Midwestern Spring: Close-ups

 

A few weeks ago I realized a scheduled lull in work (read: spring break at Pratt) was coming up.  A good freelancer would see that as a time to shake the trees a bit, make a little rain, seek out new revenue streams, or utilize a host of other nature-related images for 'do more work'.  Instead I decided to treat it like a vacation, and take a quick trip to visit my family.

I couldn't be more pleased.

In my defense, the week happened to include my dad's birthday, so with Mary and Tony's help I arranged to fly back to Indiana, to surprise him and Mom. I could pretend it was a purely altruistic act, but that always made me think of that old story of the kid who gave his mom a baseball glove for her birthday, or, similarly, the Simpson's episode where Homer gives Marge a bowling ball--with the name 'Homer' on it--for hers. Much as this was a treat for me though, I think Dad was pleased too.

Mary had invited them over to join her and Tony for dessert Saturday night.  Mom came in first, saw me, froze, then said "how did this happen?"  A few minutes later Dad came in, saw me, and said "how did this happen?"  (I suspect years of teaching and social activism means Dad is used to the unexpected, which is the reason he shortened the freezing part.)  I got the impression they both initially wondered if I had developed the ability to materialize at will anywhere on the planet.  Nice thought, and it's rather sweet that both my folks appeared ready to ascribe supernatural abilities to me so quickly, but they didn't seem too disappointed at the more mundane explanation. 

 

  We celebrated Dad's birthday a day early, on Sunday.  Mom and Dad each said they'd had a sleepless night or two in the past week, and had figured out that it was due to anticipating yet another celebration without James.  Birthdays have always been a family affair, so in this year of firsts, his absence was noteworthy.  We toasted him as well as Dad.  The occasion was understandably a bit muted, but still very nice. 

I haven't been in Indiana in March for many years, so it had been a while since I experienced the first glimmers of Spring there. Whether due to the slight change in latitude or less cement (not an exhaustive list), Spring was just a bit further along in Richmond than NYC. Or maybe the signs were just easier to see. Mary and Tony were rejoicing in the crocuses sprouting up in their garden, and appreciating the bigger showing of snowdrops, even if it didn't match their hopes, given how many bulbs they had planted. They had the bigger field at Laceyland to reassure them, though; the garden at Hazelthorne will have its own blanket of white flowers soon. Tony claimed Mary didn't let him buy or plant as many bulbs as he had wanted, a claim she vigorously denied, so to keep the peace I offered to act as witness to the future plan 'to let Tony go nuts with snowdrops.' Marriage is a delicate negotiation.

 

Seasonal changes are always a good excuse to look at things closely.  My eye kept switching back and forth from close study to drinking in the panorama. Today's post is mostly the close study.  For those of you not on Facebook (be strong, she's a harsh bitch-goddess of an addiction!), I'll post some of the landscape photos soon.  One of the many benefits of being able to return to one's hometown, hell, the actual home one grew up in, is the ways experiences can feel archetypal.  I wasn't just witnessing the start of Spring, I was witnessing it in the place where I'd enjoyed it for most of my first twenty-two years.  There have been plenty of changes to the place, of course, but many of those changes are for the better, which is always nice to see.  Things are both brand-new and memory-laden.

  

James would have appreciated this combination of rainbows and

pretty rocks. 

This, in case you aren't sure, is a crayfish hole.  Or crawdad, if you prefer.  Crawfish, even.  Not, however, craydad.  Unless someone wants to start a campaign.  If so, good luck with that.  For reasons I won't get into here, Dad has, for years, thought we should change the name of New York back to New Amsterdam.  When I moved here, he assumed it would be so I could head up the home office.  I've been dodging that agenda for fifteen years now, and it's pretty much a full time job, so I won't be joining any other whack-job campaigns.  

Um, so, anyway, that there's a crawdad hole.    

 

Mary and Tony are thrilled this pussywillow bush is thriving this year.  In past years the branches have been broken by squirrels before any real growth could occur.  I did see one squirrel climbing in it one day.  I prepared to go out and scare it away, but before I did, I watched it crawl to the end of a branch, and delicately nibble only the blossum at the very tip.  My theory is that one is the most tender, and the fuzzy nubbins on the rest of the bush are now safe by reason of unpalatability.  Not sure why it was allowed to reach this stage this year; maybe the fussy gourmet squirrels had a surfeit of other goodies to draw on.  Lord knows they're still looking sleek and tubby, though that doesn't impede their acrobatic games of tag. 

Dad and Mom have insisted for years that they don't need any more things, so Mary has taken to giving them nice trees, flowers and plants--plus labor--for their garden.  This year she gave Dad a couple of Peruvian daffodils and ten bulbs of freesia.  On Saint Patrick's Day I helped her plant them.  Two warm sunny days following torrential rain on the weekend meant the soil was close to perfect.  It also meant we discovered some shoots and blooms we might have overlooked otherwise.  Houseplants, much as I love them, rarely provide those kinds of surprises. 

