Saturday, March 13, 2004

 

ENTRY 084
IS ALL HAIKU. I HOPE THAT
IS OKAY WITH YOU.


If you follow this
blog you will notice that it
looks less shitty now.


This is because I
spent an obscene amount of
time changing the look.


Perhaps it does not
seem like much improvement, but
I am no techie.


I have also made
it possible for you to
comment, if you wish.


It's a great step, I
think. As I've said before, I
like community.


Today was strange and
sluggish and diffident. That
is to say, I was.


It made me think of
something Neil once said that has
never left my mind.


He used to be so
amazed at the way I could
sit down and write things.


Copy for an ad?
A letter all in haiku?
Lyrics about us?


I could churn these out
in twenty minutes, half an
hour. Love inspired me.


Yet sometimes I could
barely function at parties.
(Though often I could.)


Neil was frustrated.
Why, he wondered, couldn't I
be an extrovert?


"You do amazing
things all the time," he said, "but
struggle with basics."


I nodded in shame,
shame it would have pained him to
know that he had caused.


But that's not quite fair.
He was thoughtlessly voicing
wonderment aloud.


We're all complicit
in our own shame, puppeteers
pulling our own strings.


Sometimes I became
tangled; sometimes I could make
my wooden feet waltz.


Yeats posed that funny
question: "How can we tell the
dancer from the dance?"


That's what Neil and I
could never answer. He was
the dancer, the light.


I was the thinker,
too Rodin, too internal
to kill off Neil's doubt.


He was unsettled
by the shadows he saw, and,
shining light, killed them.


If only he had
taken the time to fathom
what was in the dark.


We vilify what
we fail to grasp, even in
those we try to love.


I, for my part, strained
to see past the colorful
distractions he made.


There was pain to salve
with my tears and kisses, as
dark as they might be.


But when it came to
my medicine, he was a
Christian Scientist.


I don't know why all
this came back today; my love
for him is long dead.


Nearly four leaping
years of days without him, or
anyone, have passed.


Maybe it's because
today I was feeling most
ineffectual.


There is, after all,
a palpable grief over
impotent moments.


It is another
day I know I won't recall
when my life blinks out.


In this parcel of
empty hours, I was the cause
of no crisp effect.


The dancer from the
dance? The thinker from the thought?
Entangled again.


Tomorrow, again,
I will try harder, race the
day at its light-speed.


And it strikes me that
I do know why Neil has been
evoked in my mind.


One's first love is a
youthful climax, and confirms
that life has begun.


But the end of that
love brings a contrary and
sobering knowledge.


It is the first taste,
both honey and dust, of what
it will mean to die.

2:09 AM

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Thursday, March 11, 2004

 

ENTRY 083


Recently I decided that it was important to impose certain kinds of structure on my days, now that I'm no longer employed full-time (although I am shortly to undertake a freelance editing project for Hamilton's company). Thus it was that I made out a list of potential field trips, to use the old grade-school terminology.


First up was Grant's Tomb, which I'd never visited even though it's quite close to me. Ray met me for lunch yesterday and then accompanied me to the monument, up at 122nd St. and Riverside Dr.


It's an impressive structure, and billed as the largest mausoleum in North America. Perhaps you've heard the old riddle, "Who's buried in Grant's Tomb?" The answer is that no one is buried there. Grant and his wife, Julia, are entombed there. Really, really dumb joke that was apparently originated by Groucho Marx. (An unfunny Marx Brother joke? Surprise, surprise.)


At the turn of the last century, Grant's Tomb was the most popular attraction in New York City; one million people flocked to its dedication in 1897, which is probably the last time that many white people got up the nerve to visit Harlem. But the monument fell into bad disrepair (graffiti, animal sacrifices, etc.) to the point that, about a decade ago, the Grant family threatened to move the two bodies elsewhere, spurring a centennial restoration effort that, I must say, left the place in excellent shape. The inside of the monument isn't very extensive, but it's certainly grand: the top of the dome is 150 feet high. There are some interesting exhibits concerning Grant's life and the Civil War, although the placards are rife with grammatical and spelling errors. The two tombs lay side-by-side on the lower level of the building, which is inaccessible to the public; you look down over the circular railing at Ulysses and Julia below, which created in me, at least, the fleeting natural temptation to spit or to drop a penny (Lincoln being the closest to Grant one can get, coin-wise).


As we headed back downtown, Ray and I talked about possibly going out for drinks in far west Chelsea that night; it was a monthly gay networking event that we've made a semi-habit of attending. He was on a writing deadline, and so decided to play it by ear. For my part, I had already promised good old Boy #1 that I would attend a piano recital he'd organized (he works for a nearby cultural organization). I hadn't been in contact with either him or his poor cuckold of a boyfriend since their book release party, but I did want to continue being a good sport.


The recital, it turned out, was comprised of atonal music by more modern composers. When Bertha, who also attended, discussed it with me today, she admitted that she didn't much care for that kind of composing, and I had to agree. I suppose I have fairly conservative tastes in piano music. This makes sense enough; I never liked Kerouac, either.


As the second half of the program commenced, I glanced discreetly at my watch. It was a little past 9; Stoli open bar lasted until 10. If I left right then....


Forty minutes later I was ordering a drink, but they were out of Stoli. So much for that. Worse, neither Ray nor anyone else I knew seemed to be there. As far as I'm concerned, there is little worse socially than being a stranger among gay men in a bar setting. I squeezed my way through the crowd, listening for dazzling conversations into which I might intrude, but everything I heard was hopelessly banal and inside-jokey.


