Many years ago, I wrote this short story, "Surface Temperature" -- I think I was 18 or 19, or something like that. It's mostly bad, but there's something charming about it, sort of, maybe. It's a bit heavy-handed. Lately, I've felt the need to go back and read things I wrote long ago--maybe it has something to do with turning 30. Or maybe not. So, for what it's worth, part 4 of 4:
I have come to a conclusion. When everything is blown up, all you have is what is behind you. No matter what you plan to do, how many experiences you hope to live, who you plan to marry, what you want to be when you grow up, where you want to buy a house, and what you want done to your body when you die - none of that matters. Because all that can be taken away, and it will. I hear people who are thirty years old asking each other "what do you want to do with your life?" They talk as if life somehow begins as soon as you decide that it has. They're waiting for the defining moment to alert them to the fact that life has indeed begun. But the thing is that waiting doesn't get you anywhere. Waiting is what those people back at the grocery store are doing. Waiting is what that man selling kites is doing. Waiting is dying, and they're just doing it slower. I can't live that way. I'm afraid of dying that way.
So here I am sitting on the sand with just the ends of my toes in the water. I wiggle them back and forth and the heavy sand covers them. I move my ankles a bit more and the sand cracks open to reveal my now nuclear skin. Funny, it still looks the same. The air around me is becoming more and more chemical. When the wind blows now, it smells like boiling ammonia and ozone. My UFO kites block the sun and spin a shadow on my chest that dances across my torso and shoulders. There is no one, as far as I can see.
What is my life? I am terribly disappointed in what I have accomplished so far. But there it is again, so far. In a few hours there won't be anything left to desire. All I've ever worked for, hoped for, asked for, has come down to this moment, and all I have to show for it is a couple of UFO kites.
I shove their strings deep into the sand and pile more on top so that they are well anchored. I pull off my swim trunks, then lie down again. The chemical air is blowing across my entire naked body. The heat is greater now, and the sun has moved directly above me. I move myself down onto more of the wet sand. I shift my weight from one shoulder to another to push the sand out from under me, making a hole. I wiggle and writhe until there is room enough to cover my whole body. I slide into the hole I've made and begin to cover myself up with wet sand. I even cover my face. I'm taking a hint from those turtles. I move down into a hole in the sand to wait for the surface to cool, so I can come bursting out to make a mad dash towards life. My UFO kites are flying like tethered birds above where I'm buried. I wonder will anyone see them. Every few minutes (or every few seconds, I've lost all time now) I check the surface of the sand for coolness. Only it gets hotter and hotter each time I check. I'm beginning to wonder if it will ever again be cool to the touch.
I eventually fall asleep. When I wake up (who knows how much later) I check the sand above me, knowing that now is the time. But it's still hot. The sand feels so hot that I think it might be cool at first, but I know that feeling all too well from standing barefoot in the road as a kid. I don't have enough guts to burst out like the sea turtles did. I'm too afraid of what I might find out there. I'm too afraid of how hot it actually might be.
I can only wait. Wait like those poor crying mothers in the freezer case. Wait like the kite salesman. And the waiting feels like dying, only slower.
Sunday, October 05, 2008
Wednesday, October 01, 2008
What Happened on the Train
A few things happened on the train Tuesday morning.
1) I started reading again.
A Book of Common Prayer is my favorite of Joan Didion's novels, and whenever I've been struggling with concentration, with having no interest in anything written, with the desire to disappear into the games on my iPod--which I have been doing for the last 6-8 weeks--I go back to this novel. Every time I read it, I find new things, or things I'd forgotten re-appear. Grace Strasser-Mendana, the narrator, is stronger this time for me than she's ever been before; perhaps foolishly, I always thought it was a novel about Charlotte Douglas. Perhaps this is what happens when you read a good novel--but I started wondering if Grace and I are any different. We, Grace and I, seem to view the world as an accumulation of evidence. I could be projecting this on Grace, as well. I still feel that it's true.
2) I reconsidered my notion of bandwidth.