I also observed my Saint Day by building a tiny dolmen for James' memorial garden.  Dolmens dot the landscape in Ireland and the UK, and their simple design, massive scale, and obvious age have always appealed to all the Laceys, but especially James.  History, big rocks, they have it all.  Mary and Tony had saved some of their border rocks for this purpose, and it was nice to be doing it on Saint Paddy's Day.  This mini version makes me think of the Stonehenge number in This Is Spinal Tap, but I'm okay with that. Pretty sure I would have had to get a permit and some serious equipment if I'd tried to make a full-sized one.  And besides, James loved that movie.   

My return to NYC (NOT New Amsterdam) was softened by being greeted at the airport by my Prince Charming, then heading back to his place where I fell asleep to the sound of peepers.  The following night Charming had his first experience of a warm night in my neighborhood.  We had each actually managed to get to sleep, despite the revelry on the street, only to wake standing a few hours later when a fire fighter blasted his truck horn and siren repeatedly, then issued commands on the bullhorn for the partiers to clear the way for the truck, or risk arrest.  It took several tries before people decided to move their moronic partying asses out of the path of a fire truck desperately trying to get to an accident scene. 

City life comes with slightly different seasonal markers.  Fortunately there are crocuses here too.   

Window Box Update

I'm starting to sense Spring a bit when I'm outdoors.  The snow from the last big storm is almost gone, and more importantly, so is the nasty brown slush it becomes so quickly in urban settings.  No doubt my feelings are shaped by my recent trip to Seattle, where the weather was warm, the sun was out, and blossoms were starting to show all over the city.  But my living room window boxes have been approximating spring for several weeks now.  Above you can see a close-up of some sweetpea blossoms.  So far I've never had more than three at once, usually only one or two, but maybe this is a careful policy on the plant's part, sort of a limited edition approach, so my delight in each individual bloom stays nice and high.  It's a clever policy, if so.  My morning routine now includes a few moments of close study of both window boxes, to see if anything has changed or needs my help.   

The morning glories have also lured me into a daily visit, with almost the opposite approach.  While I'm still not getting the blanket of blossoms I keep hoping for, these babies are definitely blooming in greater profusion than the sweetpeas.  Nowadays though, my daily visit is mostly to see if any of the gazillion seedpods are ready to burst.  I was dozing on the couch recently and was wakened when a tiny shower of seeds hit the windowsill.  Most of the time I catch the seeds before they burst out on their own.  There's an odd satisfaction in squeezing a dry seedpod at just the right moment.  For weeks now I've been soaking the new seeds and throwing them in the pot when they're ready.  I think I have at least three different generations of sprouts growing.  With any luck I'll have morning glories blooming indefinitely. 

I have a vague recollection of planting two different kinds of morning glories, one purple variety and one red.  So far only the purple, called Grandpa Ott, has shown any blossoms.  Maybe the reds are taking longer, maybe Old Grandpa is a more vigorous type, and took over.  If I'm only stuck with one kind though, he's not a bad way to go.  When the blooms first open, they're often blue, but as the day progresses, they'll change to a deep violet, with red throats and stars.  The vigor and speed of these guys might be a bit scary, if I were inclined to think that way.  I think I've seen vines grow as much as an inch in a single day, and the number of seedpods is a bit overwhelming. 

Funnily enough, the sweetpeas have only been purple so far as well, this despite the claim on the seedpacket that I'd be getting a profusion of "orange, lavender, scarlet and pink blooms."  Let me just tell the universe at large that while I am quite fond of purple, it is by NO means the only color I like. 

Something else my daily visits have shown me is just how much sunlight these east windows actually get.  I think the white walls on the opposite side of the courtyard also mean the setting sun has more of an effect on the plants than I would have predicted.  With the sun moving farther north as Spring approaches, the hours of daylight are lengthening in the living room, so I have hopes for moving all my herbs out there for the summer.  It's nice having plants in my bedroom, sure, but it might be even nicer to have more of them in a room where I do more than sleep.  So far the basil plant I've moved seems pretty content. 

Below you can see a couple of morning glory vines creeping out of the window, on their way, it would appear, to meet up with the golden pothos.  It too seems fairly enthusiastic about meeting up with the morning glories.  I can't for the life of me imagine how that would benefit either of them, but what the hell.  I would have expected the pothos to be content with the light in this area, but haven't a clue why the morning glories would choose to move away from the direct sunlight.  It's a mystery unfolding in seasonal time; maybe I'll understand the agenda better in a few weeks.  Further bulletins as events warrant.

Snow Day in Harlem

Yesterday as the snow began to pile up, the only thing I really needed to do was go to the grocery store.  Even that was somewhat optional, if I didn't mind making the poor food delivery guy slog through a whole lot of nastiness before climbing four flights to my apartment.  (My roommate says it's somewhat comforting to realize he's not the only one out of breath by the time he gets to the front door.)

I tend to like snow though, so I decided to head off to buy some stamps, then if I was still having fun, I'd head down to Riverside Park. 

It was late enough in the afternoon that anyone who was out (shoveling supers aside) were probably there, like me, by choice.  A rather cheerful atmosphere permeated, at least amongst the pedestrians.  I think the drivers were having less fun.

 

Of course part of our enjoyment no doubt comes from having more space to ourselves than usual.  As you can imagine, this was even more true when I headed down the park.  Even in good weather, this place isn't really on the way to anything.  If you're here, it's because you chose to be. 

