He had been worried that they wouldn’t let him on the plane with such a large, heavy carry-on bag. He was mostly worried about the x-ray at the security gate. But those people always look bored and glassy-eyed, right? Perhaps those people would be busy with a baby stroller. Or an old lady in a wheelchair. Perhaps he could talk his way into something, out of something.
Early that morning he had buttoned his shirt up to the very last button, which he never ever did, ever. He felt like he was choking. But that could have been nervousness. And several times amid the AirFrance jumbo full of backpackers on walkabouts, the jet-set, the American tourists, he felt a trickle of sweat run down his face and absorb into the broadcloth of his top-buttoned shirt, darkening the mild blue fabric.
When the taxi driver commented on the heaviness of the luggage and he couldn’t think of what to say next. He hadn’t planned that far. And that actually came out of his mouth − “I don’t know why, I haven’t thought ahead that far.” And then he realized he’d better come up with something.
He made it to the bateaux mouche, as if it had been planned. And, sort of, it had. Besides, he didn’t know anywhere else in the city. He floated past antique bridges and one-of-a-kind street lamps. The water was probably colder than he imagined. (Paris in March?) But it wasn’t like the canoe trips back home when he was a kid, now was it? It wasn’t like he could just reach down and stick his god-damned fingers in the god-damned Seine, now was it?
Friday, June 30, 2006
Thursday, June 29, 2006
Monday, June 26, 2006
What Writers (and Therapists, apparently) Do
At my friend Amanda's house tonight, several of us had a lively and extremely exciting conversation about, well, therapy--something we always end up talking about at some point. (We also talked about shitting, anal sex, Star Trek, and sucky jobs, so the whole evening wasn't so brainy, let me tell you.) Sean and his boyfriend Robert are both therapists, and I can count three other friends of mine who are also therapists, so we inevitably talk about what works, what doesn't, new techniques, whatever.
We talked about language, about how selective Robert is with words in his sessions, because sometimes all you have to do is repeat back to the patient whatever he/she just said in new language, some different word which allows for a different emotional experience, to have a breakthrough.
"That's what I do," I said. It was a breakthrough of my own...I'm always delighted to discover new ways of thinking about what I do. Writing is swimming around in words, re-framing an experience for the reader--something of his own past reimagined, creating a character or a situation which inspired a certain empathy, an unknown or unexpected empathy. Or it could be a familiar empathy, which can be its own kind of breakthrough.
I often have a certain kind of disdain for the audience--or perhaps that's too strong a word. I see so much theater, so much journalism, so much television that caters to the lowest common denominator that I have this adolescent kneejerk hatred for the stupidity--my usual reaction. (It's not grumpiness, it's the bright romantic candle of unadulterated optimism, briefly flickering. For the record.)
Writing novels isn't therapy. Reading isn't therapy either. But the overlap lies in the trying, I think. In the uncovering of layers. In the work it takes to choose the right language. Language is flawed. And people are flawed. And that tugging between the two is the beauty of it all.
We talked about language, about how selective Robert is with words in his sessions, because sometimes all you have to do is repeat back to the patient whatever he/she just said in new language, some different word which allows for a different emotional experience, to have a breakthrough.
"That's what I do," I said. It was a breakthrough of my own...I'm always delighted to discover new ways of thinking about what I do. Writing is swimming around in words, re-framing an experience for the reader--something of his own past reimagined, creating a character or a situation which inspired a certain empathy, an unknown or unexpected empathy. Or it could be a familiar empathy, which can be its own kind of breakthrough.
I often have a certain kind of disdain for the audience--or perhaps that's too strong a word. I see so much theater, so much journalism, so much television that caters to the lowest common denominator that I have this adolescent kneejerk hatred for the stupidity--my usual reaction. (It's not grumpiness, it's the bright romantic candle of unadulterated optimism, briefly flickering. For the record.)
Writing novels isn't therapy. Reading isn't therapy either. But the overlap lies in the trying, I think. In the uncovering of layers. In the work it takes to choose the right language. Language is flawed. And people are flawed. And that tugging between the two is the beauty of it all.
Friday, June 23, 2006
Where Not to Finish Books
I have a habit of finishing books on the subway. It's not a good place to do this. I'm always raw, unsettled, often near tears, and there I am, in the middle of afternoon rush hour, waiting for the doors to close because some lady with what looks like a laundry bag is standing there holding the doors open for her friend with equally exaggerated shopping acessories.