The circus takes up all of my energy: emotional, physical, creative. It uses up all my patience. It uses up all my critical-thinking skills, my sense of aesthetics, my concentration, my ability to simply decide between the lemonade or the Coca-Cola. This is not the first time I've discovered this, but it seems that every year I am re-learning it anew, as if part of what drives me (us?) forward year after year is the ability to forget what happened last year. There must be some medical term for this, some psychological condition--I think it has to do with the drug making you forget the reasons you need it, or something--although this drug is a hugely-important, amazing part of my creative and social existence. Not damaging, just exhausting. Anyway, all these things are the facts of the situation, without interpretation. And most of me would rather leave this story at that. Because, for me, the facts are the interpretation. (Just like Grace in A Book of Common Prayer.)
The other part of this idea of running out of bandwidth, was that, feeling all these things that the circus makes you feel, (plus a huge sense of accomplishment and joy,) I thought again about this argument I'm always having in my head with Virginia Woolf. "A Room of One's Own vs. The Truth of Modern Life." Think of working mothers, I always say. Think of those refugees who write memoirs in crowded, foul-smelling camps covered in barbed wire. (Hers always felt a bit like the argument delivered from a place of leisure. But yesterday I began thinking that maybe she's right. Maybe I'm being a bit too too.) I've not written anything of any substantial merit in months because I just didn't have any room of my own. My brain was full, the bandwidth had expired. Okay, Virginia, you win this one. For now.
3) The writing came back.
Poof, like magic. The words aren't pouring out of my fingers yet, which is the real work, of course, but the sounds of my characters talking, the textures of their pants, the lengths of their dress hems, the leafy, worn ends of magazines stacked by the toilets--all that came back. Quietly, insistently, easily. As if the fog just blew away.
1) I started reading again.
A Book of Common Prayer is my favorite of Joan Didion's novels, and whenever I've been struggling with concentration, with having no interest in anything written, with the desire to disappear into the games on my iPod--which I have been doing for the last 6-8 weeks--I go back to this novel. Every time I read it, I find new things, or things I'd forgotten re-appear. Grace Strasser-Mendana, the narrator, is stronger this time for me than she's ever been before; perhaps foolishly, I always thought it was a novel about Charlotte Douglas. Perhaps this is what happens when you read a good novel--but I started wondering if Grace and I are any different. We, Grace and I, seem to view the world as an accumulation of evidence. I could be projecting this on Grace, as well. I still feel that it's true.
2) I reconsidered my notion of bandwidth.
The circus takes up all of my energy: emotional, physical, creative. It uses up all my patience. It uses up all my critical-thinking skills, my sense of aesthetics, my concentration, my ability to simply decide between the lemonade or the Coca-Cola. This is not the first time I've discovered this, but it seems that every year I am re-learning it anew, as if part of what drives me (us?) forward year after year is the ability to forget what happened last year. There must be some medical term for this, some psychological condition--I think it has to do with the drug making you forget the reasons you need it, or something--although this drug is a hugely-important, amazing part of my creative and social existence. Not damaging, just exhausting. Anyway, all these things are the facts of the situation, without interpretation. And most of me would rather leave this story at that. Because, for me, the facts are the interpretation. (Just like Grace in A Book of Common Prayer.)
The other part of this idea of running out of bandwidth, was that, feeling all these things that the circus makes you feel, (plus a huge sense of accomplishment and joy,) I thought again about this argument I'm always having in my head with Virginia Woolf. "A Room of One's Own vs. The Truth of Modern Life." Think of working mothers, I always say. Think of those refugees who write memoirs in crowded, foul-smelling camps covered in barbed wire. (Hers always felt a bit like the argument delivered from a place of leisure. But yesterday I began thinking that maybe she's right. Maybe I'm being a bit too too.) I've not written anything of any substantial merit in months because I just didn't have any room of my own. My brain was full, the bandwidth had expired. Okay, Virginia, you win this one. For now.
3) The writing came back.
Poof, like magic. The words aren't pouring out of my fingers yet, which is the real work, of course, but the sounds of my characters talking, the textures of their pants, the lengths of their dress hems, the leafy, worn ends of magazines stacked by the toilets--all that came back. Quietly, insistently, easily. As if the fog just blew away.