At the water's edge I found creatures who were going me one better in the chilling department.  Ducks and Canada Geese sat in the choppy waters.  I didn't see any of them fishing; I think they just liked being in the water. 

 

As my face began to hurt from the driving snow, these two bikers passed me.  I was impressed by the progress they were making through the slush.  One of them called out a cheery hello as she passed by.  This never happens in more clement weather.

Snow falling on water has always seemed magical to me.  Growing up in Indiana, I always associated large bodies of water with the Summer.  Even if we were going to nearby Brookville Lake (an hour's drive, in my recollection) we only went in hot weather.  Going to the east coast, usually Maine, also usually only happened during the Summer. 

My first year of college coincided with a sabbatical year for my Dad, so my parents and brother spent it on Southport Island, in Boothbay Harbor, Me.  That Christmas break was probably the first time I saw snow fall on the ocean.  My seven years living in Seattle didn't give me many more opportunities.  Snowfall isn't common in the city, at least it wasn't back then, and on the rare occasions when it happened, it usually shuts the place down.  Getting down to the water's edge, let alone onto a ferry, would have been more trouble than it was worth.  Being able to walk to the Hudson yesterday was nice, it even felt like a bit of a luxury. 

Scranton Analysis

The next morning, further reactions as promised:

Boy howdy, that restricted vision. I knew I'd be able to see nothing much past my front paws, er, my hands on the floor, and thought I had prepared adequately for that. The cat's toy was jingly for two reasons, one artistic (?) one extremely practical. And as I said before, Jeff and I established when we did our tech-through that I wouldn't react to anything he was doing unless there was an accompanying noise. That worked nicely in the broad strokes, but it wasn't until I saw the videotape that I realized how much fun stuff I still missed, like the fact that he sat on audience laps. Knowing that might not have changed anything I did, but it might have. At the very least it meant I missed out on a key part of the audience's enjoyment. In that vein, it's interesting to notice the audience member who reaches out to pet my head. Again I didn't know this was going on at all, and had she actually made contact, I might have have freaked out, sure I had somehow managed to bump into something or someone. Worst case scenario, I might have even hurt her, if she had reached out to touch me just as I made a sudden move. It was just dumb luck--and perhaps some wise caution on the audience member's part--that kept any of that from happening. She was playing along, engaging, being a great audience member (and it does look like I'm staring right at her, doesn't it, not to mention the fact that I've practically crawled into her lap) while I was completely in my own world.

This whole event was geared towards audience interaction, and this piece appears to be in keeping with that spirit, but since I couldn't SEE anyone I wasn't holding up my end of the deal. Bumping into the table and the light stand made patently obvious to the audience that I wasn't as in control of the situation as I should have been, and again, it was just dumb luck that nothing got broken, and no one got hurt.  (I don't think Conor's beverage actually spilled, Greg, but the threat was bad enough. He's an actor at the theatre, and an easy-going guy, so I don't think he held it against me, but that's just luck on my part too.) Events like this want to create a sense of controlled chaos, and audiences, if they like that dynamic at all, like it a lot.  This crowd was very ready to play along, and that was fantastic.  One couldn't have asked for a better house. But they need to be safe, and they need to KNOW they're safe, that they may be put in slightly embarrassing situations, but not physically dangerous ones.  Another item on the list of dumb luck is the fact that my biggest blunders came right at the very end (and the second one didn't involve any audience members), so just as the audience was figuring out maybe I wasn't that safe to have around, I was already gone.  So let me just say to the fine folks in the house that night, thanks, you guys were swell!  Sure glad I didn't hurt any of ya!

In my own defense, I will say I had anticipated this issue somewhat as well, in particular when it came to the cat toy.  I very carefully made sure it was in the center of the stage before going gonzo on it.  But then adrenaline kicked in, I lost control of the ball's movement, and that is what sent me colliding into things.  I had been careful up until that point, but once I'm playing cat hockey, like, wow.  So, the dangerous part was really only there at the end, but it can't and won't happen again. 

Now many of these discoveries would have been made in rehearsal, had there been any, and it was perhaps a wee bit intemperate of me to tackle so many experiments at once when I was going into a performance where it was understood improvisation was the name of the game.  I'm used to creating pieces on the fly, that find their full shape with an audience, and that was certainly how I approached this piece.  Some of that happened still, but I'm going to do a lot more work on it, preferably with a director, before I perform this piece again.  

Some basic lessons I've already identified: 
1) Stillness is my friend with the cat mask.  Cats spend a lot of time being still, plotting their next move.  I have a tendency to keep low-grade movement going on with a new mask, fearing that if I don't have some kind of action going, the mask will cease to read.  Of course nothing screams insecurity like unmotivated, undifferentiated movement.  So, it's a general lesson, and one I've certainly 'learned' before, but it has added resonance with this mask.  He can spend less time prowling, and more time sitting and thinking.  

2) Given the sight limitations with this mask, further performances would benefit from, ahem, tight choreography, and possibly a proscenium stage.  Three quarter staging like you see here was invented in part to increase the connection between audience and performer. I'm a big fan of three quarter stages, but wonder if this piece might, at least for a while, need the greater sense of remove one gets from a proscenium. That separation doesn't have to deaden the effect; in fact can it increase the magical aura.  For now, this piece might need to be something audiences interact with aurally and emotionally, not so much physically. 

