it seem as if I was the one crossing his. It was that classic push-pull scenario.

He had a sad irony that I found irresistible, in part because I hoped I could cure him of it. He talked of mysticism and a level of friendship between men that modern times had obscured. And yet, he was closed off to me, to any chance that our odd friendship could evolve or devolve into something more physical.

* * *

Looking back on my out-of-body experience thinly masked as a dream, I realize that I don't talk about my paranormal experiences with many people. Maybe I feel it goes against the grain of the skeptical facade I present to myself and to others. But I did have those experiences.

The most important example was the fact that my uncle Brent visited me after he died. I was living in a tiny studio apartment near downtown Denver, sleeping on a foam mattress on the ugly brown shag floor. My furniture consisted of one or two slightly bent but still functional green dining room chairs I found after another tenant across the hall was evicted.

About 9 months after Brent's funeral, I dreamt about him. He was up in heaven and he seemed very happy. The colors were vivid to the point of cartoonishness. He sat in a reclined deck chair, wearing brightly-colored Bermuda shorts and sunglasses, holding a cold drink in his hand with an umbrella in it.

It's a funny image because Brent would have detested such an obvious representation of the afterlife. And yet, there he was, not even winking at the cliche in the devlishly dry, droll manner that was his best feature. Just as quickly as the dream came into my consciousness, I woke up abruptly, sat up straight, and felt a cold sweat covering my body. The room was weirdly breathing with a deep orange warmth, and yet I felt like shivering.

The chair that I had placed against the back wall near the refrigerator was now at the base of my mattress, at an odd angle, maybe 14 inches from my left toe. He was there. I saw nothing, but I have never felt a stronger, more familiar presence. It took every ounce of courage I had to say, "What are you doing here?" Silence followed. "What do you want?" After a few seconds, I remembered the dream, my grief, and the hole-in-the-soul feeling of missing him so much it hurt...

So I said, "I think I brought you here to tell you that I love you and I miss you very much." Tears gushed down my face. "I guess I just needed to say good bye... thank you for everything you did for me." I paused and sensed that I needed to assert the finality for him and for myself, otherwise he would linger. "You have to go now. Good bye."

And then, just as suddenly as he entered, he was gone. The energy in my little apartment shifted. The cold sweat was gone. I felt calm and clean, at peace. Even back then I didn't really tell everyone the whole story of my experience. The word "ghost" carries so much trite Hollywood baggage. Maybe I feel that language is seldom adequate to describe such events.

Needless to say, that night was a turning point in my mourning process. I was able to focus more on my future, like going back to college in Santa Fe. When Brent first died, I wanted to drop out right away. It was March of my Sophomore year at St. John's and I barely held on until May, when I finished my essays and oral exam and moved back to Denver, where I stayed for 2 years.

* * * A psychic footnote... * * *

When I was 10, I "talked" silently to one of my grandmother's dogs, Jasmine. She was a 9-year-old German Shepherd mix, a wise and gentle being who defied the vicious stereotype in every possible way. One morning my grandparents took me and my brother to watch one of my cousin's soccer games. As usual, Jasmine came along for the ride.

The team knew and liked her, and sometimes she would nap during the most exciting parts of the game, although loud screams of joy or anger did awaken her. For some reason, I walked on the sideline toward the goal post where nothing was happening, away from Jasmine and Grandma and the rest. Perhaps I had read something about psychic communication, and I decided to try it. I looked at Jasmine from about 20 or 30 feet away and thought (not out loud), "Jasmine, come. "And she came over, looked up at me, and lied down at my side.

Animals and children have always liked me. At times, I have thought of this as owing to some bizarre weakness on my part. But deep down, I know better.

If I had the stomach for the blood, I would have been a veterinarian. How different that would have been. Maybe I already had that career on my last trip around the great spinning sphere... Maybe.

Jedi Mind Trick

2006-08-19T07:09:00.000-04:00

So the woman who tells me this story is a friend from high school, and she runs a theater company in Bremerton, WA. I first hear it when I go out there for a visit several years ago, but the story resurfaces in my head just last night.

Pavlina, my friend, casts a lot of Navy guys in her plays, because it is a Navy town, and some of the guys who live on submarines half the year are obviously fearless. Stage fright probably does not occur to them. Some of them have more baseless swagger than talent, but it can be such a fine line....

