Second Trip

Six days after my Beltáin visit, I more or less took the same walk. While May 1st had been sunny, it was only in the upper 50s (F), and while I was by no means the only person out enjoying the weather, the crowds were a little slim. May 6th it was substantially warmer, which meant many more people were out. Here's another shot I took of Midtown; I think it gives a much better sense of the crowds, the traffic, even the noise perhaps. I swear to god I didn't notice the guy in the light blue shirt with the nice shoulders until after I had uploaded this image to my computer, but he's a nice bit of scenery too, isn't he.
One of the aspects of Spring that surprises and delights me every year is how quickly things change. I'll admit I was bit sad to realize the violets were already their way out, but there was something new happening, something I don't remember ever noticing before. See those seed pods in the photo to the left? They were the cause of it all. The type of tree they come from lines the main drive in Central Park starting at the south entrance. As I walked in, there seemed to be a silvery rain falling everywhere. I tried to get photos of it, but was never successful. The image below comes the closest; if you look at the dark green of the bushes, you might notice some white flecks. That was the best I could do. It does nothing to give you a sense of how full the air was of them, how beautiful the shimmer was as they fell, conjuring up rain, snow, and something completely magical. I don't know what kind of tree they come from. My tree and plant expert people? Are any of these shots clear and close enough to tell you what the tree is? (See image of seeds still on the tree, below)

The shimmery rainfall was only part of their charm. They were on the ground in such numbers (seriously I don't remember seeing ANY evidence of them a week earlier) that they piled up in drifts; when the wind blew them, they'd skitter across the tarmac making a sound like rain on a rooftop. Several times they made little dirt devils too. The image above is the closest I came to capturing one of those. Considering how central these things were to my experience that day, they certainly don't lend themselves well to photography. Or at least they don't to my level of ability. Video might come closer, but I bet it would still flatten the whole experience.

I'd say at least a third of the violets from the previous week were gone. Thanks to friend Greg I now knew how to get my camera to do close-ups. In the image at left, look at the blossoms just up and to the right of center; they come closest to being the right color, though they're still a bit too blue. Other than using the macrofocus, I didn't do anything differently, so I don't know why these get closer. Is it as simple as them being in sunlight rather than shade? The photo that best captured the color is also a close-up, but is very blurry. I still can only get so close if I want the camera to focus. Intimacy issues, apparently. But are they mine or the camera's?

This one also gets closer to the right shade, but is still not quite right.

Leaving the violets, on my way to the lilacs, I was once again stopped by the lemony, intoxicating scent I mentioned last time, though now I couldn't see any blossoms causing it. In my search though, I found this single blossom. No idea what it is either (it definitely was not providing the scent), but I loved how tiny it was. That's why I put my hand in the photo, to give you a sense of scale. Apparently my focusing abilities deteriorate once again when using the camera one handed. I ask my nature experts, any idea what this is? I'd say it was not planted deliberately by humans, it definitely has the look of being a volunteer.

Below is a picture I took of the lilacs, just because I forgot last time. My camera has no difficulty with this shade of purple; this color matches my memory quite well. Yes, I think sunlight might be the big difference. That reminds me of another realization I had re: violets. One of the reasons I'm fond of them is that they're shade lovers, like me.

For a third time, I ask anyone who knows to tell me what this flowering vine ( upper right) is. I see it on the sides of buildings in Manhattan occasionally. It gives off a strong, heavy scent that I don't find appealing, but I bet it works a treat at getting the plant propagated. Here again the camera captured the color accurately, I would day. Maybe it just handles the blue scale better. Is it wisteria? I suppose I could go look that up. It's something like that, I think. I knew the name of it once. This is the sort of flower I would expect to love, musky scent notwithstanding. Extravagant blossoms in the purple range, exuberant growth, yet I'm largely unmoved by them. Weird. Nothing against them, mind you, they just don't excite me the way lavender, lilacs and violets do. Or crocuses for that matter, though I think part of my appreciation for them is rooted in the knowledge that when they show up, violets are not far away.