3) On a related note, some questions to address with a director include, what is the exact window of the mask?  By this I mean, when does it read and when do we lose the character, and become aware of it as a construction sitting on someone's head?  All masks have a window that is particular to them.  Looking straight out, one may read beautifully, but tilt your head too far back, suddenly all we can see is the separation between the mask and the face and the illusion is shot.  Turn too much in profile with certain masks, and suddenly an audience can't help but focus on the elastic band holding the thing on your face.  Everyone has known it was there all along of course, they've probably seen it even, it's not news to them, but they happily suspend their disbelief as long as you don't make it impossible for them.  This mask comes with different rules, and audience members will happily accept those as well, I just need to be very clear on what they are.  Right now my understanding is too general.  The video makes clear to me that seeing the cat from the back isn't terribly effective, so this another reason to shy away from three-quarter staging. 

This mask came with a very interesting wrinkle on the window question.  When I hold my head at certain angles, it reads as a cat (which is what I was going for, so, like, yippee).  Change the angle slightly though, and suddenly the audience sees a dog.  I had anticipated this problem sculpturally (more on that in a moment) but it wasn't until I saw the video that I realized how much my movement affected this.  The sight problem comes into play here as well; occasionally I would forget myself, and crane my neck back in a (decidely doomed) attempt to see a bit farther ahead.  When I keep my head down in the way it's supposed to be, I think the illusion of cat is achieved.  Tilt my head up just a bit too much though, and it is definitely doglike.  Practice, and a director's eye ('drop your head, you're looking up again') will help with this problem.  (A director will also be able to remind me to keep my butt down.  Honestly, I thought I was, but nope, I kept forgetting that too.  Cat or dog, it just looks wrong.)

The dog/cat dilemma is also a sculptural problem, as I, Friend Marta, and my boy Bill all noticed as I worked on it. Here, let me show you.

 Cat.  Right?  Big cat, not house cat, but cat, don't you think?  Now I'm not so sure, but let's say cat, especially since I took this shot with the flash in order to get the glowing-eye effect that I am SO pleased with, even if it didn't get used in performance at all (might have turned the tide from cat to dog, if I had, huh?  At least for the two audience members who would have actually been able to see them glowing?)

Cat

Dog.  I see this and I flash back to waking up from a nap on my parents' couch with Fang looking lovingly into my eyes, having just smooched me awake. Man, does that wake a guy up. Ain't no glowing-eyes effect gonna change this.  Dog, BIG time.

Maybe I'm kidding myself, but I think this is pretty cat-like.

Oh so very doggy. 

Hmm.  What is that?  I'd say more cat than dog, but I know I'm biased.

Is that a cat?  Dog?  What the hell is that?  Why is that guy sticking his butt in the air?  It looks stupid. He really needs a director to tell him how stupid that looks. 

Essentially, I think the mask is most cat-like in profile, with my head dropped, but not dropped too far, especially not when I'm sitting, because then it reads as a cowering dog.  Head on, the look is decidedly dog-like, and lifting my head too far up, if it doesn't just break the illusion all together, also creates a doggy impression. Essentially the eyes are too far apart for a cat, and the muzzle is too long and too flat. Audience members were almost equally divided between "I saw a cat" and "I saw a dog".  There was an interesting group who said things like "I really liked your... cat... dog... creature." I may be wrong, but I think where they were sitting had an effect on which animal they saw.  The people on the sides, who got more profile, saw a cat.  The folks in front saw a dog.  I may be able to make some adjustments sculpturally to improve the cat look, and I'm sure I can do a lot behaviorally (and I think everyone who saw the pounce, with anticipatory butt wiggle, recognized that as a cat), but ultimately I may need to take these lessons and build an entirely new one.  Creating this guy let me work out a lot of the logistical bugs, so I think I'll be able to address more complicated issues with future attempts.  Getting the mask to fit on my head, with the eyes not too far apart, without then creating a mask so huge that it looks completely out of proportion with my body, all that will be the next frontier, but I think I have some ideas how to fix it. 

Goodness.  This post is all about me, isn't it.  It is my blog, but this was NOT my show, and like I said, it was an honor to be on this bill, with these artists.  Billy Rogan's music was the unifying theme, and he was a pleasure to work with, gamely jumping in anywhere he could, and shaping his sounds to our needs, his contribution always exceeding what we asked of him.  Getting to perform with live music is such a rare treat for me, getting to do it with Billy was that and more.  Kate Chadwick sang a beautiful old Irish folk song her grandmother taught her.  It was a few lines in before the audience realized she was singing a gorgeous a capella version of Beyonce's Single Ladies. What might, in less talented hands, have been a one-note joke, in Kate's had a wonderful build.  Later she and Billy improvised a call and response tap number that was a lot of fun.  The father-and-son team of Richard and Sheridan Grunn provided two hilarious commedia/clown scenes, the first a lively Italian meal served by a very energetic chef, the second an equally passionate puppet circus, with a soundtrack provided by a music box and several singing Hallmark cards.  Jeff Wills stilt-walked, bantered with Billy and the audience, and as you see in my video, brought a wonderful comic character to our scene.  (Next time I will be in a position to take better advantage of that.)  That was what the audience saw of Jeff.  Only we behind the scenes had an inkling of how hard he'd worked to make this all come together, while making it look effortless and fun.  Anyone who has ever produced any kind of public event knows just how hard it is to make something look effortless.  It's one of those jobs that disappears when it's done well, which too often means people don't get the credit they're due.  I hope Jeff knows how much we all appreciated his hard work, enthusiasm, support, TALENT and unflagging spirits. 