This happened to me this morning, on my way to the GreenMarket, having turned the last page of A.M. Homes' new novel, This Book Will Save Your Life, a delicious, often-hilarious, heartbreaking, highly-readable story about a man suddenly immersed in extraordinary circumstances. Earthquakes, movie stars, sinkholes, feral chihuahuas, possibly a saber-toothed tiger. Heart attacks, gay teenagers, compassion, transformation.
At the end of novels, I am too vulnerable. I want to be alone. Really alone. Instead, I'm stuck there with fifty-odd strangers, wondering if I'll be able to stand when I arrive at my stop, wondering if I'll be able to get one foot to move in front of the other.
This happened to me this morning, on my way to the GreenMarket, having turned the last page of A.M. Homes' new novel, This Book Will Save Your Life, a delicious, often-hilarious, heartbreaking, highly-readable story about a man suddenly immersed in extraordinary circumstances. Earthquakes, movie stars, sinkholes, feral chihuahuas, possibly a saber-toothed tiger. Heart attacks, gay teenagers, compassion, transformation.
At the end of novels, I am too vulnerable. I want to be alone. Really alone. Instead, I'm stuck there with fifty-odd strangers, wondering if I'll be able to stand when I arrive at my stop, wondering if I'll be able to get one foot to move in front of the other.
Wednesday, June 21, 2006
Old Stuff
I was in Chattanooga not long ago and Mary Beth, Meg's sister, gave me a manila envelope which was full of things I had written forever ago, and had sent to Meg back in the fall of 1997. It was in Meg's apartment, of course, in a drawer full of ancient things; she was such a packrat.
It's good to read your old stuff, even if you're horrified that any of it came out of your fingers. It's not a reflection of your work now, it's just representative of your work then. And you're always learning, so there should some gradual upward slope, right?
Some highlights from the envelope:
From a monologue:
"You guys wanna know what love is? Love is seven hours and all the trash bags you want. And I packed my shit up in half the time. I took the truck because the lawyer said it was a pre-marital asset, which means it's mine."
From a short story:
Standing on the burning asphalt, your mind plays tricks with your body. You can't tell if your feet are burning or freezing, like when you put your hand in scalding water, first it feels cold, then hot. When the bomb detonated, it was so hot. Like all of suburbia's ovens were thrust open at the same time, and all of our glasses became foggy. The street heated up so fast, but I just stood there, knowing that I was becoming stronger.
From a poem:
where the knocking of knees makes us tired / where the urgency of breath floats us like lighted / lanterns on a river.
It's good to read your old stuff, even if you're horrified that any of it came out of your fingers. It's not a reflection of your work now, it's just representative of your work then. And you're always learning, so there should some gradual upward slope, right?
Some highlights from the envelope:
From a monologue:
"You guys wanna know what love is? Love is seven hours and all the trash bags you want. And I packed my shit up in half the time. I took the truck because the lawyer said it was a pre-marital asset, which means it's mine."
From a short story:
Standing on the burning asphalt, your mind plays tricks with your body. You can't tell if your feet are burning or freezing, like when you put your hand in scalding water, first it feels cold, then hot. When the bomb detonated, it was so hot. Like all of suburbia's ovens were thrust open at the same time, and all of our glasses became foggy. The street heated up so fast, but I just stood there, knowing that I was becoming stronger.
From a poem:
where the knocking of knees makes us tired / where the urgency of breath floats us like lighted / lanterns on a river.
Sunday, June 18, 2006
Gay Pride, 2006
At the GreenMarket yesterday there were many more gay men than usual. June in New York, I thought. But they were older, not the standard East Village-y queers you're used to seeing holding hands and drinking Jamba Juice. And most of them were from out of town. Again: June in New York.
Three guys stopped at the syrup stand and talked with me. I'm not sure if they knew I was gay from the beginning of the conversation, or if they caught on somewhere in the middle. But they were doing that kind of hint-hint thing that I recognize as a purely Southern kind of intimation. They winked. They smiled and laughed. Sure enough, they were from Atlanta. "No apologies," one of them said. "You moved because you had to. We stayed because we had to." That sounded like the best truth to me.
In Chattanooga once for Christmas, I was at a bar having a drink with an old friend. "Why are all the gay people sitting over there?" I asked. "See the tile on floor," she told me, "where it changes? If you sit over there people know you're gay." I was reminded how difficult being out can be in a place like that. Where the one gay bar still has no visible sign and a fence around the parkign lot. I was reminded how thankful I am to be living in New York, a city that allows you the illlusion (I say illusion because still fags are attacked here like prey; just last week they went after Kevin Aviance; oh and still we cannot marry, etc.) that your gayness is more accepted. And yet, it is. We have our neighborhoods, our bars, our restaurants, each other.