Two more times before I left the park I smelled that wonderful, mysterious, citrusy scent. I still have not identified what it is. I'm bad at describing scents, not sure lemony or citrusy is the way to go, but I'll stick with that for now. I briefly wondered if it was simply a whiff of lilac coming from a distance, but I don't think so now. Just not the same scent. I'll have to go back again soon, since presumably whatever it is won't be around much longer. Perhaps that's my final question; does anyone know of something in season right now that has a light, bright scent, not too sweet, not too cloying?

Tending the Soil, Trusting the Season

Fragments I don't see relating, but want to put together anyway:



Sometime today there will be a procession through my mostly Dominican neighborhood, honoring Good Friday. There will be a priest on a megaphone, calling out lines in a musical chant, the congregants responding likewise. Actual songs will be interspersed through all this. To my no doubt unsophisticated ear, I always hear an echo of the Muslim call to prayer in all this, especially the priest's amplified chanting, but also in some of the hymns. I imagine the rituals of prayer coming down through the ages, starting in Moorish Spain, changing from Arabic to Spanish, Muslim to Christian, emigrating to the Caribbean, and ending up outside my doorstep in New York City, still retaining a bit of all those flavors. I may be completely off about the influences... but even so, I like the feeling it gives me that at the heart of true blessing, reverance and thanksgiving, we are more alike than not. At least that's how I see it today.



To answer a question from new friend Butch, the mask accompanying the post below is not the River Liffy, but the Green Man. This link is by no means the only place you can find information on him, he's an old fellow with lots of meanings. Put loosely, I understand him as the male energy of life, specifically a Celtic manifestation, a sort of Father Nature, and with particular ties to Pan, Dionysus, Herne the Hunter, and all the other male gods of Springtime. As such maybe he'd be a better accompaniment to today's post, but he seemed like the right image for my St. Paddy's Day post. Yeats, Ó Searcaigh, and I all connect with Pagan impulses in our own ways, I would say, and the idea of 'going back to sources' explored in both poems made me think of this guy. My sister and brother-in-law gave him to me a few years ago, and he hangs on my wall, across from my bed (one of the few guardian masks I didn't make myself), smiling down on me each morning as I wake up in my gritty urban fifth-floor walk-up.

I don't think St. Patrick would have minded.



By a funny coincidence though, I do have a small River Liffy mask, a gift from my mother a few years ago. Liffy hangs on the edge of the wall dividing the living room from the hallway. She's one of the first things I see when I walk through my front door, shrouded behind my exuberant golden pothos, twining itself around three of the walls. My sense of who she is to me is much more unformed (okay, just so Java's heart will go pitter-pat, I'll say 'inchoate'. Happy Easter, Dear). I'm always glad to see her though. And I do love Dublin. If you enlarge the lower photo, you'll also see that behind her hangs a beautifully calligraphed print of the Yeats poem that I copied out in the previous post, so while I didn't post her with the poem, she is close to it in my world. I don't know what all the lovely coincidences in Butch's question mean, if anything, but I liked them.



Years ago I heard a fantastic joke on TV, from Art Buchwald (yes, that takes you to Wikipedia, it was the most concise biography I could find; feel free to do your own search). I won't do justice to Buchwald's telling of it (it really loses something if you don't hear it told in his New York accent), but here it is.



A man decides that he wants to win the lottery, so he begins praying to God for this, every day. Years go by with the man making this prayer daily, all to know avail. After ten years of this increasingly frantic supplication one day he loses all patience and screams, "God, I've been a good man all these years, why won't you let me win the lottery?"



Suddenly, a voice booms from the heavens.



"Do me a favor! Buy a ticket!"



I fear I have spent a lot of my life being that man. One of the lessons I seem to have to relearn repeatedly is how to find the balance between taking action, and -for lack of a better description- going with the flow. The wellspring of joy and creativity in my life, particularly as it relates to performing, has felt very blocked for years now, and I haven't done much recently to address that (unless we include periodically moping about it on my blog). Spring is one of my favorite times of year, in part because of its reminder that life is reborn, growth occurs, rejuvenation does happen, it just happens according to its own time-table, not mine.



