Category: Friends

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Arbus, My Bad Haircut, Finished My Little Film

I just got back from the Diane Arbus show, Revelations, at SFMoMA. No real revelations–her images are so deeply etched into my psyche–although there were a few early photos that showed clear influences prior to her finding her own voice that were interesting to see. There’s one particular room, of her later images of asylum inmates, that, even though I’ve seen them a gazillion times, moved me to near tears–the dark brooding skies and the inmates dressed in masks, performing for themselves and for the camera. “Kak stranno… how strange,” Norma Shearer got it right in Idiot’s Delight. Last night I had peking duck with Peter and Luis–a total delight to be among queens who were raised on MGM musicals and Von Sternberg films. We lamented the new generation of gay men who missed out on the tutelage of the sweater queens (Peter’s father and my early, well, all of my boyfriends), who nurtured our camp sensibilities and anti-assimilationist tendencies. I’ve always wanted to make some sort of public monument to the sissy, to whom we owe everything, and who was sadly jettisoned from the center stage of gay liberation, upstaged by a safer, more palatable representation of masculinity. We talked of throwing a Mae West film festival soon, and plan to grow old as we imagine she did, wisecracking and surrounded by hunky sexpots. I have a horrible haircut, by the way. Bob accused me of anti-semitism this morning when I cursed my hairdresser for making me look like a concentration camp survivor. I carefully explained that I was commenting on Nazi stylists, not their victims.

I finished my first edited version of Tremor, my entree into avant-garde filmmaking. I don’t know if it’s awful or interesting, but I love watching it. I’m going to be one of those Pierre Molinier artists, I’m sure, discovered by some little art fag 50 years from now and proclaimed grande fetishiste –“How could they not see?” he’ll ask… And hey, if you didn’t see my work in the LAB’s 20th anniversary show, tomorrow’s the last day and I don’t show a lot around here. So get your ass away from that computer monitor and over to 16th Street.

So tonight it’s Kill Bill. Yes.

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Gertrude, Virgil, Bob, Carla, Kathleen, Su-Chen, Mark, Big Chris

I saw the Gertrude Stein/Virgil Thompson opera The Mother of Us All last night, with Bob, Kathleen, and Carla. It was a great follow up to Carla’s play, Stein truly the mother of Carla’s sensibility, at least her step-mother. The opera is about the suffrage movement, with Susan B. Anthony as the central figure. The SF Opera put on a humdinger of a production, with much whimsy and humor, delightful word play, a great deal of homoeroticism thrown in here and there, and hilarious anti-male language, and everybody gets drunk at the end! Today I and Su-Chen went to see Mark Morris at Zellerbach, and were mildly entertained. His first dance was structured around the music of Bob Wills, and whimsically illustrated the songs, but we weren’t so thrilled with the other dances, which seemed to again just illustrate the beat of the music rather than extend it in any way. It was fun to see him dance one solo piece, set to Lou Harrison’s music, and comprised of movements taken from spanish dances, castanets and everything, his rotund body whirling dynamically around the stage.

The waiter with the kilt, the “nudist” belt, and pierced septum at Orphan Andy’s, in some Victorian twist of Castro restaurant etiquette, this morning addressed all questions and innuendo to Big Chrissy–“Would you like more water, sir?” “Too much meat for you, sir?”–while I sat there with my empty glass of water, quip-ready, just the Little Chrissy. Big Chris should ask for the menu without the prices next time.

So I’ve been sick for the past few days. A really yucky cold that has progressively become more and more uncomfortable. I don’t take to pain very well, or even slight discomfort. You can’t even pinch my nipples without getting a slap on the wrist.

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Carla and D

My houseguest Carla’s new play, Performing Objects Stationed in the Sub World premiered last night. The piece is a collaboration with visual artist Amy Trachtenberg, director Jim Cave, and composer Erling Wold. It’s thoroughly entertaining, and completely devoid of anything concerned with narrative, a collage of social and cultural relationships and interactions, combining poetry, theater, song, language and a really cute bald guy with an adorable accent and hairy forearms. Afterward, I congratulated Jocelyn on her very moving delivery of a Spanish monologue, to which she relied, “Thank you,” and then, looking around, asked me “So could you tell me what the play was about?” She’s a talented writer herself, and the publisher of an interesting line of experimental prose and poetry books, Krupskaya Press. (I did one of their covers, Laura Moriarty’s Nude Memoir.) She’ll be accompanying a silent porn film with a benshi narration in October at ATA. Benshi provided live narration to films during the silent era in Japan, but extended the narration into an art form, delivering dialogue and thoughts as well. I’m creating a soundtrack of breaths to accompany her narration.

So D isn’t Bi-polar or even Borderline, after all, just depressed. And he has something like a “dependency syndrome,” I can’t remember exactly what the dysfunction is called, but good grief, are all insecurities diseases now? My favorite non-related diagnoses are Frank Bigelow’s “toxic luminous poisoning” and Scottie Ferguson’s “acute melancholia together with a guilt complex,” which I’m sure I’ll die of. Anyway, I’ve asked to be present when decisions are made for D about his care following his release from lockup. Tuesday was freaky, man. He was very disoriented from the shock therapy, talking gibberish and unable to tell his doctor the story of Goldilocks and the three Bears. (I’m so glad the doctor didn’t ask me for my version.) They say this was “normal,” but will be plugging him in only once a week now, rather than three times. It scared me to see him so vegetable-like, but he seemed much better yesterday, certainly more lucid. I’m going to pop in on him and my crazy new friends again this afternoon.