Saturday, September 27, 2008
Sick with Circus
Circus AMOK played a show today in the gymnasium at Judson Memorial Church, which served as our rain location since Seward Park, where we should have been, was dealt a soft mist that seemed easy, but over time becomes a drenching cardboard disaster. I was, honestly, not looking forward to it at all. I've got some kind of head cold, going on 2.5 days, and the last thing I need to be doing is unpacking and repacking a truck full of circus stuff, and then of course, sweating through my clothes during the show, and running around being fabulous.
But I did it. It was a nice show. There were probably about 75 people in the audience--which is about 70 more than we thought might show up. Despite this being the circus's fifteenth season, and despite the fact that we perform for who knows how many people (1,000? 2,000? 5,000?) we still look around at each other before some of the shows and say "Do you think anyone will show up?"
I thought a lot about taking the show somewhere else, about touring. I wondered how the audiences might be different, how it could look more like theater to those other audiences, look more like a foreign spectacle. Because if you listen to our audiences, the way they scream and cheer, laugh and boo, all the right places--it really feels like the circus belongs to this city. If you took us out of that context, I'm not sure how it would come across.
I still think we should tour. Please, if you know someone with a few hundred thousand dollars laying around, or if you yourself have a few hundred thousand laying around, send it our way. We could use it wisely and well.
There is a moment in the show, just before the vaulting act, after a few "slower" acts--the animal bits, the wirewalking, the kind of acts that people really watch, and watch closely--where Jenny Romaine asks the audience if they are ready to see some of the something something (it changes every day, and I don't hear much of it anyway.) The point is, it ends with her asking the audience to scream their heads off like babies. And never fails--they do. It's easy to forget that they're out there sometimes. We are so focused on getting through the next costume change, the set change, the hurry-we-need-an-ice-pack-now.
So. Thank you for coming, for listening, for tossing money into the hat, for writing emails to unknown recipients about what our circus did to make your day better, for sitting your squirming, squealing children in the first row, for standing in the back and waving, for never failing to boo at the right moment. And for screaming your heads off like babies.
But I did it. It was a nice show. There were probably about 75 people in the audience--which is about 70 more than we thought might show up. Despite this being the circus's fifteenth season, and despite the fact that we perform for who knows how many people (1,000? 2,000? 5,000?) we still look around at each other before some of the shows and say "Do you think anyone will show up?"
I thought a lot about taking the show somewhere else, about touring. I wondered how the audiences might be different, how it could look more like theater to those other audiences, look more like a foreign spectacle. Because if you listen to our audiences, the way they scream and cheer, laugh and boo, all the right places--it really feels like the circus belongs to this city. If you took us out of that context, I'm not sure how it would come across.
I still think we should tour. Please, if you know someone with a few hundred thousand dollars laying around, or if you yourself have a few hundred thousand laying around, send it our way. We could use it wisely and well.
There is a moment in the show, just before the vaulting act, after a few "slower" acts--the animal bits, the wirewalking, the kind of acts that people really watch, and watch closely--where Jenny Romaine asks the audience if they are ready to see some of the something something (it changes every day, and I don't hear much of it anyway.) The point is, it ends with her asking the audience to scream their heads off like babies. And never fails--they do. It's easy to forget that they're out there sometimes. We are so focused on getting through the next costume change, the set change, the hurry-we-need-an-ice-pack-now.
So. Thank you for coming, for listening, for tossing money into the hat, for writing emails to unknown recipients about what our circus did to make your day better, for sitting your squirming, squealing children in the first row, for standing in the back and waving, for never failing to boo at the right moment. And for screaming your heads off like babies.
Friday, September 26, 2008
Surface Temperature, Part 3 of 4
Many years ago, I wrote this short story, "Surface Temperature" -- I think I was 18 or 19, or something like that. It's mostly bad, but there's something charming about it, sort of, maybe. It's a bit heavy-handed. Lately, I've felt the need to go back and read things I wrote long ago--maybe it has something to do with turning 30. Or maybe not. So, for what it's worth, part 3 of 4:
I continued down the road. I took off my shoes. There weren't any cars. Although the man who sells UFO kites was still parked on the west side of the highway. His sign had changed. It used to read "UFO KITES $10." He had added the words "EVERYTHING MUST GO" to the bottom. As I walked past he slathered white sunscreen across his flushed flesh. He was wearing a straw hat with the brim flipped up, a severely ugly bathing suit, and some well-worn purple flip-flops. He looked like John F. Kennedy with a couple of earrings. Maybe he was in the navy at some point.