And yet... this doesn't mean I can just sit back. I still need to plant the seeds. For long stretches of time that may be all I do. I'm learning to trust fallow periods more as I age, trusting that just because I can't see it or measure it doesn't mean important growth is going on underground. But that doesn't let me off the hook for doing some work.



Sometimes the soil is sour, depleted or just unsuitable. Sometimes there hasn't been enough water. Sometimes the shoots come up, and it's my job to protect them from late frost and snow, careless feet, or hungry rabbits. Nature will take care of itself just fine without my help, but if I am hoping for specific results, flowers or vegetables say, rather than happy rodents or a rocky front yard, then I have to do some work. Yes, a balance is to be sought. Respect for the forces involved must be maintained. But I mustn't fall into the comfortable laziness (probably really a form of fear), of passivity.



Then there's the other side. Various people in my life are dealing with difficult issues right now, and various caretakers are watching them deal with those issues, trying to help, but often struggling with the recognition, and accompanying guilt, that there is nothing they can do. I feel badly for both people in the equation; both experience a feeling of helplessness, of being at the mercy of forces they can't control, even when they believe they should be able to. While I am reminding myself that I must do the things I can, THEN trust in other forces, many many of my loved ones might want to remind themselves that some things are beyond our power, and even when we do all the 'right' stuff, sometimes things still go wrong. Then we find what to do next. Feeling guilty for failing to protect a loved one is a burden many people subject themselves to understandably, but needlessly.

("Easy for you to say," mutters the chorus... I know, I know. I do it too, sometimes.)

So I hope each of you, in your own way, finds this season a time of rejuvenation, healing or just plain old joyous growth, in whatever way is best for you. Some of us may need to get our asses out there to plant seeds and pull weeds... but some of us may just need to trust that we've done all we can. Do you know which one you are? Are you sure?

Frolic in the Meadow

So, it seems I'm not as good with this digital camera as I may have thought. If I'm trying to capture scenery on a day with brilliant light and diamond-sharp shadows, apparently I can manage not to fuck things up too much. If I'm trying to photograph people, or pets, however, I turn into a drooling moron. The camera insists on flashing, regardless of light or setting, and I don't know how to turn that off (if it's even possible; it must be, right?). It often doesn't really understand what I want to be focusing on, so when faced with this problem it focuses at random on an object of its own choosing. We're working on our communication, though I'll admit I don't always behave like a grown-up and will sometimes remove its batteries in a fit of pique. That doesn't seem to accomplish much, but it makes me feel better. Yes, I'm just that petty. I hate being defeated by inanimate objects.

What is my evidence for all this? See that picture above? Out of all the photos I took of Jess, Marc, the dogs (none of whom have blogs yet), the house, the train-ride, that photo there is the best one I got out of my visit to East Meadow. I mean, you can actually see who it is I'm photographing. The others, all of them, don't know what the hell happened there. Yes, I know you can look at the little screen after taking a shot, see if it came out, then try again if necessary, bite me okay? Yeah, I didn't do that. Like, ever. I blame Marc really. He made this amazing blackberry (yes blackberry) cosmo that is without a doubt the most delicious mixed drink I've ever had. Not too sweet, beautiful color, it went down like water, so I really can't be held responsible.

So, lacking the extensive photo journal I was hoping to share with you, I'll just have to tell you about my lovely day. Oh, that above is Mandy. She is of the devil, apparently. In my own defense, Jess says that effect always happens with her eyes, so again, it's not my fault. She was coming over to smooch me, by the way, not chew off my face, as it might appear. I get those looks confused a lot.