Anyway, two of her actors are out drinking late one night. They are in the one guy's pickup truck. This is a rural area of the Pacific Northwest. On their drive home from the third bar, a cop pulls up behind the intoxicated pair and turns his lights on.

As you can imagine, the two friends panic a little. Well, the passenger panics, whispering "Shit! Let me trade places with you man. I'm much more sober than you!" But the driver just says to his friend, "Relax man. I've got it this covered. Don't worry."

So they pull over and stop the truck and wait while the cop slowly walks up behind the driver's door. The officer says to the driver, "Where you guys headed? I noticed you were kind of all over the road. Would you both step out of the vehicle please?" To which the guy behind the wheel gestures as Obi Wan does in the first Star Wars movie and says, "These are not the drunks you're looking for."

Incredibly, the cop laughs and only gives them a ticket. The passenger is understandably perturbed with his drinking buddy for putting him through such a reckless, nerve-wracking stunt and says, "I thought you had it covered?! Next time, I'm driving."

Child's play

2006-08-17T13:08:00.000-04:00

Sure, they're smaller and probably smarter than some adults. But it still looks bad for so-called airport security across the pond that this boy actually got on a plane...

Back

2006-08-16T16:50:00.000-04:00

Yup. Back at work. We arrived at home Monday night around 8:00 PM. All 3 of us were tired from the journey, but also relieved to be home and to sleep in our own bed. Driving on the Cross-Bronx Expressway almost undid the relaxation from our trip. Wheee!

John brought the chocolates for my coworkers to the office since I was in a serious post-vacation fog yesterday morning and forgot them at home. Thanks Honey!

I woke up at 5:00 AM today to work on the curriculum for my latest AMA class at work. The session went well, although only 3 people showed up.

I am a winner! The lovely people at Emack & Bolio's tried out my suggestion for a new flavor, Serious Chocolate Addiction Goes Nuts. I think this means I get a whole bunch of free ice cream, so a party is probably in order. I'll be sending an evite out to the gentle few of you I can trust around my new stash of yummy choco-nutty dairy dessert!

Maybe I'll have John take pics for those of you who are not in NYC, so you can drool. Just don't tell Brian, my trainer, about this!

We're having drinks with our real estate agents tonight (one from NJ and one from NY). They worked together to find us our new pad. So that should be fun. Should we offer to pick up the check? I don't know the protocol!

Work is a bit slow. I'm already thinking of items I'd rather sell on ebay than pack and move. Maybe we'll have a combination farewell party and sale...bring your own box (byob).

Vineyard Time....Day Five

2006-08-15T11:49:00.000-04:00

Sun 8/13.

It is our last day here. I am bound and determined to go to the beach. When we get there though, high winds make it impossible to swim. So I take a long walk just to get a little exercise.

On my way back to the house, I intercept John, who is supposed to meet us at the beach. I convince him that the wind is miserable, so we walk back together. He is disappointed, but we have had an incredible time nonetheless.

After letting Daisy run around for an hour or so, we put her in the crate for a nap and drive to the Chilmark Store for a few slices of pizza. It is as delicious as I remember from summers past. We also go to Chilmark Chocolates again, which is a few yards from the store. We see Taylor there. He always has a smile on his face.

I buy a box of chocolates for my coworkers and another one for myself. MV is definitely not a good place to diet! Speaking of food, John has whipped up his famous guacamole to bring to dinner down the hill. Mmmm...People love it, naturally.

We are guests that night at the Dietzes' rental house overlooking a meadow and a pond. It is breathtakingly picturesque, and the sunset is about a million different shades of orange, red, and purple. Jed serves fresh lobster on water crackers and a flavorful, juicy grilled beef tenderloin with fresh tomatoes and mixed greens. For dessert, we dive into his homemade lemon tart with whipped cream and blueberries on top. It is divine.

Back at the house on the hill, I decide to let Daisy run off leash. Like clockwork, each time I call her name and clap my hands, she comes back up the stairs and onto the deck where we humans sit and chat and watch the moths and the stars and the moon through the clouds, which is reflected in the waves below. Our little girl is learning!

Vineyard Time....Day Four

2006-08-14T10:17:00.000-04:00

Sat 8/12.

Morning. John runs his race today and feels good about his performance, in spite of not training for the event.