"Where you think you're going?" He shouted lazily from his lawn chair.
"Just down the road a bit."
"You live around here?" He added. I could tell by his tone that he didn't really care.
"Yeah, I live down in the Three Palms Apartments."
"Really? Mind if I ask how much you pay for something like that?"
"Four sixty. Plus utilities."
"Really?" He pulled his head back and the skin on his neck folded up. "Do you like it much?"
"Oh yeah, it's got a great view." I told him what I tell all the people who ask. Mostly only tourists ask me how I like my apartment. In Florida everyone makes the balcony sacrifice. If you want to see the ocean you pay five times more than you would if you want to look at sea oats in front of a line of pine trees.
"Maybe I should look into getting a place there. I'm looking into moving you know. It's just that I'm waiting to really get up on my feet. You know, financially. I'm trying to save up to get my daughter to college by selling these damn things." He sat forward. “She wants to be a baby doctor. You know, deliver babies.”
"Yeah." I pretended to be interested.
"I mean I can't just go out on a limb and take a chance like moving into a snazzy apartment like the ones at Three Palms. I don't have that kind of security. Oh well, one day." He sat back.
"How much?"
"Ten dollars." I thought the kites might be drastically reduced.
I reached into my bathing suit pocket and pulled out a twenty that had been through the wash several times.
"I'll take two."
"Sure thing! Do you have a color preference?" He inquired honestly.
"No. Just whatever you have will be fine."
"Okay. Here you go." He handed me two long strings with kites attached. They fluttered in the wind twisting around each other like sea serpents.
"Thanks. So I'll see you around."
"Yup. I'm here every afternoon." He waved as I walked away. I just turned and went, like it was a regular day, like it was a regular conversation, like I wasn't consumed by fear.
When I got to the beach nature had gone a bit askew. There were sea turtles hatching. Sea turtles aren't supposed to hatch in the daytime because the sand is too hot to crawl on. Normally, they hatch out of their eggs then crawl to just underneath the surface of the sand and wait there until it's cool enough to make the mad dash for the ocean. The movements of one turtle inspire the others so that when one breaks the surface, so do all the others, and all three-hundred or so baby sea turtles burst out at the exact same time. Nature.
Why is this happening now? It's almost noon and the blast made the temperature rise even more. The turtles were braving the hot sand like they didn't even feel it, flapping their tiny flippers as fast as they could go, chasing each other towards the water. Their backs each caught a single shimmer of blue light that sparked across the sand in waves. Most of them made it to the water. I hadn't the heart to tell them that it's tainted. Their one chance at life has already been poisoned.
I walked a few hundred feet down away from the turtle’s nest to where the sand was fresh white and I couldn't see any footprints. It was warmer there, but I sat down anyway. I took deep lethal breaths and my mind wandered. A short while later, I'm really alert.
I continued down the road. I took off my shoes. There weren't any cars. Although the man who sells UFO kites was still parked on the west side of the highway. His sign had changed. It used to read "UFO KITES $10." He had added the words "EVERYTHING MUST GO" to the bottom. As I walked past he slathered white sunscreen across his flushed flesh. He was wearing a straw hat with the brim flipped up, a severely ugly bathing suit, and some well-worn purple flip-flops. He looked like John F. Kennedy with a couple of earrings. Maybe he was in the navy at some point.
"Where you think you're going?" He shouted lazily from his lawn chair.
"Just down the road a bit."
"You live around here?" He added. I could tell by his tone that he didn't really care.
"Yeah, I live down in the Three Palms Apartments."
"Really? Mind if I ask how much you pay for something like that?"
"Four sixty. Plus utilities."
"Really?" He pulled his head back and the skin on his neck folded up. "Do you like it much?"
"Oh yeah, it's got a great view." I told him what I tell all the people who ask. Mostly only tourists ask me how I like my apartment. In Florida everyone makes the balcony sacrifice. If you want to see the ocean you pay five times more than you would if you want to look at sea oats in front of a line of pine trees.
"Maybe I should look into getting a place there. I'm looking into moving you know. It's just that I'm waiting to really get up on my feet. You know, financially. I'm trying to save up to get my daughter to college by selling these damn things." He sat forward. “She wants to be a baby doctor. You know, deliver babies.”