After a relaxing train-ride out (I love trains), Jess was there to pick me up at the station. The conversation started up without any awkwardness, as between familiar friends, as I guess we were by that point. At the house I was greeted by the dogs first. Bernice and Mandy were effusive and affectionate from the start, competing a bit with one another for my attention. Dodger was courtly and gracious, but made clear he was reserving judgement pending further evidence. I can respect that.

Finally I got to meet Marc as well. Both gentlemen were every bit as charming, funny and welcoming as their blogs, comments and emails had led me to expect. What I hadn't gotten to experience directly was the loving banter between them, which started up immediately. They seemed as amazed, amused and delighted with each other as if they had just met, and it was lovely to bask in.

First order of business, I requested a tour of the house. Marc had before pictures to give me a sense of how extensive their renovations had been. Jess grew up in this house, so the renovations helped to shape the house more to their tastes and needs, while also perhaps banishing a ghost or two. The home they've created is both elegant and cozy, taking advantage of some wonderful original features (black walnut trim!), and antiques from their families, combining them with beautiful new marble or granite in the kitchen and bathrooms, wonderful light fixtures, and a variety of rich, soothing colors. Throughout there were several large beautiful photographs hanging and only later did I learn that Jess had taken them. The house throughout sang of the two of them, and of their relationship. After turning to smaller bedrooms into one large one, they decided to make it the new master bedroom. Jess felt he was never going to be able to see the original as anything but his parents' room. Talk about a recipe for chastity. I would have made the same choice. Periodically one of them would point to what I thought was a small, tastefully arrayed collection, and say "sorry about the mess."

They are never, ever coming to my house.

So much of the furniture or collections (there were actual ones too) came with family stories, so one sensed the history of these two men in a way that I have rarely found with Americans. I got to hear about some of their relatives -Jess's mom and grandmother, Marc's mom- triggered perhaps by a collection of silver pieces, a surprisingly valuable couch (that narrowly missed being left on the curb) or a great old cabinet.

Jess and Marc then began preparations for dinner in the kitchen, while I sat in the living room, peeking through the large window there, sipping my cosmo, and petting any dog who stopped by to say hi. Dodger seemed to be warming up a bit. All five of them had been in Vermont over the weekend with friends, so Iwas informed the dogs were a bit more sedate than usual, due to being tired. I was comforted to hear this, since I was starting to wonder if I should be offended by the fact that Mandy had not yet lived up to her nickname -Moose- by trying to climb into my lap.

Just so you know, if you say to these gentlemen "please don't go to any trouble" what they hear is "please order gulf shrimp from a company in Texas that provides next day delivery." Jess tried to make it seem like that was all Marc's doing, but I didn't detect any evidence he had tried to stop him.

Not that I'm complaining, mind you. Jess made a delicious scampi, while Marc sauteed asparagus, and buttered garlic bread, periodically checking on the state of his cheesecake. He then topped up my drink, discreetly provided me with a tarp the size of a circus tent to deal with my drooling, and the six of us sat down to eat in the sunroom. The meal was every bit as wonderful as you're thinking it was, topped only by the company and the conversation. I learned more about Jess's parents, and regretted that I would never get to meet them. The love they shared for over forty years had clearly shaped Jess, his siblings, and the home in ways too many to count; one felt it radiating out of the walls, surrounding us with a warm, gentle glow.

Once the humans had eaten our fill, Bernice and Mandy intensified their campaign for scraps, and were rewarded with some pieces of garlic bread. Dodger has to be invited to partake, such a gentleman he is, but he didn't require too much coaxing.

Jess and I continued talking while Marc disappeared for quite a while in the kitchen, until I began to feel like we had abandoned him. "Don't worry," Jess assured me, "he would much rather we stay out here for the moment." Far be it from me to disturb an artist in process.