Noon. Max and I make our annual trip to The Bite, a seafood shack-cum-island institution in Menemsha that serves the best fried clams on the planet. Although we are only there for an hour or so, I get a minor but pesky sunburn on the tops of my feet and the backs of my calves, one of which has just begun to heal since 2 days ago when Daisy accidentally takes a swipe out of the skin with her claws.

These small inconveniences are more than worth it. Mosquito bites, sunburn, getting scratched by a tree branch or by your ecstatic, leash-hating dog. It is all part and parcel of the Vineyard experience. This place is a wilderness that keeps the same traits it has had for centuries. Driving around you smell sea air, growing foliage, skunks....

Aside from the privileged humans who summer here or live here throughout the year, Martha's Vineyard is home to so many species of flora and fauna: bamboo, evergreens, perennials, finches, guinea hens, deer, osprey, skunk, rabbits, grasses, meadows, lakes, beetles, owls, moths, and butterflies (as John and I drive to get gas yesterday, a green caterpillar clings to the outside of our windshield for the entire journey).

Afternoon. When I return from the sun-drenched clamfest with Max, the rest of the group is chatting after lunch. The Chancellor of MIT and his wife are here. They talk about books, barbecue, and North Carolina, where most of the crew went to college. Go Heels!

Somehow, I pick up on the prickly sensation of the mild sunburn, put a bunch of aloe on my lower body, and settle in for an afternoon nap. I decide to take a break from the intense sun and stay away from the beach, at least for today.

Evening. For dinner, Buck drives me and John into town to pick up barbecued ribs, beans, corn bread, and collards. It's yet another delicious meal, especially the lean and tender baby back ribs. I am such a carnivore.

Night. After dinner, John and Kay and Daisy and I stay up to watch a bootleg DVD of The Devil Wears Prada that they bought in China for a dollar or two. The picture quality is dark and offers a murkier version of the film we saw in the movie theater back in NYC, but it's still a fun story and Meryl Streep is flawless as always.

We have only one full day left here. I try not to think about the 5-hour drive back to so-called civilization, the cold water in the face of returning to the routines of real life.

Vineyard Time...Day Three

2006-08-13T10:06:00.000-04:00

Friday 8/11.

Today is my uncle Chris' 50th birthday. Back in Colorado, my aunt Colleen throws him a big bash at her house, with a live band, several noise complaints, and lots of beer and other fun things of that nature. It is hard to be so far away from this party, because nobody knows how much longer Chris has. There are cancerous lesions on his lungs and tumors on the nerves running from his neck up into his brain.

So it is a bittersweet day.

3:39 PM. Katherine and I walk down to the beach while John makes work phone calls and helps Kay with dinner preparations. We decide it is best to give Daisy a day off from the overwhelming stimulation of the beach. John drives into town to register for the annual Chilmark Road Race. In all the time we've been coming here, John has seldom missed this 5-K run. I am proud of him.

It is a near-perfect beach day again. We get there in the late afternoon, so it is uncrowded. The sun is bright and hot, but there is a steady cool breeze. The waves are sizable but not overpowering, and I enjoy a good 20-minute swim. It's hard not to think about sharks though, since Jaws was filmed here.

Katherine is moving to Brooklyn, so we talk about different New York neighborhoods and the furniture shopping that is imminent for both of us.

7:16 PM. After rinsing off all the salt and sand in the outdoor shower next to the main house, I join the group on the deck as they discuss politics, the consumer-driven boom happening in China, and how pharmaceutical companies buy the influence of doctors under everyone's nose. Interesting stuff indeed. Hanging out with these friends always makes me wish I read more newspapers. Where do they find the time?!

9:19 PM. Dinner is a delicious feast. We have shrimp and polenta topped with bacon, Parmesan cheese, and scallions. It is bathed in a delectable homemade vegetable broth and accompanied by hearty artisan bread. For dessert, John serves warm chocolate chip cookies from Mom's recipe. They're a hit of course.

The time slips by here in effortless hours as I read, write, eat, take naps, and play. Already I feel it is too short as we are days away from making the trek back to New York. But there is still time to enjoy this slow pace.

Vineyard Time....Day Two

2006-08-12T11:51:00.000-04:00

Thursday 8/10.