So, I learned some useful things, and it's nice that said lessons at this point are saying "here's some ways to fix the piece," and not "it's time to face reality, moron, and go to accounting school."  It's all good. 

Scranton Performance

Here's a video of the new piece I performed last night in Scranton, as part of the Spectacular Scrantonian Spectacular.  This probably exceeded the abilities of my little camera, with theatrical lighting, but it will be a useful tool for me as I continue to develop the piece.  First lesson, my vision is even more restricted than I expected it to be.  I'll give more of my reactions soon. 

The event was a hoot, bottom line, and it was an honor to be on the bill with some fine artists.  The music and sound effects were created and performed by Billy Rogan, Jeff Wills hosted the event and improvised with me happily (figuring out he needed to make noise any time he did something, so I could follow him). 

Pause for Gratitude

 

Sometimes the blessings come fast and furious.  The sheer abundance can be part of the joy, but I also worry that when there are so many all at once, I might not take the time to give them each their due. 

Friend Marta is visiting for a few days, and taking some time for a writer's retreat.  Having a playmate, right here in the apartment, to talk to on such topics as spirituality, grace, books, writing, sex, bodies, home, family, place and community (which for me, and I suspect Marta, are really all the same thing) is such a joy. 

Having her working here so contentedly also reminds me that this apartment is not without its pleasant qualities, particularly on sunny winter days. 

I have a modest project of my own coming up.  I'll be putting a new piece on its feet this Monday, in Scranton, PA, at the Spectacular Scrantonian Spectacular, at the Electric Theatre Company.  Friend Jeff is organizing, hosting, and producing said event, and I'll be on the bill with Kate Chadwick, Richard Grunn, and Billy Rogan.  Above and below you see some of the masks/puppets-in-progress that will be setting foot on the boards for the first time that night. (Don't worry Jeff, they're closer to completion than these images show, I just want to save the final images for the performance, and after.) 

I love this part of a process, where the ideas are or no longer just in my head, but not yet completed.  Basically it's the most expansive part of the journey for me, when the raw materials start to excite me for their own sakes, whether that be text, images, music, shiny things, or big sheets of cloth in gorgeous colors.  Even as I know not everything will be usable, even as I know the fantasy images in my head will never be fully realized, I revel in this stage, what I call the 'splashing about'.  This morning, right on schedule the fears, insecurities and despair showed up, telling me all the way things could, even would go wrong.  I know this is just part of the process, but I also recognize that these voices haven't always been wrong.  That's why they still get my ear.  Fortunately I'm able, at least today, to listen to the ones that sound a useful warning (ie. they tell me to make changes I can still make), and ignore the vague, confidence-eroding ones that just aim to make me feel bad.  Marta, food, and throwing pretty cloth around have helped with these.   

I'll be the first to admit I'm not always good at completing things, or developing them after the first enthusiastic push.  I'm not forgetting that issue (it's also why this here post isn't very long, since I really should get back to work).  But today I'm enjoying this moment, the making, problem-solving, and dreaming moment.  Good friends, good work, time to enjoy them both (let's forget for the moment how whiney and resentful I've been of the time I spent just earning money: stupid money), I'm very blessed.  Good to be able to see it, while it's happening. 

"Cryin' All the Time"

Last Friday I was enjoying another lovely dinner with a charming fellow, when I began telling him a story.  A friend of mine from college lost her brother just before Christmas.  I was explaining how many parallels there are between her family and mine.  She is the oldest of three, the only girl, there's a bit of an age gap between her and the boys, it was her youngest brother who died.  I don't actually know the specifics of what killed him, but my impression is a life-long (oh, how horrible that terms sounds now) struggle with drugs and alcohol played a role.  At dinner, I wondered aloud if that might add a bit of rage to the grief.  Does one end up feeling like the loved one valued his life and the love of his family and friends so little that he was willing to court death?  Does one end up feeling angry at the loved one, like he acted selfishly? 

I know how addictions work; people addicted to booze, pills or cigarettes are rarely consciously trying to kill themselves.  I know too that suicides are usually a result of a despair so unrelenting and overwhelming that the loved one isn't thinking clearly on any level.  I'm not saying rage would be a reasonable reaction (like so much of this experience is reasonable).  Still, I couldn't help but wonder if I would feel some significant rage at James, had he died this way.  Hell, for a few days after his death, I realized I'd been hoping that we'd learn the driver of the cement truck was being charged with vehicular homicide or some such, as if a conviction for murder would somehow make the loss of my baby brother easier to take.    

Thinking about my friend and her family, about James, about all the people I know who died too young, I got rather worked up.  For the first time in a while I found it hard to talk, or hold back the tears.  For reasons that seemed clear at the time, I launched into a tirade against various players on the world stage. 