Eventually we retired to the living room with our cheesecake with strawberries (heaven!) and our coffee. This is the one room in the house where the dogs are not allowed. Bernice and Mandy accept this without complaint (or at least they did that night). Dodger, on the other hand, utilizes the debate of legal minutiae so popular with dogs and teenagers. He'd lie just outside the door, only his snout crossing the border into the living room, testing to see if the judges felt this honored the spirit of the law. That having gone well, he tried the reverse, placing his entire body in the living room, except for his snout, which also helped his case, since he was facing out of the room. When this began to look like he'd push too far, he also stretched both forepaws to the safe side of the border. Eventually Jess told him to leave, and he did, with no evident disgruntlement.

Perusing some of the Adonises (Adonisae?) hot guys in Jess's high school yearbook -he was the editor, so had a certain amount of say in who got multiple shots- led to a discussion of opportunities missed because we were too young, timid and closeted. This led somehow into a discussion of whether there is life after death. Trust me, in the context that jump made sense. Actually you probably can come up with your own links without much trouble, can't you. I learned about the trip they took with Marc's mom to Europe, getting her out of the country for the first time in her seventies, for what was clearly a wonderful time for all three of them. Jess says they have a 'don't ask, don't tell' policy for her sake, but occasionally she forgets, and calls him 'son'.

A phone call from a friend led us to the TV room (Oh, I neglected to mention the Bose surround sound system throughout the house!) so said friend could get Jess's expert opinion on some guns being evaluated on the Antiques Road Show. Marc suddenly thought it had been cruel to keep me in the living room, no dogs allowed, when I had come out in part to see them, but he needn't have worried. The company in both rooms had been a delight, I didn't feel deprived in the slightest. This did however give Dodger a chance to deliver his final judgement, which he did by playfully wrassling with me, biting ever so gently. Jess informed me this meant I was in.

We were all looking at early starts the next day, so I elected to get on the 9:30 train back to Penn Station. The three of us drove to the station, which meant I got to save my hugs until the very last moment with both of them. As they drove off I appreciated the fact that three rough looking guys were standing next to three fabulous young gay boys (one of them in a sequin-covered vest, a fedora, and just a touch of eye-liner) without any evident animosity. Even the 'burbs of New York tend to have a live and let live attitude most of the time.

The train arrived right on time, and after I had been riding for a bit, I thought to turn my phone back on. There was a text message and a voice message from Jess. The voice message said "Marc wanted to know if you'd made your train all right--OW. I just got hit. Okay I was worried you might have missed your train, it's the Jewish mother in me..." I called back immediately to reassure Mama, and thanked them again for a lovely day.

I was home before eleven, which gave me time to make a full report to Nicky, and to learn that my photos were for shit. I guess that just means I'm going to have to go back for another visit, after I've beaten the camera into submission-I mean learned all its fine nuances and needs. It's rough, but for you, my readers, I'm willing to make that sacrifice. No need to thank me. Its just the kind of guy I am. I'm a giver.

Thanks again, Guys, it was wonderful. It's my turn to host next, which I'll find some way to do without letting you see the state of squalor I generally live in.

Heartwarming Story

I went up to Fort Tryon Park to see what the garden up there was up to. (This picture is not from there, but from my sister's and brother-in-law's garden in Indiana, by the way). It was remarkably lush and beautiful, full of many more blooming things than I would have expected. One bush in particular caught my attention, however. It was full of middle-sized blossoms, with yellow-orange centers, and deep orange petals. I don't know what they were, they were the same shape as Black-eyed Susans, but with the different colors. Anyone?

Anyway, they were lovely, but the reason they caught my eye was because of the cloud, I mean FLOCK of monarchs that were feeding on them. If you've ever tried it, then you know it's not easy to count live butterflies, but I would say that there were never less than twenty on the bush, and often close to fifty feeding, floating on the breeze, flitting about in that butterfly way of theirs; since their wings were virtually the same color as the flowers, the whole thing seemed to be shimmering and dancing. Just in case I got too sappy about the glories of nature, I also watched a praying mantis catch and methodically eat one butterfly. None of the other Monarchs seemed bothered in the slightest; they kept drinking nectar right next to the mantis. So, just a little 'nature red in tooth and claw' to keep me grounded. I'm cool with that.