1:55 PM. Katherine announces that she is making a trip to Chilmark Chocolates and I jump at the chance to join her. Taylor works there part time, and he has set aside a special box of Katherine's favorites. He and his band have a concert at Offshore Ale later that night, which we all plan to attend, albeit in different groups.

The chocolate shop occupies a charming light yellow-trimmed house and serves truly delicious confections. On busy days people line up all along the sun-drenched porch, clamoring to walk through the swinging screen door and into the cool shelter of the tiny store, where they eagerly point to stacks upon piles of chocolates arranged with care behind the glass.

You can get your chocolate melded with nuts, toffee, raisins, fresh fruit, and peanut butter, just to name a few. I opt for a large box of assorted dark chocolates, which I stash in the small refrigerator in the guest house. Back at the main house people put their names on their boxes to prevent others from pilfering their personal supply.

4:55 PM. John and I take Daisy to the beach, but she is extremely agitated the whole way there. She comes out to swim with me but scratches me all down my calf. Frustrated and in pain, I try to swim alone with John holding her leash high up on the sand away from the water. This is a fatal mistake. Daisy begins to scream; she tries to attack a very sweet Golden Retriever puppy who is off leash, and later digs into one of my toes with her claws. I still have bruises.

6:00 PM. After a swim in the still-water pond, which leaves her smelling like a swamp creature, Daisy calms down. But it is a very tense, traumatic afternoon for all three of us.

8:50 PM. The night is much better. After all the chaos, Daisy settles down. The humans dine on mesquite-grilled swordfish steaks, fresh island tomatoes, and cold black bean salad. Afterwards, we drive into Oak Bluffs to hear the Taylor Brown Trio as Daisy hangs out safe in her crate and naps, occasionally barking at the sound of an animal or a car.

John and I have not heard Taylor's group play since last summer, and we are blown away by the improvement.

The raw materials were certainly there a year ago, but now they are finely tuned and create a powerful mix of blues-inspired ballads and kickass folk-rock jams. Over the years John and I become friends with Taylor, who sleeps on our sofa bed in New York last year when he accompanies Kate Taylor at a Carnegie Hall benefit.

Tonight it is immediately clear that Taylor's powerful vocals, gorgeous guitar playing, and mature songwriting have grown more lyrical and strident by leaps and bounds. His electric guitar riffs are explosive, technically complex, and reach into the core of the listener as if traveling on fire or wind or both. He is the sole lightning rod from which the others derive their palpable energy.

Rigel's drumming finesse and bravado have catapulted him along to the great heights of his counterparts. His lead vocals on "Ophelia" are truly wondrous and soulful. The addition of Gordon on bass guitar is huge, and provides the glue that holds the other guys' talent together. Gordon also operates the sound board seamlessly, while managing to incorporate rock-star energy and verve into his every move, note, and expression.

One of the evening's many delightful revelations is hearing the "wa-wa washboard," a metal chest plate worn by a burly surfer guy with a soul patch and bare feet, one of which he uses to operate the reverb pedal deftly as he generates an ethereal sound by stroking the metal with chopsticks, one in each thick hand. The unique undertone is particularly effective in guest singer Joel Zoss' infectious jam, "Sugar Bee."

10:00 PM. People move tables aside to dance and drink as much ice water as beer to cool off after their exuberant workout. Their wacky gyrations and genuine abandon really bring the band and the crowd alive. Toward the end of the concert, we even shake our booties to Taylor, Gordon, and Rigel's awesome cover of "Twist and Shout."

After the band's ovation-earning final encore, we step into the remnants of a downpour and walk a few paces to the bakery that sells hot apple fritters out of their back door late at night. The fritters have a warm crispy coating that gives way to an amazingly complex array of flavors in the soft sweet dough and the delicious doses of warm apple compote. Heaven.

So the day turns out to be another stellar one that is so typical of this magical place. I have left out the soft pink sunsets, majestic moonrises reflected on the water, and the gorgeous lush green setting. Tomorrow we may take a break from the unpredictable dog + ocean formula.

Vineyard Time....Day One

2006-08-11T14:04:00.000-04:00

Wednesday 8/9.

6:15 AM. We wake up early to pack, pick up the rental car, and begin the 5-hour drive from New York to Woods Hole, MA. The three of us are groggy and yawning, but we somehow manage to pack our clothes and sundries, along with food for Daisy, her crate, blanket, treats, leashes, toothbrush, toys, etc.