"FUCK George Bush," I announced, just a teensy bit too loudly.  "I don't want to hear ONE WORD from him about how much he suffers when soldiers come home in body bags!  And Fuck Al Qaeda too!  Fuck the jihadis!  Fuck ANYONE who holds his own life and the lives of others so cheap he is willing to cause this grief for oil and money and greed and all sorts of bullshit reasons hiding behind words like honor and patriotism and religious devotion and national security.  Fuck them!  Fuck them all!" 

My dinner companion reacted to this disturbing display with admirable grace.  He held my hand, let me take the last of his Pinot Noir, and said the one thing that a raving lunatic like me could handle at that point. 

"All I can do is listen." 

A bit later I went to the bathroom to pull myself together.  This particular restaurant has a music theme, so all the single-seater bathrooms have the names of pop icons on the doors.  I went into the Elvis room, where I found a life-sized mosaic of him on one wall, and his voice playing over a private sound system.  As luck would have it, he was singing In the Ghetto.  It was near the end, right as the child in the story, now an angry and armed young man, is gunned down in the street. 

"And his mama cried." 

"Are you fucking KIDDING ME?" I asked the room at large.  "In the Ghetto?  We couldn't pull out Love Me Tender or Blue Suede Shoes or, I don't know, Viva Las Vegas maybe?  Old swivel-hipped, eye-liner-wearing sexy Elvis, we couldn't have that guy singing for the three fucking minutes I was going to be in this room?  "AND HIS FREAKIN' MAMA CRIED"? 

After a few more minutes of nose-blowing, inarticulate ranting, crying and a bit of (perhaps slightly hysterical) laughing, I calmed down.  I hoped that the thick bathroom door, combined with the (loud) piped Elvis, the different (loud) piped music in the restaurant, and hell, the different soundtracks coming from each of the other bathrooms all had muffled the whack-job in the Elvis room sufficiently.  Of course this is New York City.  People ignore crazy folks all the time.  It's what we do.  I do it almost every day. 

Again to his credit, my mellow dinner companion, bless him, hadn't taken advantage of my absence to make good his escape.  He's a good guy. 

This is the second time my brother has given me the experience of laughing and crying at the same time. It really is an odd sensation.  Before we left the restaurant, I stopped by the bathroom to blow my nose one more time.  Fearing what I might hear in the Dolly, Cher, or Barbra rooms, I went back to Elvis.  I figured the chances were good In the Ghetto wouldn't be back on. 

This time the song was Hound Dog.  Much better. 

Google Ap Tweet; An Exploration

Here's my most recent attempt at video production with Sam, the new camera. As I say in my notes on Youtube, this is what happens when you give a chimp a camera. For the record, I do know that the research tool is spelled 'google' while the enormous number is spelled 'googol.' This isn't an educational video. Well, you may learn more about me than you planned, but you knew the risks when you started reading blogs.

I do not mean to make light of people who suffer from Tourette's, by the way. The fact is, sometimes words do get away from me.


For reasons I have yet to ascertain, the text function on this blog has been acting wonky for the last several posts; no wraparound function, and my control over the font size is mercurial at best. Is this because of the video embedding, you suppose?

Random Snapshots

No particular reason, really.  Not even sure why they're in this combo.  Above is Williamsburg, Brooklyn, sometime last Spring (I think). You can see another version of this shot over at Queer New York. To the left is a terrarium I made a year ago.  Below is a shot from Central Park, in the Ramble by the Great Pond,  last Autumn.  I had a great walk today as well.  What I didn't have is my camera.  Maybe that's why I'm posting these now, substitution.  I love the Winter, even if these shots suggest I'm pining for other seasons.

Tree Trimming at Laceyland

Another modest endeavor. My learning curve seems to be going the wrong way. Whatever.


Here's a glimpse of my beautiful family, and what my sister calls "the proto-crypto-dream house 
in which I grew up."
Having this haven, and these people in my life does my soul all kinds of good. I'm a lucky man.


We miss thee, James.

Christmas with Fang

 
This is my first attempt at a video; I shot and EDITED it with my little Samsung.  It's the video equivalent of a six year old making something with yarn, glitter and pipe cleaners, and like that six year old, I am unspeakably pleased with myself for having managed it.  What's more I did it without gluing pipe cleaners to my head, covering myself with glitter or injuring myself with scissors.  For the record, it's impossible to use glitter and not end up covered with it.  It also never leaves your house. 


Anyway, not only did I collect the images and footage, I managed to combine them with basic transitions that I think were the same ones George Lucas used in the first Star Wars trilogy.  Then with the help of friend Melissa I was able to convert the avi footage to something that Youtube was actually willing to accept AND I already had an identity there ready to be used for this stuff...


So, for a techno-chimp like myself, this 2 minute venture marks all SORTS of little victories.  UnSPEAKABLY pleased with myself.  Seriously.  Yay, yet another way for me to fritter away my life on the internet!  I still don't twitter, but I'm happy to fritter.


[Later: now I've even been able to embed this puppy right in the blog, instead of making you follow a link.  I'm burning up here, Baby!]