I sat and watched at for a couple of hours. I was sitting right under it, on a little raised brick border that runs along the path into the park. Anyone who has ever seen or been a child knows that this is the sort of thing one simple has to walk on, pretending to be a tightrope walker or some such. Okay, I admit it, sometimes I still have to pretend to be a tightrope walker, and walk on any narrow wall no matter what the height. At one point a little boy, no more than six, came along doing just that. When he got to me, he stopped to see what I was so engrossed by. His eyes widened at the wonder of glorious nature spread before him.

"Awww SHIT!" he said. Mom made some sort of mild remonstration, but kept walking.

"MOM!" he bellowed," I want a BUTTERFLY!" Then he scampered off after her.

Don't ask me why, but somehow I feel like this epitomizes my experience of New York.

Random Moments

Note to self: make sure you get to a park at sundown so you can see fireflies, and hear crickets. Sure, they go on all Summer long, but the fireflies at least tend to peak right around now, so if you want the best show, make it happen. You've gotten in the habit of making sure not to miss violet season (though it took a few years), now you need to do the same with fireflies. Parts of Central Park are safe after dark, and Fort Tryon is even better. For now, don't expect to go to sleep listening to crickets though. That's one pleasure that will have to wait for a while.

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Dear Working guy on Hudson Street,

What was that thing you were carrying yesterday? It was longer than the width of the sidewalk, seemed to have upholstery on one of the sides then metal on the other. At first I thought it was some part of a very long bench, but now I wonder if it was meant to fit around the corner of a wall somehow. It obviously was very light, since you carried it easily with one arm. But here's a thought; maybe while you're carrying something that long, you might want to think twice about ogling some strange woman's ass as she walks away from you. I know a good ass should always be acknowledged or you lose your man parts or something, but still. It was almost a Laurel and Hardy routine when you swung around and blocked the entire sidewalk, almost knee-capping me in the process. So you might want to watch that, 'kay?

Kisses,

Patrick.

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While walking through the heather garden at Fort Tryon (one of NYC's little gems), I found myself so happy to see bees. I couldn't be sure they were honeybees, in fact they probably weren't, but I was still glad to see them. I've learned since this whole "disappearance of wild honeybees" debacle came up that in fact they aren't native to North America, and were seriously damaged years ago by a parasite anyway, so losing them isn't as dire as it was originally made out to be... but I still felt really happy to see them. I've always liked them, but now they seemed that much more precious. The cliche of them being industrious really does fit, but in watching them, they also just seemed cheerful as they worked. So brisk, buzzing around, dancing on the heads of each flower, they just seemed happy in what they were doing. I know, I know, major anthropomorphizing: my point is, watching them made me happy. They also seemed to be focusing that day on the lavender, which was a choice I could hardily endorse.

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It's been nearly three weeks, but I wanted to talk about my experience at the GLBT Pride parade. One highlight for me was meeting Big Daddy blogger Joe.My.God, who I've been reading more or less on a daily basis for a few years now. He had mentioned he would be at the corner of Gay and Christopher, so people should stop by to say hi. Of course once I got there, I had the same problem I do with any celebrity I meet. After I gush a bit ("I love your work!") I don't have anything else to say. The problem was compounded in this case by the fact that Joe was surrounded by hordes of guys, all whom, it became very clear, were also bloggers, but bloggers I had NOT been reading, so I'd really have nothing to say, unless I wanted to lie ("as long as there absolutely NO follow-up questions, I love your work!"). At the time this felt like it had the making of a major social blunder, so I decided not to linger.

But that isn't really the story I wanted to tell. One of the fun things about the Pride experience is that it starts as soon as I get on the train. I look around at my fellow passengers, sussing out who is going the same place I am. Especially getting on in my Harlem neighborhood, it's fun trying to guess who of my immediate neighbors wants to make this a part of his/her day. I assume one can tell I'm gay from space, so I'm always a little surprised when people don't guess it (it does TOO happen), but I'm thinking today it would be hard to miss unless one were seriously naive or in denial. You know, lots of earrings, necklaces, bracelets, even an anklet (gift from Friend Kate), sleeveless shirt to show off my tattoo (not the non-existent biceps), I don't know, it just seemed pretty clear. The same was true for lots of my fellow passengers, and of course the crowd got bigger as we moved south.