At last I spotted the organizer of the event, whom I'd met briefly the month before. I said hello, he was nice, and two minutes later I'd been introduced to an actor. Uh-oh, I thought. But I reserved judgment, since I haven't had universally bad experiences with thespians. True, my former roommate was a self-absorbed simpleton, but then again Peter is one of my best friends, and I'm quite fond of Nick, as well--it's not just anyone who will come to your rescue when you're vomiting to death.


The guy actually turned out to be pretty cool. He quickly established that he had a boyfriend in D.C., and almost as quickly made it known that it was an open relationship. I'm never quite sure how to respond to things like that, so I didn't. I derived some amusement from his asking me whether I'm an actor myself. At first I suspected, from certain remarks he made, that he might be slightly on the shallow side, but as time went on I had the impression that he had quite a bit going on upstairs. At one point I ended up launching into my Matthew Barney critique, and he made some fairly probing comments.


It was a heavier drinking night than I'd anticipated, which led later on to a bit of blathering from me about the demise of my friendship with Jane and the way in which I subsequently threw myself into work and the world of film, to self-detrimental effect. But he didn't seem to mind, and I appreciated that, too.


The bizarre thing is that we live two blocks from each other. How accidental is that, New York? Today he dropped me an email suggesting that we hang out soon. I may finally have a neighborhood buddy. Talk about salvaging an inauspicious evening.

8:53 PM

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Tuesday, March 09, 2004

 

ENTRY 082


It snowed today, for Chrissake. This had better not become a habit.


Today I received a mysterious package in the mail. It turned out to be the Criterion Collection Notorious DVD that I put on my Amazon wishlist for Christmas three months ago. Apparently my aunt had finally gotten around to ordering it for me (and now, at last, my mother can stop bemoaning her fuck-up sister, as she has done in almost every phone call since the holidays).


I intended to be really productive this afternoon; however, I ended up playing with the DVD instead. Notorious is a brilliant film, but one I didn't fully appreciate on an initial viewing, unlike other Hitchcock movies such as Rear Window and Rebecca, both of which became instant favorites. They still are favorites, of course, but Notorious has joined them as it has made its way into my heart, as well.


The script is amazing in its sheer economy. The black-and-white cinematography is luminous, glowering. The famous shot zooming through the house toward a key in Ingrid Bergman's hand, the abstract menace of wall shadows. The complexity of the ideas about gender and the nature of evil. Incredible. This is why I fall in love with the movies so much oftener than with men. No guy I've met in New York has been half as inspiring as this film.


That's it, really. I don't aspire to meet anyone who approaches that level of quality; I aspire to reach it myself.


As I mentioned last time, Cleo was to try again to have the baby today. She did, in fact, return to the hospital this morning, where they attempted to induce labor, and again the effort was unsuccessful. So she's going back next Monday for another try. My parents traveled from Tulsa to Houston for naught, it seems.


But at least it buys me a little more time to cling to my ever-waning youth before unclehood descends on me.


In the meantime, my old roommate from Austin sent me a link to this Nutrigrain cereal bar commercial. I'm not sure if it's real or just a spoof, but it's funny, and it has to do with making babies. It takes some time to load, but it's worth it.


I guess nieces are the same way.

12:10 AM

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Sunday, March 07, 2004

 

ENTRY 081


So Friday was supposed to be the big day when my niece was to be born, and I kind of hung around at home waiting for the news. But apparently the doctors weren't able to induce labor successfully, so they have to try again on Monday. I can't even seem to become an uncle right.


I decided to go out for drinks that night, sans cigars, with this guy I've hung out with a couple times. I suppose, if I think about it, it was kind of a "good buddy" audition. As I was saying to Peter on the phone the other night, I have yet to make that kind of friend here whom I can call up on the fly to go drinking or to eat or to a movie--and here's the important distinction: a movie we can agree on. It's time to fill the Jane void with something healthier than a Type A job or various antisocial obsessions.


Anyway, this guy and I started off early at Starlight, before the pretty boys were out in full elbow-bumping overly-worked-out force. Just kind of shooting the breeze, nice and casual, until it became obnoxiously crowded, and then we headed down to the only East Village gayspot I had no familiarity with, Urge. It actually isn't much more than a standard watering hole, really, but I kind of liked that it was a little more down-to-earth. My companion said it reminded him of any bar in Tennessee (where he's from), but I sort of appreciated that aspect, too. Whatever happened to regular bars? Regular people? Regular life?


Oh, right. New York happened.


We called it a night around 1:30 or so, and I was glad we'd hung out. Looks like we will again, probably. It's a start. Even uncles need decent buds.


It's weird how the exceedingly long, harsh winter finally seemed to end when I wasn't looking. The warmer weather appeared as I lay sick in bed last week. At some point it occurred to me that I didn't feel as adversely affected emotionally by the succession of dreary months as I did last year, but maybe it was just more overt then, harder for it to sneak up on me when I hadn't had time yet to adjust to it.


Of course, it's supposed to snow tonight. But I think the days of bitch-ass cold are over. In more ways than one.


Oh, I keep forgetting to mention an email I received informing me that I'm a Googlewhack. I had recently learned about this little fad, but the uninitiated can slake their curiosity here. What is the Googlewhack? Well, if you know what a Googlewhack is, you also know that I can't divulge my specific one here in so many words or else it will soon cease to be a Googlewhack, but here is a link to it.


Thanks to Dan for keeping us geeks real. Over and out.

3:10 PM

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