Gay Pride month always brings up the question of what do we want our image to be--in society, in America at Large. Fuck image. What I hear people shrieking about when they complain about the gay image, is this absurd idea that we, as a people, should strive toward normalicy. "We just want the country to see that we're normal," someone is perpetually saying on TV. And to think, all this time I thought my life WAS normal. What they really mean when they say normal is average. Who wants to be average?
So shake your half-naked queer ass on a float shaped like a penis going down Fifth Avenue, or compete in the International Leather Sir/Boy Contest, or break out your drag and mock the shitty, capitalist, mysoginist establishment, or suck each other off in every dingy Manhattan stairwell--what do I care? And Fuck You to everyone who says we can't.
Three guys stopped at the syrup stand and talked with me. I'm not sure if they knew I was gay from the beginning of the conversation, or if they caught on somewhere in the middle. But they were doing that kind of hint-hint thing that I recognize as a purely Southern kind of intimation. They winked. They smiled and laughed. Sure enough, they were from Atlanta. "No apologies," one of them said. "You moved because you had to. We stayed because we had to." That sounded like the best truth to me.
In Chattanooga once for Christmas, I was at a bar having a drink with an old friend. "Why are all the gay people sitting over there?" I asked. "See the tile on floor," she told me, "where it changes? If you sit over there people know you're gay." I was reminded how difficult being out can be in a place like that. Where the one gay bar still has no visible sign and a fence around the parkign lot. I was reminded how thankful I am to be living in New York, a city that allows you the illlusion (I say illusion because still fags are attacked here like prey; just last week they went after Kevin Aviance; oh and still we cannot marry, etc.) that your gayness is more accepted. And yet, it is. We have our neighborhoods, our bars, our restaurants, each other.
Gay Pride month always brings up the question of what do we want our image to be--in society, in America at Large. Fuck image. What I hear people shrieking about when they complain about the gay image, is this absurd idea that we, as a people, should strive toward normalicy. "We just want the country to see that we're normal," someone is perpetually saying on TV. And to think, all this time I thought my life WAS normal. What they really mean when they say normal is average. Who wants to be average?
So shake your half-naked queer ass on a float shaped like a penis going down Fifth Avenue, or compete in the International Leather Sir/Boy Contest, or break out your drag and mock the shitty, capitalist, mysoginist establishment, or suck each other off in every dingy Manhattan stairwell--what do I care? And Fuck You to everyone who says we can't.
Wednesday, June 14, 2006
Website
Maybe two more weeks before the website is up and live. I'm waiting for a few things to fall into place, and then we'll be all set. In the meantime, here's a screenshot, how it looks so far....
Monday, June 12, 2006
The Cruise
Over the weekend, I watched the Bennett Miller's 1998 documentary, "The Cruise," starring Timothy 'Speed' Levitch, a tour guide for Manhattan's Gray Line double-decker busses. The film won the best documentary award at the 1998 Sundance Film Festival. Miller's most recent film is the Oscar-winning "Capote."
The film, arguably, is an 85-minute monologue. Levitch's rants (or illumnations) on New York City, its skyscrapers, its neighborhoods, its people, are deliciously entertaining. About the Empire State Building, Levitch says: "If architecture is the history of all phallic emotion, the Empire State Building is utter catharsis, and we are sitting in its silhouette." Levitch's discussion of Greenwich Village, including the locations and fates of some of the most important literary figures of the 20th Century, nearly brought me to tears. He's also hysterically funny: "Many of the women in Filene's Basement are masochists."
He contextualizes everything New York has to offer, not only giving places and events a context in New York, U.S. and world history, but seemingly in the psychic history of humanity, as well. Of Central Park, he explains: "No sweating allowed in the original Central Park. No persperation of any kind. Anyone you see congregating for the baseball game on the left, bicycling, rollerblading, jogging, they are not historically accurate. Anyone you see lounging in the sun, having a picnic, or kissing--they are historically accurate."
Levitch wrote in his book Speedology, "New York City: A great teacher bestowing life lessons on a mostly slow-learning population."
For other samplings, you can check out some clips on YouTube, here.