Somewhere south of 42nd St, a guy got on and sat across from me. Heavy-set, dressed in long pants, blue blazer, open collar shirt, he doesn't look dressed for work but he also doesn't look dressed for the parade. Unless it's a costume and his float has a Gilligan Island theme or something, but barring that, I'm figuring, not on his way to the parade. But he keeps checking me out. Especially if anyone stands between us, he periodically looks around to see if I'm still there. In fact this is some of the clumsiest cruising I have ever witnessed. He's not even pretending; sure he's reading a book, but when he looks up for me, he moves his whole head, even his body if he needs to see past someone else, then when he sees me, reassured, he goes back to his book.

When we get to 14th St the hordes disembark, so I'm on the stairs to the street before I realize he's directly behind me. "I hope you have a fantastic day," he says. "Thanks, you too," I reply. Now on the street, he says, "I'm J____."
"Nice to meet you J___. I'm Patrick."
He tells me about the party he's going to which is a graduation party for a friend who just got her second Masters, this one in Social Work ("Good for her," I say. "Yeah, she's a really good person."). Then, with no transition whatsoever he tells me he can't wait for his wife to get back tonight, and he'll be really happy when his daughter gets back at the end of the summer. I never learned where she was or what she was doing, but since she was all of 13 years old (I did learn this), I assumed it was some sort of extended Summer camp. J_____ proceeded to wax rhapsodic about how much he loved her, and how wonderful she was, and how he knows parents always say that about their kids, but he thinks that's as it should be, and she really is the joy of his life. Okay, so if this is a pick-up it's the worst one ever. I'm assuming it's not, even if he tells me two more times that he hopes I have a fantastic day, it's clear he knows where I am going, and he hopes it will be fun. I really don't know what he is up to.

I can't say I ever got a good answer to this. At some point our paths parted, I went one way, he went another, wishing me once again a fantastic day... and that was it. Maybe he's a major closet case wanting to make some connection, ANY connection with another gay guy, just had to protest his straight bona fides first, and was hoping I'd make a move on him. Sorry J____, that ain't gonna happen. Maybe he's just one of the world's most socially awkward straight guys, who just wanted to let me know he was down with ma peeps. That's nice, it really is, but still, why, out of all the obvious queers getting off at that stop, did he pick me? I tend to get approached by awkward strangers quite a bit, actually. I think it's because I look harmless. So maybe that was it. I don't know. It was an odd, but rather touching start to my Pride Parade experience. I hope he had a nice time at the party, got to see his wife that night, and they called their daughter. I hope that really was what he was looking for.

I Hate Relearning S&1t

I've had a couple of occasions recently to be reminded of things I had forgotten. Man I hate that shit. I mean I'm glad anytime a solution for a problem is found, but whenever it's a reminder rather than a discovery I always get a bit annoyed at myself. Cycles, learning is relearning, yeah yeah, I know. Sometimes it just bugs me. Like now.

