D’s been locked up again, for 72 hours, in SF General’s Ward 7B. I started pushing him last week, to get back online, to join his professional association, etc.., trying to get him engaged with a community other than the patient community. He said he wasn’t ready, but promised to talk about it later. Then yesterday he decided to jump off the Golden Gate Bridge, told his caseworker, and now he’s back in the hospital. I seem to be his only source of engagement with life outside of his recovery. He’s like a Coco zombie, no interest in anything or anyone other than me. I am just not that interesting, honey. I’ve gone along patiently, seeing movies and shows with him, taking him out to lunch several times a week, introducing him to people… I asked him how he felt a few days ago, and he responded that he didn’t know. He really didn’t know what he was feeling, just bland and lifeless. I can’t just be supportive, I feel like I need to be more assertive about making some movement forward, but I’m up against chemistry, a really screwed up chemistry that doesn’t seem to be responding to therapy, drugs, or electro-convulsive treatments.
I am Ophelia, Queen of Necrophilia
Today I attempted to shoot Dean’s lips, for a sort of bear-lips dentata grid, furry folds of cub-devouring flesh surrounding a void of nothingness, but found that my camera couldn’t get close enough, or that he couldn’t open his mouth wide enough. (It all came back.) I photographed him anyway, and then ordered an extension tube for my Hassey and plan to re-shoot next week. Maybe there’s something in the photos from today that could be pieced together into something strange and toothy, who knows. Stay tuned.
So I am playing Ophelia, after all, Friday night. And Fortinbras, briefly. For Ophelia, I am inhabiting a sexy 70’s black chick as inspiration, except when I have to sing an excerpt from Yentl, and magically transform into Barbra.
Speaking of inhabiting someone else, I can’t wait to inhabit my self again. “And that’s when he became the sad Carlotta…” Structurally, the breakup with Bob has presented challenges that I hadn’t anticipated–I did everything that interested me with Bob. Yes I have many pals to share these interests with, but none who’d follow up with a rim job. Do I want too much? I spent a lovely evening with Big Chrissy last night, who reminded me yet again of his qualifications. I’m happy at the moment to share his friendship, and remarkable insight, but I just feel empty, and sad, despite going out with the sweet Teddy Bear, a longing, or grieving, for a kind of companionship that comes only with time. So maybe it’s my self by myself that I’m having the hard time adjusting to.
Well, anyway…
Saturday was bear day at the Kabuki. What a bunch of cutie! Funkybear Martin, Brian, Ted, Chris D, English John, Little James, and our special guest star, Arno from Seattle, steamed ourselves silly, even clogged the filter in the cold plunge. I got gonged twice while chatting up Arno. We quickly moved into the steam room where Arno helped me with my salt rub, much to my delight, and then, after noodles, ended a perfect day by smushing his hairy butt crack against the window of Ted’s car as we dropped him off at his hotel. Sigh. I heard my college professor, Hank Wessel, “Always take your camera with you…” Indeed.
Dean Smith at Marjorie Wood
I just uploaded, well, just finished the final corrections to, the fabulous Dean Smith’s exhibition at Marjorie Wood Gallery. Check it out…
Dean Smith’s
thought forms
Chicago a Go-Go
The Big Dude and I are in Chicago, ostensibly to help Chris’ dad, Stephanie, with resolving her current financial crisis, but actually feeling out our new relation to each other as friends, although thus far I’ve been challenged with several character assaults and emotional manipulations that I calmly deflected: the Teflon Little Chrissy. We’re staying in the Ambassador East, flirted briefly with checking in as Mr. and Mr. Townsend (pronounced “Towns-end”), the character Cary Grant was mistaken for in North by Northwest when he stayed here with Eva Marie Saint. Chicago is cold, like freezing cold. Since Stephanie is nearly my size, I get to wear her full-length furs when I’m here, so there’s no need to fret, Concerned Readers, I shall remain warm, and glamorous.
I Woke Up in What This Morning?
A fabulous breakfast with Dean and Emily this morning in Oakland: Emily wore a blue cookie-monster coat and radiated glamour and confidence; Dean was his charming self, the successful and talented artist, still glowing from his success at Christopher Grimes last month. A few years ago we talked about starting a band. I wanted to play the tambourine and be beautiful, a bearded Lori Partridge. They are my best friends, and really lifted my spirits today. They listened with wonder to my tale of shattered hearts left in the wake of this week’s boyfriend shakeup. At one point I looked at them and saw reflected on their faces the memory of me a few months ago saying how I’d never leave Bob, that they shouldn’t take me seriously the next time I announced my need to have a boyfriend my age, etc… Bob wouldn’t take me back at this point, I’m sure. I sure wouldn’t. So I’ve been very up and very down this week. And Bob’s a cold fish.
Oh wait, did I tell you guys about this? I’ve broken up with Bob, my lover of 10 years. The same one I broke up with him a few months ago, but we’ve continued cohabitating in this Boschian domestic scene, and following the Big Chrissy drama, I decided to take some responsibility for my loved ones by telling them to run as far away from me as possible. His new book just came out, so he’ll really be moving on, to Europe in January for a two-week book tour. We’re not quite sure what to do about the living arrangements. I’m staying in my studio downstairs, until Matthew comes to town tomorrow night for Bob’s book-release party and the launching of the Clear Cut Press. I’ve offered Bob the unit below ours, and above my studio, so that he and Reese can continue being a part of my life. Besides, we love living here, and this has been his home, too, for 10 years…
Okay, okay I hear you. You don’t even have to say it.