It will probably come as no surprise that my video maiden voyage is of Fang.  Sadly this footage doesn't let you see her run full out.  To get her going in the big joyous figure eights that make my heart sing loudest, I usually have to chase her, or get her to chase me for a while, but that was a little tricky with a camera in front of my face.  I did attempt it in the second bit of video, and managed it a bit without falling down, breaking the camera, or my face, but it still didn't get her going.  I'll have to get someone else to record it next time, I guess, and I'll just do the romping part.  When I go after her, I make a weird whooshing sound with my voice.  I never noticed that before making this tape.  I haven't the slightest idea why, but I can't imagine NOT doing it either.  Maybe it's a way of letting her know I'm playing as I bear down on her.  Like she couldn't figure that out on her own.  


Okay, Patrick needs to get out of the house.  Get a life, that kind of thing.

High School Reunion, or "Patrick is a Great Big 'Mo"

To steal a hilarious line from friend Marta, 'I have TOTALLY drunk the Facebook Kool Aid.'  Maybe I'm not playing any of the games, and my green patch is pretty neglected at this point (do they start taking rain forest acreage away if you drop the ball with that?) but I can easily lose hours, days at a time there if I'm not careful.  And as a freelancer I have to be my own cranky boss about time-wasting.  You know all those chores, errands and responsibilities you feel guilty for neglecting when you've been on the idiot box for too long? Well, now add to that list 1) get a job and 2) get a life, and you see why I should probably be a bit more rigorous than I have thus far been about the Facebook action. 


Huh, that sounds a little dirty, doesn't it.  Facebook action.  I may have just found the title for this baby. 

A Few More Christmas Images

Indiana Christmas

The Return of the Sun

Santa was more generous to me this year than ever before.  Frankly he went so overboard I wonder if he has a bit of a crush on me.  And the ones I received from Eddie the Cat were too well wrapped and the writing was too clear for someone with no opposable thumbs, so I'm thinking Santa had a hand (har har) in those too.  Makes me a bit uncomfortable, what with Santa watching every move I make and all.  He does seem to know me well, though. 


On a related note, isn't it interesting that our culture has developed a tradition where we deliberately tell stories to kids we want them to believe, knowing there will come a time that we have to tell them it was just a story?  I hear my atheist friends snorting a bit, but this is still different; the Santa story is generally told by people who don't believe it themselves, but want their listeners to.  Dad says his mother didn't think it was fair to the people who actually bought the presents not to get credit for them, so she always said Santa was just the delivery man.  I guess then the magical reindeer become the key element of the story.  Seems like finding out the truth in that situation wouldn't be too traumatic.  Mary and I were trying to recall if we ever believed in Santa; we think we did briefly, in a sort of absent-minded way, enough so that finding out the truth came with no pain.  At least neither of us can recall ever being upset by the facts, and since I'm six years younger than she is, she would have at least remembered if I got upset about it.  Santa, the Tooth Fairy, the Easter Bunny, have there always been imaginary creatures we wanted kids to believe in, with the understanding that finding out the truth was a right of passage?  Some sort of initiation ceremony?  There have been fairies, gnomes, ghosts, poltergeists and other mythical beasties that both adults and children believed in, but that's not the same dynamic at all. 


Just thinking onscreen.  No real point to my meandering. 


I deliberately sat in James' usual spot during the gift exchange so I wouldn't have to look at it.  Don't know if that made things better or worse for the rest of the family, but we all seemed pretty festive.  Unlike other years, when she seems largely indifferent to it, Fang actually seemed excited about her jingle bell collar this year.  When it was brought out she pranced right over to have it put on.  She does a lot of prancing, actually.  Another thing I love about her.  I'm reaching an age where I'm not embarrassed to prance or skip in public, life being too short and all, and am still physically capable of doing them both more or less.  So I got that going for me.  Seems like a key point in development. 


Fang's present this year was a very sturdy stuffed octopus, with squeakers in the head and each of the eight legs.  Mary loves tormenting Mom and Dad with squeaky toys for the dog, since said dog is fondest of squeaking them during tender, quiet moments on the TV.  Mary was confident this toy would be too tough for Fang to disembowel with her usual alacrity (the dog will play with her toys forever, but she prefers them as pelts), so Mare accepted Mom's wager that Fang would have two of the squeakers removed by the time we sat down to Christmas dinner.  Within fifteen minutes Fang had joyfully ripped the stuffing out of the octopus' head (nobody disembowels with more brio than she) and removed the biggest squeaker.  She's got another thirty minutes to make Mom look good, but Mary already feels like she lost.  Since Quakers frown on gambling, they bet each other some turkey, with the implicit understanding that the winner would share some with the loser.  Okay, so not much of a bet, but there was a handshake. 


Shush.


As I've said before, grief is deepening gratitude.  James crops up in all sorts of ways, especially in trigger words or situations where he would have trotted out some of his shtick.  James had a lot of shtick, and as is usually the case with such things, loved making us all groan or roll our eyes, so his delight increased with each repetition.  I'm sure he'd be thrilled to know how many of them we find ourselves repeating, inspite of ourselves. 


