i avoid the mirror, in the morning particularly, when my skin is creased from the bed linens and my hair, such as it is, is pointing in the opposite direction of my thoughts, its own little maelstrom of indecision, an eddy of gray draining down my back—my friend, S., told me that she no longer steps directly out of the shower, but instead backs out so she doesn’t have to see herself naked—i try to avoid the mirror, but i am gay, and i am curious, and i am still narcissistic enough to care, chagrined at the loss of tautness/firmness/glow/hair growing where it never did before and where before it grew fleeing in such a way as to warrant emergency sirens; truly it’s not the wrinkles (i lie) it’s just that i hate to see it leave — you know — those questions pop up: did i love deeply enough? was i always kind to those less fortunate? could i have shared myself with more people? would they have wanted me? but i am stuck with the answers/memories that now are making/leaving their marks on my face/body/hands/knees/elbows/torso/legs/feet/neck. a warning: it’s a bit of shock, not wholly unexpected, but a shock nonetheless, i hope that i am up to the challenge/i fear most losing my mind
Yesterday on tumblr many different things occurred; some of it true. For one, the sun came up; there were also many holiday/christmas/good cheer greetings/exchanges of recipes/food network photos (o.k., not true,) links to etsy (as if,) beefcake, beefsteak, and a few beefs, good weather, bad weather, embraced by family, missing family, disco balls, punk rock, hard rock, metal rock, soft rock, elvis & nat king cole, fashion (high & low,) literary references, quotes, rants, chagrin, amusement & reflection (you know who you are.)
The dogs got walked. Please note how difficult it is to focus (on anything) when you’re managing two leashes and two dogs eager to pee/poop/smell every blade of grass.
Nature, as is its want, put on a display of magnificent proportions: referencing Maxfield Parrish & urban graffiti in equal amounts of color, form & volume; all that was missing was a signature (and a buyer/of its reality/surreality/dada/modernism/conceptualism/minimalism.)
For my part, I thought about content (it’s king!) and I carefully considered composition/color/control (or the lack thereof) exhibited by nature at this hour of the day.
After all these years here, oftentimes it feels brand new–each day–other times–each day–repetitive, faraway, isolated & lonely. I long for the city again, the energy, the pulse, the horns, the liveliness of it all. If M. were willing/the housing market too/I think we’d be out of here as quickly as the sun rises.
Even in this day of ’social media’ where I can connect with so many people so easily (& so smartly–I know it’s pandering to your baser instincts, but who doesn’t like a compliment now & then?) I believe I’m reaching a burnout point–and yet, on fire too, with possibilities/opportunities/youth.
But these contrasts & comparisons(the new journalism) bring to me visions/sightings/dreams/harsh reality/of the frigid dawn/tumescent land pushing hard into the soft folds of the ocean/purple headland diving, diving, diving under the liquid cover of the sea/dragging me down, kelp hair streaming behind, in extremis.
And yet. And yet. And yet, the words/thoughts/deeds/action/stasis all draw me, like the line of a jet trail and its symbol of hope/adventure/anticipation gradually building its rhythm & intensity/the roar of its engine ever so faintly falling falling falling to my bony labyrinth, reverberating/resonating/revealing its truth.
Yesterday on tumblr nothing happened, he whispered in my ear as we settled down for a nap.
fear of being unliked in a group [tumblarity] why i can’t ignore it i don’t know, but it’s eating away at me high school all over again (without the acne and that a**hole, danny h. who tormented me and now in retrospect maybe he was <gasp> gay too) same time giggles gurgle up over stupidity of it all as i have plenty of self-respect -worth i am after all an accomplished ________ and have the respect of my peers who needs it i do find it fascinating and debilitating/invigorating/cold stream over barefeet skin goose-pimpling real/refreshing/enlightening/stimulating/funny/mad (lady gaga ‘mad’) a vortex of synapses swirling/flashing/brilliant/enlivening
and yet what will this exposure gain me youth/memory/skill/craft and who will care if not strangers although revealing it is a safe harbor/shelter/roof/tree bough it is controlled/not passion/indifferent to the bumps [no ‘likes’] some sticks/some doesn’t and i fall through each space rapeling dropping past coppertone christs sweat-sheen clearly crucified an offering to photographic gods this century worships
anxiety smothers me in its warm embrace as i steal/lie/burgle time from someone else to communicate/reach-out/grasp at empty space the cursor my only companion which path this must be a crossroad my heart palpitating wildly that first roller-coaster ride/that first kiss from a man/heaving/pushing against the rib cage even a walk just now around the metrolink parking lot did nothing to quell
can this feeling be nothing more fleeting than the glimpse you catch of a handsome man on the train platform as you worry worry worry why won’t this stop stop stop a frame of film 24 per second clickety-clackety sprockets the rhythm of your heart unspools time 20 beats 15 seconds reasonable reasonable reasonable repetition comforting but still that peace is elusive
[page 2]…I had, fortunately, taken my keys out of the bookbag just before turning into the courtyard. I ran into the building completely shattered. I called Susan [a mistake, she was unhelpful] and told her what had happened and cried and then realized how absurd it was. I called the police and they arrived very quickly and the interrogation began.