"Yeah." I pretended to be interested.
"I mean I can't just go out on a limb and take a chance like moving into a snazzy apartment like the ones at Three Palms. I don't have that kind of security. Oh well, one day." He sat back.
"How much?"
"Ten dollars." I thought the kites might be drastically reduced.
I reached into my bathing suit pocket and pulled out a twenty that had been through the wash several times.
"I'll take two."
"Sure thing! Do you have a color preference?" He inquired honestly.
"No. Just whatever you have will be fine."
"Okay. Here you go." He handed me two long strings with kites attached. They fluttered in the wind twisting around each other like sea serpents.
"Thanks. So I'll see you around."
"Yup. I'm here every afternoon." He waved as I walked away. I just turned and went, like it was a regular day, like it was a regular conversation, like I wasn't consumed by fear.
When I got to the beach nature had gone a bit askew. There were sea turtles hatching. Sea turtles aren't supposed to hatch in the daytime because the sand is too hot to crawl on. Normally, they hatch out of their eggs then crawl to just underneath the surface of the sand and wait there until it's cool enough to make the mad dash for the ocean. The movements of one turtle inspire the others so that when one breaks the surface, so do all the others, and all three-hundred or so baby sea turtles burst out at the exact same time. Nature.
Why is this happening now? It's almost noon and the blast made the temperature rise even more. The turtles were braving the hot sand like they didn't even feel it, flapping their tiny flippers as fast as they could go, chasing each other towards the water. Their backs each caught a single shimmer of blue light that sparked across the sand in waves. Most of them made it to the water. I hadn't the heart to tell them that it's tainted. Their one chance at life has already been poisoned.
I walked a few hundred feet down away from the turtle’s nest to where the sand was fresh white and I couldn't see any footprints. It was warmer there, but I sat down anyway. I took deep lethal breaths and my mind wandered. A short while later, I'm really alert.
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
Some Circus Pics
As the circus arrives at its final four days of performance -- I've scoured the web for some pics. We just show up and do the show, and of course, thousands of people are out there watching and taking pictures. Here is the evidence. I stole all these from Flickr.
Friday, September 19, 2008
Surface Temperature, Part 2 of 4
Many years ago, I wrote this short story, "Surface Temperature" -- I think I was 18 or 19, or something like that. It's mostly bad, but there's something charming about it, sort of, maybe. It's a bit heavy-handed. Lately, I've felt the need to go back and read things I wrote long ago--maybe it has something to do with turning 30. Or maybe not. So, for what it's worth, part 2 of 4:
Slowly people began to realize that the very air was tainted and some began to cover their mouths. They looked like they were halfway between hypochondria and sheer disbelief. I began my way through the cars towards the road and stepped off the curb. I even remembered to look both ways before crossing the street. I looked up. I didn't really know what to look for. Would there be another one? I let the wind blow across my face and my hair fell into my eyes. My skin was tingling and pink. It was the same feeling you have right after really good sex, and I was breathing the same hard slow breaths. I burrowed my eyes into my palms, expecting the skin on my face to rub right off. Isn't that what's supposed to happen?
"We have to move out of here!" A man in a long black trench coat was tiring the stunned masses ever more. He was trying to fix us, and most didn't yet know they were broken. He had smooth cheeks that faded into curious black hair that lined the curve of his ear. It was pulled into a braid that slid down his back and pointed to his hips. "Listen to me! If we don't get to a shelter fast the air is going to kill us. You feel hot because your skin is burned. Listen you people; there isn't much time! Five more minutes and you're sure to die. If you made it through the blast get your asses off the pavement and get inside!"
Several of us peered into the store. We saw faces that mirrored ours, only they weren't us. They were the faces of strangers, fear flooding silently from every opening.
"It won't help,” I said. All the glass is broken and the walls aren't thick enough to do any good." I could hardly hear my own words. My hair began to blow into my mouth and it tasted like red wine, a charred finish and a suburban bouquet.
"Quit arguing and get inside. If we get inside the freezer case, we'll be safe from the radiation." He stirred once again.
Lots of the women who had gathered their children were obeying and most of the men too. There were a few of us left out in the parking lot. I could do nothing to stop them. At least the tourist moms could die with their children huddled tightly against their stomachs.