She knows something is up when John folds her den up like an envelope...she seems nervous, excited, scared. We take turns soothing her as we zigzag through the cramped apartment, take quick showers, check and double-check our respective mental lists of things not to forget to bring. Where's my cell phone charger? How many hats should I pack? Why am I not asleep?

8:18 AM. Avis Car Rental. Broadway and 76th Street. Very convenient location, but there is no A/C in the lobby. I'm hot and cranky but caffeinated at least. John and I leave Daisy alone in the apartment unconfined while we pick up our Kia Amanti, which turns out to be a pleasant surprise. My first time driving a Kia many years ago is scary. It is like being in an aluminum can that the wind keeps tormenting.

As I park the midsize sedan to wait for John to bring the dog and our remaining bags down, several New Yorkers honk and yell at me, in spite of the fact that my hazard lights are on and I have left them adequate room to get around me.

Back in the car with the dog, our bags, and the kitchen sink too, John reports that Daisy does not disturb, chew, or destroy anything while we are at Avis. Good girl!

10:45 AM. On the road. Although Daisy whines a fair amount and tries to jump into the front seat often, our drive is fairly smooth and uneventful. She even takes a few short naps, completely ignoring the hollow toys we fill with peanut butter and freeze last night to keep her "occupied."

11:42 AM. Daisy manages to spill half an iced coffee from McDonald's (a poor substitute for my usual concoction but does the job in a pinch) all over the front seat during one of our rest stops. We clean up the mess and move on. She licks a few drops of the coffee off her legs. Luckily, it is mostly milk and water.

The weather is sunny, hot, and clear, but there is no stifling humidity. A few minor construction projects on the highway delay our progress. We have trouble finding a good "blank" radio station for the iPod adapter until we are out of Connecticut.

1:38 PM. We arrive at the Steamship Authority ferry terminal with an hour to spare before our boat leaves. When traveling onboard with a car, a reservation is smart, and ours is for the 2:30 PM ferry to Oak Bluffs. Daisy barks at the parking lot attendants and the ticket taker as we drive onto the ferry. Up on deck, she walks behind us with great trepidation and refuses to walk near the railing. She growls in confused dismay as the boat begins to pull away from land but eventually she settles in.

2:48 PM. The salty-sweet air of Cape Cod mixes with the diesel-smell of the ferry engine. Much to our embarrassment, Daisy barks menacingly at two small black children who are riding with their mom. I hope it's just a reaction to the little girl's numerous shiny barrettes. Daisy has reacted this way to people with funny hats, so it could be that....

2:50 PM. I have my annual cup of chowder on the ferry, which is better than you can get in most restaurants in New York. It is piping hot, rich, creamy, and full of clams, potato chunks and subtly mingled seasonings, most prominently cracked black pepper. Perfection....

3:18 PM. With me and the dog in the back seat, John drives us off the boat and onto our final destination, the Goldstein’s house on Abel's Hill in Chilmark. We have arrived!

We have been coming here to visit friends for about 8 years. And yet, this is a new kind of vacation for me and John, because we have a third party in tow. She is unfamiliar with the rhythms of island time. It is a strange new place and she is overly protective of her masters. She barks at the Goldstein's dishwasher.

An hour after we pull into our friends’ driveway, we take her to the beach, which involves a 20-minute downhill walk through a quiet cemetery (where John Belushi and Lillian Hellman are buried), and a short wade across a shallow pond.

Daisy does not jump into the ocean immediately, but barks at several rounds of breaking waves. She drinks a lot of sea water, which she later vomits up onto a discreet patch of warm sand. A heavily-tatooed woman and her small mixed breed chat with us, until Daisy scares off the little mutt. She is a problem child.

John is not a swimmer but I love it. The water temperature feels just right: cool enough to be bracing but warm enough to keep me in it.

Daisy swims out to me and I pick her up from the waves. Remember this, I tell myself. There is a happy wet canine in my arms and my man is on the beach waiting for us with a towel, a smile, and a bottle of water. This is it.

9:15 PM. Tonight, after eating home-baked pizza with the younger two Goldsteins and three friends of theirs, John and I each have a slice of possibly the best blueberry pie I've ever tasted. These blueberries are medium-sized wild ones, which are more fragrant than sweet. This is just the first half-day here. Things are looking good.