It wasn’t the mugging that has stuck with me all these years–in fact, without the second journal entry (above) I’d hardly remember it (it was not the last time, either.) What has survived is the abject loss of the journal. My first years in Chicago were difficult/exhilarating/frightening/introspective. That first journal captured daily moods/dreams/conversations/strangers/friends/beauty/death, all word images meant to assist my acting, my dancing, my life. It was all about my growth, my maturation, my entry into adult life.
With the second journal (segments of which have been previously published here) I tried to capture that same freedom, but I was crippled by the loss of the first. Who would want it? What would they make of it? What benefit could they possibly find in it? It was so intimate, such a precise recording of my feelings that its sudden loss has reverberated throughout the intervening years. I tried to vanquish its loss by telling myself that it got tossed as useless by the thieves.
Words don’t fail me. It is a rare moment when I don’t have something to say about anything (sometimes piquant, sometimes not.) But the recording of those words is just now beginning to flow again–in a completely unexpected forum–and I’m feeling the liberation that comes with that expressiveness.
Looking backwards in order to move forward has always been a mantra of mine. My psychic friends–Freud/Jung/’The New Journalism’/ all insist on it. A prescient intuition whispers quietly in my ear — “Express yourself.”
Before recording digitally every waking moment <insert nostalgia sigh here>, some of us wrote things down in a little black book of blank pages–mine started in Chicago in 197_ and ended in 197_. Although I oftentimes missed it and attempted to restart it–it seemed that photographs, work, lovers, friends, living, replaced it. Alright, I lacked discipline. There, I’ve said it.
June 30, 1976 – Wed. New York, New York. Have been here since Sunday. Monday night we went to Maxwell’s Plum for Dinner — it was outstanding. I have seen so much and done so much and enjoyed myself so much — I don’t really want to leave — but I can always come back, can’t I?
The view from R. & B.'s apartment on Morton Street in the West Village.
Life is so bizarre — before I left on my vacation Jim C. decided that we were no longer to be friends and I suddenly realized how very petty he is and it’s fine with me if doesn’t want my friendship. I was under his control for too long. I imagine that more of him was coming off on me than I wish to concede or even want to admit. Let him go his merry way, castrating himself from other people until he is all alone–an island among the sea and we’ll see how long until he’s destroyed by the sea. How long can loneliness be happiness?
Tonight I’m going to see “Three Penny Opera” [starring Raul Julia] at Lincoln Center — last night we saw David Rabe’s new play “Streamers” directed by Mike Nichols — it was so very good –
July 6, 1976 Tues. — am going home for a week now. Will be nice contrast to New York — in the continuing saga of the aforementioned [trip to NYC] — I saw Tony Perkins in “Equus” — a marvelous piece of acting and a very controlled play. I also saw Marcel Carné’s film — Children of Paradise — the New Yorker magazine says it is the perfect film – they were right. On Sat. afternoon, B. and I saw American Ballet Theatre — Baryshnikov danced Twyla Tharp’s Push Comes to Shove. It was an amazing concept in ballet!
What I didn’t record was that I was in New York for the bicentennial and witnessed the tall ships sail up the Hudson, along with amazing fireworks over the Statue of Liberty — and — that one day during my trip there, R. & I walked from 92nd St. and Broadway all the way downtown to their Morton Street apartment in the West Village. And then, of course, there were the men–Christopher Street was filled with gay men (all with hairy shoulders–which at the time impressed me no end–today, not so much, well, okay, maybe a little.)
At home in South Dakota the following week, July 1976.
July 12, 1976 – Mon –
a dream – walking through slush and snow in New York City wearing black rubber galoshes — come upon Dean R. painting a fire escape, then I meet David B. and we sit and talk and then we walk through Washington Square Park and then into his apartment which is very gypsy-looking, lots of pillows and drapes–almost tent-like–I’m confused as to whether or not I work that night or have a dance class–the dream ends. My dreams at home were terribly erotic and violent — but not in the nightmare sense. I have the ability to dream and remember those dreams.
Flash forward 12 years–M. & I vacation in Puerto Rico/St. Thomas/St. John. There is no journal recording my feelings, just photographs, but they, they completely define the time we spent there. Which is better–journal or photos? For now, looking back–I must rely on both.
Trunk Bay, St. John, U.S. Virgin Islands, November 1988.
Joey, a dog, and I, a human, took in the sights & smells at Skyview Park, just a half mile from our house yesterday. Joey, as is his want, was much more interested in earthly delights while I (perhaps due to my height and completely worthless sense of smell) was captivated by the views.