"I'm telling you, it won't help. The wind is blowing through just as much in there as it is out here." I heard myself contesting, even though I didn’t really care. There was no way I was going to get cramped up in a tiny broken freezer case in the basement of the Save-A-Lot. I began walking towards the beach.
"Look, stay with us. When the police come we will all be together. I won't come looking for you." The man in trench coat was sincere. I didn't turn around for another twenty feet and when I looked, he was gone, just as quickly as he had appeared.
The road was hot. When I was a child I would stand on the black paved streets without shoes because I liked to feel the bottoms of my feet burn. I thought that the heat would make my skin stronger and tougher. I thought I would be able to run faster through the mowed fields, through the musty pinewoods. Tough feet were equal to limitless character.
After three or four minutes standing on the burning streets, your mind begins to play games with your body. You can't tell whether your feet are burning or freezing. It's the same feeling when you put your fingers into scalding water. First it feels terribly cold, then hot. As I was standing alone in the parking lot, when the bomb actually detonated, there was unbelievable heat. It was like all of America's suburban ovens were thrust open at the same time and everyone's glasses became foggy. The concrete heated up so fast that my heels began to burn. I stood there and savored the heat, knowing that I was becoming stronger, knowing that I was on my way to limitless character.
But if you want to know the whole of what I was feeling – the heat was closing in on me from the outside, and the cold was exploding from my insides. I felt with such lucid clarity my own isolation. The cold began to emerge and wrap itself around me. I was alone. In this way what I felt was the opposite of what I normally feel. It wasn't the stinging cold of hot water, but the caustic heat of solitude.
Slowly people began to realize that the very air was tainted and some began to cover their mouths. They looked like they were halfway between hypochondria and sheer disbelief. I began my way through the cars towards the road and stepped off the curb. I even remembered to look both ways before crossing the street. I looked up. I didn't really know what to look for. Would there be another one? I let the wind blow across my face and my hair fell into my eyes. My skin was tingling and pink. It was the same feeling you have right after really good sex, and I was breathing the same hard slow breaths. I burrowed my eyes into my palms, expecting the skin on my face to rub right off. Isn't that what's supposed to happen?
"We have to move out of here!" A man in a long black trench coat was tiring the stunned masses ever more. He was trying to fix us, and most didn't yet know they were broken. He had smooth cheeks that faded into curious black hair that lined the curve of his ear. It was pulled into a braid that slid down his back and pointed to his hips. "Listen to me! If we don't get to a shelter fast the air is going to kill us. You feel hot because your skin is burned. Listen you people; there isn't much time! Five more minutes and you're sure to die. If you made it through the blast get your asses off the pavement and get inside!"
Several of us peered into the store. We saw faces that mirrored ours, only they weren't us. They were the faces of strangers, fear flooding silently from every opening.
"It won't help,” I said. All the glass is broken and the walls aren't thick enough to do any good." I could hardly hear my own words. My hair began to blow into my mouth and it tasted like red wine, a charred finish and a suburban bouquet.
"Quit arguing and get inside. If we get inside the freezer case, we'll be safe from the radiation." He stirred once again.
Lots of the women who had gathered their children were obeying and most of the men too. There were a few of us left out in the parking lot. I could do nothing to stop them. At least the tourist moms could die with their children huddled tightly against their stomachs.
"I'm telling you, it won't help. The wind is blowing through just as much in there as it is out here." I heard myself contesting, even though I didn’t really care. There was no way I was going to get cramped up in a tiny broken freezer case in the basement of the Save-A-Lot. I began walking towards the beach.
"Look, stay with us. When the police come we will all be together. I won't come looking for you." The man in trench coat was sincere. I didn't turn around for another twenty feet and when I looked, he was gone, just as quickly as he had appeared.
The road was hot. When I was a child I would stand on the black paved streets without shoes because I liked to feel the bottoms of my feet burn. I thought that the heat would make my skin stronger and tougher. I thought I would be able to run faster through the mowed fields, through the musty pinewoods. Tough feet were equal to limitless character.