Mary created an accent light for Dad's office that involves a glass brick, two strings of Christmas lights, and and god's own plenty of corks.  It is inspired.  She also created a rather handsome garland for their outdoor tree with another pile of them (photos when I return to NYC).  That leaves only about 45 million corks left in her 'collection.'  Oh, at the Italian restaurant on Friday, we actually saved one of the two corks.  Mary is maintaining her cork collection now.  I can hear James chortling gleefully over that development.


Feelings about love, about the dynamic power of it, of the way I've felt myself surrounded by it, a channel for it, these thoughts are percolating about in my head right now, but are not forming into articulate thoughts just yet.  Maybe I've said all I can on the subject for the time being.  Certainly there are ways in which old cliches feel new-minted in my life, but that doesn't mean they'll sound new-minted coming from me.  For now, let me just say thanks for the love I have received from you all this year.

Bits of News

So I fly back to Indiana tomorrow, for Christmas with my family.  We're all going out to our favorite Italian restaurant that evening, assuming the weather accommodates my flight plans.  This restaurant has been the go-to place for our family celebrations for as long as I remember.  This occasion will be the first time we've all gone since James' death.  There will be plenty of such firsts this season, of course, and for the next year.  Goody.  But as Mary says, the only way out is through, and we'll toast him, eat some good food, tell some favorite stories, laugh and cry.  When Dad first mentioned this plan to me, he said "We probably won't be the first guys sobbing in the men's room."  I agreed.  It's an Italian restaurant, after all, even if it's in the stoic Midwest.  I doubt we'll bother hiding in the men's room, frankly.  Why start now?

Huh.  That wasn't what I got online to tell you though.  First off, I did a bit of house-cleaning yesterday on this here bloggerino, adding some fun new links, and updating old ones (finally, Greg, I'll be sending people directly to the Midnight Garden).  If any of my links don't work, please do let me know.

One of the new links is called Queer New York.  The illustrious, intriguing, and ever-productive Father Tony started a new blog focusing on life in New York from a queer perspective (did you pick up on that from the name?), and much to my delight he invited me to be one of the contributers.  Initially I was unsure if I should accept for a few reasons: 1) I haven't exactly been burning up the interwebs here at my present blog, why add another blog to ignore, 2) I rarely managed to go anywhere or do anything even remotely New York City-related AND 3) I didn't seem to know more than, oh, let's say three gay men in New York, and maybe six world-wide.  Starting this blog actually doubled the number of gay men I interacted with on a regular basis, and I haven't even met all the local ones face to face.

(Okay, if I didn't link to you in the paragraph above, don't take it personally, it was just taking all day, and I have other things I need to do.  Did I mention I'm flying to Indiana tomorrow?  I will also admit that if you haven't posted anything on your blog for two or more months, I didn't link to you.  Doesn't mean I don't love you, I just figure you didn't need the pressure.)

Fortunately my natural tendency towards gluttony won out though, and I accepted Tony's invitation.  I only have two modest posts up at this point, but I anticipate this being a fun endeavor to be part of.  There's some wonderful stuff there, and I'm looking forward to seeing what else comes down the pike.  Tony has assembled an eclectic mix of men and women (though he still wants to find more queer bloggers of color, so contact him if you fit the bill, or know someone who does), and has, with only a small number of caveats ("this won't be the place to post pictures of your cat") encouraged us to post anything we like.  Reviews of various kinds are making a big showing at present, but no doubt some of the fun with this venue will be seeing how it shapes itself over time. If there is a mission at this point, I'd say it would be to give out of towners the inside scoop on LGBT life in NYC.  PDQ.  RSVP.  BTW.  LOL. (OMG did I just type LOL?  Seriously?)

Huh.  Don't know why I thought that was necessary.  I do feel like progressive politics tends to involve a LOT of acronyms, not that there's anything wrong with that.  And don't you love the caps button?  I sometimes wish I had one in my daily life, though the fact is city living would probably benefit from fewer caps buttons running around the joint.  Just in general.  Did I mention I'm going to Indiana tomorrow?  Have I mentioned before that I usually spend the first two days of my visits to Indiana sleeping, or wanting to sleep?  Sixteen hours at a stretch is not unheard of.  I call it the Richmond Coma, and I think the sheer dearth of NOISE (caps intended) has a physical effect on me.  My nervous system, which in cities is probably more nervous than is healthy, simply collapses. I usually come out of the coma ready for long walks and some serious dog-romping, though, and conveniently, there is a dog who loves to romp.  I might actually get some video footage of that, if Fang is amenable.  Amenable is her normal state, if not organizing principle, so I'm optimistic.  Whether or not I actually turn that video into something worth seeing, that's the real question here.  I'm less optimistic on that front, but not completely without hope.

Wow.  I DO go on.  I can't believe it's been two weeks since I posted anything here.  I don't know about the rest of you bloggers, but this process has evolved into a fairly useful processing tool for me.  I feel the lack when I don't do it.  Babbling on paper (what Dad calls 'bilge-pumping') is fairly necessary to my mental well-being too, but I think I've been reasonably good about not putting that stuff out on the internet for all and sundry.  Sundry gets really cranky about that kind of thing, and who can blame her?

I'm shutting up now.  But I've missed you, and hope to be writing more regularly, here at at the new house.