Off we went down the yellow gravel path that leads to the ocean should you be so inclined; it’s a rather dramatic descent that makes the return hike an incredible workout, but for a portion of the trail, it is wide, smooth, filled with vistas (and with scents.)
Like a veteran’s cemetery, they have lined up markers along the trail denoting the indigenous flora, although one would be hard pressed to tell the difference as upon closer inspection each plant looked much the same as the last.
The vistas open up as the gravel crunches underneath & your footfalls keep time with the snuffling of Joey as he zigzags from scent to scent, from pee station to pee station.
Aliso Creek/Wood Canyon Park to the north of the trail.
And to the south, homes along the coastline, trying desperately to mimic the western coast of Italy — on a really clear day you can see down to La Jolla.
And as the descent steepens, Laguna Beach appears with the Palos Verde Peninsula humping like a whale in the distance.
Oops! Pee break.
Before the path narrows and descends to the ocean, you have the opportunity to glimpse, like a mirage, Santa Catalina Island. At this ‘rest’ stop there is a picnic table (as there are scattered along the path to this point.) This one was covered with graffiti.
Some of which showed promise artistically & philosophically, but others resorted to the usual demeaning tropes — as if ’sucks dick’ was a bad thing.
But that was redeemed by this quote from William Blake:
“If the doors of perception were cleansed then everything would appear as they truly are, infinite.” In spite of the misspelling, that a sentient human felt compelled to share Blake at this view point in Orange County astounds me (and relieves me as well.)
Which made me look skyward for my own inspiration.
…and thoughts of Titian skies: roiling clouds as backdrops for Renaissance fantasies of religious mythologies; bolts of satin, heaving breasts (female), the plated armor pectorals of gods with swords poised to cleanse the world of its evils.
Baroque beatification of beauty.
An armada scuttling across the ocean with visions of wealth, the reality: death.
But up and out we climbed, Joey and I, toward a form of redemption through friendship grounded, open, and for a moment ours alone.
Sixteen Mexican palms at the prom hanging around waiting for someone to ask them to dance.
Apocalyptic eucalyptus. It stands sentinel at the highest point of our community, alone; a guardian watchtower more knowing and more resilient than those who walk among its kind; conversely at the mercy and whims of those who tend it. What power we hold, how stupidly we apply it.
It’s possible that as the oceans rise as a result of global warming, this Norfolk pine could be underwater.
A most luxuriant Coral tree–giver of shade; it molts debris, an exotic bird with an enormous wingspan, protective. It invites climbing and deserves a tree house. (Do not park under this tree.)
The evil ones destroyed this 50 year old pine tree so that an already incredible view of the coastline would be completely clear of any impediment. Forget that this tree was an eco-system unto itself. Not only did it cool the homes it stood by, but it kept them warm in the winter months as well. It was home to squirrels, butterflies, at times to raccoons and opossums plus enough birds to populate an aviary. Soon after its demise, the housing market tanked and the homeowners who had lobbied for its destruction made no gain in the value of their homes. Tree karma.
I know, not a tree, but lovely nonetheless.
Liquid Amber…for our East Coasters, the West Coast version of a maple tree.
Notre Dame and the crown of thorns…watch over the spirit of a brilliant, intelligent woman who lost her mind and now lives (dies) in a home for those lost in dementia. (True.)
Arthritic after being tortured by continuous pruning, this Pepper tree stands in testament to the idiocy of community/committee/landscape company/California gardening. It’s enough to make you run screaming through the streets in despair. Why does man think nature must be tamed? How weak can man be?
Aleppo pine. Stirs thoughts of John Steinbeck, WWII, poodles named Charlie and bridges.
Two palms (yes, there is) much in love.
Another ‘not a tree but lovely nonetheless.’ A luscious Bird of Paradise this time.
I weep for joy as I stroll among my friends, the trees. They are constant companions, neither judgmental nor unforgiving. They breathe life into my world, my consciousness.
The black Adonis stands in the
Golden doorway awaiting his lover.
Impatience flickers, a rose petal
Tongue flutters in a velvet sigh.
An apparition melting into the colossal darkness
Bathed in auroreal amber incandescence
Silhouetted/the mythic shades of desire,
Details a blur of incomprehension as the light
Within pinks a palm, flashed this way
Flat ivory tusked nails flip a light,
Exhalation, smoke wraps its gray silken
Hair around his Taurean neck and dissipates.
Impatient and needful, the murmur of
Ancient chants, the psalms of his demands,
His death, his birth are waves breaking against the shore, water tongues ululating against the hardness of the land.
Marmoreal musculature/neck/shoulders/arms/fingers/
Torso/waist/thighs/feet fell those who honor him.
He walks in the heat of the moonless night
Current coursing through the skeleton, the muscle,
The sinew; sparks radiate from his smile, his glistening hair,
The sweat sheen of his skin details a crown of
Efflorescence/iris/lily/tulip/myrrh.