After three or four minutes standing on the burning streets, your mind begins to play games with your body. You can't tell whether your feet are burning or freezing. It's the same feeling when you put your fingers into scalding water. First it feels terribly cold, then hot. As I was standing alone in the parking lot, when the bomb actually detonated, there was unbelievable heat. It was like all of America's suburban ovens were thrust open at the same time and everyone's glasses became foggy. The concrete heated up so fast that my heels began to burn. I stood there and savored the heat, knowing that I was becoming stronger, knowing that I was on my way to limitless character.
But if you want to know the whole of what I was feeling – the heat was closing in on me from the outside, and the cold was exploding from my insides. I felt with such lucid clarity my own isolation. The cold began to emerge and wrap itself around me. I was alone. In this way what I felt was the opposite of what I normally feel. It wasn't the stinging cold of hot water, but the caustic heat of solitude.
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
Some Updates
--The severely-talented Charlie Vazquez have an interview together over at BigFib.com, where we talk about our creative processes, music we like to listen to, the state of gays and gay marriages, and even blowjobs in expensive cars. You can check out the interview by clicking here, read an excerpt of mine by clicking here, and read one of Charlie's stories by clicking here.
--Who wants to see a queerly-situations, politically-themed, glitter-guilded, fantastical spectacle, all for FREE in your very own New York City park? You have only 8 more chances, to see "Subprime Sublime," Circus AMOK's 2008 fantasia on financial themes. Check out the schedule by clicking here.
--My parents arrive on Thursday, for a weekend of excitement, birthdays, food, food, and food. It's been years since they came to visit, maybe 4-5 years. They stopped coming once my brother had children. Who wants to spend thousands of dollars to come to this dirty, stinky, crowded, loud place, when the magic of your grandchildren are in sunny Orlando? I'm kidding. Maybe someone will take pictures and I can get them on Flickr. I've basically given up picture taking--I think I don't have the patience for it. More so, I'm just not that interested it.
--This idea that I'm not interested in things. I've been trying to figure out what that is. It seems to be my answer, or my initial impulse, quite often these days. So, is it indeed the crux of what I'm feeling, or is it some kind of laziness, some kind of apathy, some kind of fear?
--I'm also obsessed with this game Zuma, which I got for my iPod. Mary Steenburgen was on some late night show talking about meeting people on airplanes, and they were always catching her playing Soduku on her Blackberry. And she worried that this was such an uninteresting experience for the person who stopped to talk. I have the same thought when I play Zuma all day. My fans will find me so uninteresting!
--Kip and I had the best sushi last night, at Sushi Kyoto on Smith Street, near Atlantic. The highlight for me was something called the Tuna Tortilla. It was a small flour tortilla, layered with toro, panko, and who knows what else, then cut into pieces like a pizza. Oh, baby.
--Who wants to see a queerly-situations, politically-themed, glitter-guilded, fantastical spectacle, all for FREE in your very own New York City park? You have only 8 more chances, to see "Subprime Sublime," Circus AMOK's 2008 fantasia on financial themes. Check out the schedule by clicking here.
--My parents arrive on Thursday, for a weekend of excitement, birthdays, food, food, and food. It's been years since they came to visit, maybe 4-5 years. They stopped coming once my brother had children. Who wants to spend thousands of dollars to come to this dirty, stinky, crowded, loud place, when the magic of your grandchildren are in sunny Orlando? I'm kidding. Maybe someone will take pictures and I can get them on Flickr. I've basically given up picture taking--I think I don't have the patience for it. More so, I'm just not that interested it.
--This idea that I'm not interested in things. I've been trying to figure out what that is. It seems to be my answer, or my initial impulse, quite often these days. So, is it indeed the crux of what I'm feeling, or is it some kind of laziness, some kind of apathy, some kind of fear?
--I'm also obsessed with this game Zuma, which I got for my iPod. Mary Steenburgen was on some late night show talking about meeting people on airplanes, and they were always catching her playing Soduku on her Blackberry. And she worried that this was such an uninteresting experience for the person who stopped to talk. I have the same thought when I play Zuma all day. My fans will find me so uninteresting!
--Kip and I had the best sushi last night, at Sushi Kyoto on Smith Street, near Atlantic. The highlight for me was something called the Tuna Tortilla. It was a small flour tortilla, layered with toro, panko, and who knows what else, then cut into pieces like a pizza. Oh, baby.
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