The film, arguably, is an 85-minute monologue. Levitch's rants (or illumnations) on New York City, its skyscrapers, its neighborhoods, its people, are deliciously entertaining. About the Empire State Building, Levitch says: "If architecture is the history of all phallic emotion, the Empire State Building is utter catharsis, and we are sitting in its silhouette." Levitch's discussion of Greenwich Village, including the locations and fates of some of the most important literary figures of the 20th Century, nearly brought me to tears. He's also hysterically funny: "Many of the women in Filene's Basement are masochists."
He contextualizes everything New York has to offer, not only giving places and events a context in New York, U.S. and world history, but seemingly in the psychic history of humanity, as well. Of Central Park, he explains: "No sweating allowed in the original Central Park. No persperation of any kind. Anyone you see congregating for the baseball game on the left, bicycling, rollerblading, jogging, they are not historically accurate. Anyone you see lounging in the sun, having a picnic, or kissing--they are historically accurate."
Levitch wrote in his book Speedology, "New York City: A great teacher bestowing life lessons on a mostly slow-learning population."
For other samplings, you can check out some clips on YouTube, here.
Thursday, June 08, 2006
Strange Things You Find in the Employment Pages
-Do you know that you are physically attractive?
-Must motivate a staff that is already motivated.
-Put your exuberance to excellent use!
-50+ years experience required.
-Position requires excellent phone manners when answering the phone.
-You will be required to give out liquor samples.
-Strong Oral Skills a must.
-Must motivate a staff that is already motivated.
-Put your exuberance to excellent use!
-50+ years experience required.
-Position requires excellent phone manners when answering the phone.
-You will be required to give out liquor samples.
-Strong Oral Skills a must.
Tuesday, June 06, 2006
From Boys to Men
My essay, "Inheritance," will be included in the forthcoming anthology From Boys to Men, published by Caroll & Graf at the end of July.
Here's some of the jacket copy: "More than an anthology of coming out stories, From Boys to Men is a stunning collection of essays about what it is like to be gay and young, to be different and be aware of that difference from the earliest of ages. In these memoirs, coming out is less important than coming of age and coming to the realization that young gay people experience the world in ways quite unlike straight boys. Whether it is a fascination with soap opera, an intense sensitivity to their own difference, or an obsession with a certain part of the male anatomy, gay kids — or kids who would eventually identify as gay — have an indefinable but unmistakable gay sensibility. Sometimes the result is funny, sometimes it is harrowing, and often it is deeply moving."
So, everyone run out and buy a copy from your favorite independent bookseller when it's available. Don't worry, I'll remind you.
Here's some of the jacket copy: "More than an anthology of coming out stories, From Boys to Men is a stunning collection of essays about what it is like to be gay and young, to be different and be aware of that difference from the earliest of ages. In these memoirs, coming out is less important than coming of age and coming to the realization that young gay people experience the world in ways quite unlike straight boys. Whether it is a fascination with soap opera, an intense sensitivity to their own difference, or an obsession with a certain part of the male anatomy, gay kids — or kids who would eventually identify as gay — have an indefinable but unmistakable gay sensibility. Sometimes the result is funny, sometimes it is harrowing, and often it is deeply moving."
So, everyone run out and buy a copy from your favorite independent bookseller when it's available. Don't worry, I'll remind you.
Sunday, June 04, 2006
New Parents
I went to visit my friends Michael & Calvin, whose new daughter, Vivien Stella, is a delight to behold, (and, of course, to hold.) She is simply marvelous. For most of the couple of hours that I was around, she just slept and ate and fell asleep while eating and so forth. She's only a week old, after all. But she did spend about five minutes staring into the world, eyes ablaze with recognition of what I don't know, but definitely something. You can watch her brain work when you look into her eyes.
Strange how parenthood changes the people you're close to--in ways you expected, and in ways you didn't. As soon as I arrived at their apartment, they did the quick "do you want to make a bottle," kind of thing that you hear new parents doing all the time, but it was also remarkably refreshing to still be able to have a normal conversation about whatever other thing was happening. I've been around plenty of new parents who can't talk about ideas anymore, just the baby.
They'll be good fathers.
Strange how parenthood changes the people you're close to--in ways you expected, and in ways you didn't. As soon as I arrived at their apartment, they did the quick "do you want to make a bottle," kind of thing that you hear new parents doing all the time, but it was also remarkably refreshing to still be able to have a normal conversation about whatever other thing was happening. I've been around plenty of new parents who can't talk about ideas anymore, just the baby.
They'll be good fathers.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