Is this denial?
This doesn’t seem real yet.
Never Mind
Things happen quickly here in the Land of the Chrissies. BC and I just spent a remarkable evening together recommitting ourselves to our friendship, planning a trip to visit his dad, Stephanie, and listening to Terry Gross’ interview with Tony Kushner. My best friend. Again. Yippee!
Thanks Big C for letting me out of the doghouse. Organizing a world without you didn’t seem possible, certainly not one as bright and dramatic.
So my 60-something Boss has undergone extensive plastic surgery. The botox injections, steroids, and facial peel gave way on Thursday last to a major restructuring of his face, turkey neck and eyebags hacked off and everything pulled up to his forehead. He looked like Frankenstein’s monster today, with thick shoelace-stitches up the sides of his face, and staples all up and down his temples, black circles under his eyes. I screamed when I saw him, the walking dead. A hot 25 year younger-looking corpse.
A blossom fell and very soon
I saw you kissing someone new beneath the moon
I thought you loved me, you said you loved me
We planned together to dream forever
The dream has ended, for true love died
The night a blossom fell and touched two lips that lied
Ouch
Big Chrissy and I were up all last night, talking and moping. Our processing was briefly but pleasantly interrupted by the arrival of Victor, Trey, and in-town-for-the-weekend J, all of whom came by to watch Angels in America on BC’s big screen. The film certainly didn’t do much to calm me, although the company was a swell group of guys, and behind my nervous giggle I stifled back the tears about to wash over both of us. Perhaps I’d like to remember this pain in my gut and head as something real, instead of this imagined pain of longing that only occasionally bubbles to the surface as vain-hearted attempts at constructing a new improved reality and identity.
Chris has decided that since I’m not able to commit myself to him in the way that he’d like me to, he needs some distance from me. Actually, not just distance, he needs to not see me “again.” You’ve all seen me occasionally making these grand statements about what I need to do, who to be with, where to go, confidently moving forward on this and that… well, Chris pointed out that I seem to be most resolute in my indecisiveness. I’m not ambivalent about how I feel about him. I love him. And I hope he will let me in again someday.
Talk, Tears and Angels
Big Chrissy and I were up all last night, talking and weeping. Our processing was briefly but pleasantly interrupted by the arrival of Victor, Trey, and in-town-for-the-weekend JC, all of whom came by to watch Angels in America on BC’s big screen. The film certainly didn’t do much to calm me, although the company was a swell group of guys, and behind my nervous giggle I stifled back the tears about to wash over both of us. Perhaps I’m writing this because I’d like to remember this pain in my gut and head as something real, instead of this conceptual pain of longing that only occasionally bubbles to the surface as vain-hearted attempts at constructing a new improved reality and identity.
Chris has decided that since I’m not able to commit myself to him in the way that he’d like me to, he needs some distance from me. Actually, not just distance, he needs to not see me “again.” Personally, I’d kick me out of town. You’ve all seen me occasionally making these grand statements about what I need to do, who to be with, where to go, confidently moving forward on this and that… well, Chris pointed out that I seem to be most resolute in my indecisiveness. I’m not ambivalent about how I feel about him. I love him. And I hope he will let me in again someday.
Birthday Weekend Update
I bumped into Nayland this morning, on the way to Andy’s with BC for pancakes. I hadn’t seen Nayland for a few years, experiencing his visage only through his art and videos. As he crossed the street I paused for a moment as if I were about to see a video, but then it hit me that it was the 3 dimensional Nayland. Great to see you, Nayland, and sorry to have missed your panel Thursday.
Last night I took in two Ozu films at the Castro, and am looking forward to spending most of the next week there for a retrospective of his films. Watching his films is like meeting these people and spending 2 intimate hours with them in their homes. Last night I saw Late Spring and Tokyo Story, and was too moved to do more than say hi to David W, whom I adore, wiping a tear from my cheek as I passed and blew a kiss. In between films I watched the humpy bear dude in front of me, engaged in a singular sensual experience. His hair was cut very close to his head, almost shaved, but not quite. Slowly he ran a finger from the back of his neck forward over his head, feeling his stubble, over and over. Every so often, he’d slowly draw a finger through the crease between his ear and head and then bring his finger to his nose. His enjoyment of his own surface and smell moved me, like watching the stones at Ryoan-ji in Kyoto, imagining the feel of moss on stone.
My video has steered into a different direction, so I’m following this new path, and will re-shoot (D) North by Northwest in December.
Bridge
I played bridge tonight with Big Chrissy, Sarah and Pam in Menlo Park. As usual, we drank far more than we played–plus profiteroles and chocolate. I made all my contracts, but screwed up big time following my bid of 1 measely no-trump, which seemed like a piece of cake, until Sarah shattered my plans for table domination.
Only five more days of my 37’s. And then two years until I’m 40. I’m so excited. I love 40 year olds. To paraphrase Neely O’Hara–I won’t need anybody.
I watched my film at Big Chris’ the other night and really liked it on the big screen! At one point we both saw Jesus in D’s chest hair and got a little spooked. D comes over tomorrow to hang out with me while I work out the shooting details for our next collaboration, (D) North by Northwest. I’d like to have 3 films completed by the end of the year.
Did I tell you about my horrible haircut? Well, I’m going to tell you again, because you should all suffer as I am. How could anyone with a license in beauty think anyone should look like this? I’m getting cruised by all these hot guys, though. Go figure. Buchenwald is in.