First example: My sister reminded me of a very useful technique last night, called the Twenty Minute Rule. The idea is simple; when faced with a task that one is at all resistant to, one simply decides to tackle it for only twenty minutes. After the time is up, one is free to go onto something else, guilt assuaged, one's inner Puritan mollified. Can one really get anything done in twenty minutes? Surprisingly yes, more than one usually expects but, in any case, one gets more done in twenty minutes than in zero, which is often what I've been giving my chores. For my sister (who really should have a blog of her own, but refrains for some very sound reasons) the task she's recently found daunting is her garden. She and her husband Tony have a beautiful place (see photo), that I covet with a most unbrotherly passion, but she reminded me how easily its care can turn into obligations which, depending on time ignored or one's general state of mind, can become reproaches. It can, in fact, quickly become ample evidence in the growing case one is building (somehow I ALWAYS have time for this) for why one is an utter waste as a human being. In the case of the garden, deadheading, weeding, pruning, planting new plants, checking for voracious bugs, are just a few of the tasks that go into making something look that good and 'natural'. So she recently reinstituted the twenty minute rule, the garden is happy, she's happy, it's all good. Of course the secret weapon of this technique is the way it fools our inner Couch Potato; often after an hour she will find herself still happily puttering away in the garden, actually enjoying herself. It's best to ignore this side of the technique though, so as not to betray the Couch Potato's trust. If you say it will be twenty-minutes, and anyone (your Inner Child, Inner Couch Potato, Inner Naysayer, Inner Crank, whatever) is not having fun at the end of twenty minutes, you stop. Follow the rule, or it won't work in the future.

Heartened by this reminder, I've used it repeatedly all morning. Being unemployed, it's an especially good way to structure my time. Here it is, 1:30pm, and I am sufficiently ahead in my chores to feel that a few minutes writing on my blog (in the MIDDLE OF THE DAY?) is permitted.

Man, I hate this shit.

Second example: I had reason to be leafing back through some fairly old emails, from 2002-04, and while I was seeking specific information, easily fell into the trap of rereading old notes just for the hell of it. Naturally I discovered that three to five years ago I was frustrated by many of the same things, complaining about the same things, struggling with the same self-doubts and confusions, same problems all around. Subsequent emails showed me how I began to fight my way out of that quagmire and surprise, many of the discoveries I made and things I tried are the very ones I've come back to recently, including, of course, the twenty minute rule.

I really really REALLY hate this shit.

Okay, so I'm on an upswing of sorts at the moment, it feels like the sludge is getting broken up JUST a bit (don't want to jinx it), syphoned off, that's all just absolutely NIFTY, I'm not really helped by bitching about how long it took me to learn STUFF I ALREADY KNOW. I really want to, though.

So

I'll give it twenty minutes.

Now, perhaps as tonic for my own grouching...

When I'm modeling for college drawing classes at the beginning of the school year, quite often first year students will become so disgusted with their efforts, so horrified at the ugliness that is their art (and by extension of course, their very being) that they will choose to crumple the offending, hideous, EXCREMENTAL page into a tiny, diamond-hard ball, and throw it away, getting the offending sheet as far from them as possible. (As a side note, is there anything more melodramatic than a teenager, regardless of age, race, gender or sexual orientation? Drama Queens, the lot of 'em). Usually the teacher takes that opportunity to remind them that they are being graded on their PROGRESS throughout the semester, so they should save everything, to have an accurate record of the semester. Most of them accept it gracelessly, since, hey, apparently it's a RULE... but you can tell they resent it. A lot. It's usually not until much later in the semester, or year, that they experience the pedagogical beauty of this rule. As we progress in anything, so does our gauge of excellence. We forget the lessons we already learned, and focus only on the impossible task before us. So sometimes, a student will be faced with a new frustration, a new thing she's just not getting, and the teacher will make her look at one of her earliest sketches. Suddenly, she'll realize how things that used to seem impossible now are second nature. Usually she also makes the leap that if she did it before, she can probably do it again.

As an actor, it is perhaps a bit harder to find these records of past efforts, a collection of my past 'sketches.' I'm smart enough to know NOT to look to videotapes of live shows for this experience, and while previous films MIGHT work, I don't have any film work to look at yet. Rehearsals, like performances disappear the minute they are over. This is the beauty and the heartache of theatre. Nonetheless, I think I benefit greatly from looking behind me, and realizing I've actually progressed, however minimally. I just have to remember to do it, and how.

I will forget all this again, apparently. Forty plus years of experience shows me that, at the very least. So maybe I'm leaving this entry as a note to my future self, for the next time when I feeling trapped, blocked, or useless.