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An Evening With C and Week of D

Spent some quality quiet time with the Big Chrissy this evening, Emily having bailed on cruising the gallery openings with me. Fine, actually, I’ve been really tired, lots of running around this week, not much time for lounging, not even studio time. I visited D earlier at SF General. I’ve seen him about every other day since last Friday, and feel that he’s improving already. He takes a very long time to answer any question, and often we just stare at each other for long stretches. I squirm and avert my eyes, I know what he’s thinking, and he sees right through me. Nothing’s changed. All the feelings are there, the attraction and the fear, the excitement. Our proximity provides access to a pared down sensual experience, like a Vincente Minnelli film, titillation and spectacle without substance. I love him. I look at him and the images fragment and swirl around my head, ideas for pieces, for series, garden parterres, sculptures. He’s still my muse. His flesh and warmth seem so essential to my own creative impulse, I panic when I think of it decaying. I want him to want to live, yet I can’t stir that desire in him. Perhaps it’s the awareness that his chemistry may be beyond my influence that I feel panicky, that he’s not capable of embracing the challenge of being.

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Labor Day Weekend Spew

Le Divorce with Bob visit former lover in the psych ward Chinese at House of Nanking Freaky Friday with Phil what a great guy and Victor always bubbly and bright Party Monster Bob again and Bruce Boone the translator of Pasqual Quinard with a cane now and Victor again designed new Marjorie Wood Gallery exhibition for Nick Dong re-edited his videos 36 megabytes are too many megabytes Big Chris in the studio nest cyber fun on iSpQ Paul Hot Italian furry belly in San Jose think Iberian bear is just adorable re-designed the opening animated sequence Samovar for tea and lunch with Nick and Bob yet again some work in the garden visit former lover again in the psych ward heard from my gallery in Boston no show this year much anxiety I’m going to work out now Big Chrissy but he’s got a deadline perhaps tomorrow after editing and dinner with Dean Smith otherwise Thursday not enough visits to the orgasmatron now back to my book goodnight I’d love to have a Harem for my 40th birthday could someone organize this please except for Big Chris’ not enough Big Chrissy’s sisters I’ll be 40 in 2 years did you know I did say that I was going to read my book didn’t I here I go…

I hope you all had a nice weekend. Nighty night.

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My Day with D, and a Bad Movie

I visited D (“BiPolar Bear” is too whimsical for me now) this afternoon. I decided that I was going to be cheerful for him, but as soon as I saw him I burst into tears and threw my arms around him and hugged him like my lost childhood teddy bear had been found. There was almost nothing recognizable about him, which was actually good, for there were none of the familiar anxious hysterical tics, just slow deliberate body movements, an almost catatonic state, a big smile, and eyes that looked straight at me. He looks about 25 years older, has gained about 25 pounds, and his hair and beard have grown out and are now curly and almost completely gray, like a bust of a homeless Roman senators. He seemed anxious about finding a place to live, and I reminded him, first the shock treatments, then an apartment. The hospital is great, with a wonderful staff and a system in place that is really going to help him. They’ve already secured disability income for him, put him on MediCal to cover his medical expenses, are helping him file for bankruptcy, and can place him in interim housing while he finds a permanent place to live.

I am so glad that he’s alive, his smile was one of the most glorious things I’ve seen in years.

Later I went to see Le Divorce, which stank, even with all that talent. The one interesting scene takes place in a police car as a male and female cop express surprise at an American committing a crime of passion. “Most Americans kill for money or drugs,” the male cop says, cigarette dangling from his lips, then sniffing, inquires of his female counterpart’s new perfume, cigarette smoke filling the car.

Today was one of the few times that we’ve gotten together (back to D) where there wasn’t madness, even though we were encompassed by it. And boy, did they get it right in the movies. There was the girl twirling her hair, the guy staring out the window, the smiling man who’d occasionally scream at the top of his lungs, the guy pacing back and forth, back and forth.

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Whew

So I spoke with BiPolar Bear’s mom in Nevada today, his caseworker, and the man himself. He seems very down, no spark, but his caseworker told me that he’s improved a lot and the prospects for recovery are good. I’m going to visit him tomorrow and bring him some clothes and a phone card so that he can call his mom more easily. He’s already hinted about living in my studio. At least his manipulations are on the surface, but my shields are holding at 100%, Captain.

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Awful Night, but Ready to Help

I had an awful night last night, thinking of BiPolar Bear on the street, imagining every horrible possibility, not knowing how he is now, alone in the hospital, his every fear realized. He confided in me on several occasions his fear of losing everything, but not his marbles, although I thought he was more stable, too, despite the lying, manipulating, drama and, well, instability. His former landlords are e-mailing me his mom’s phone number today, so I’ll talk to her and see what’s up and what I can do. I am so lucky. I have security, family, friends, the decorative arts–and here’s this person that I loved so intensely with probably just a toothbrush.

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Bipolar Bear Resurface

Remember my affair with the Bipolar Bear? I haven’t heard from him since January, when he asked me for a lot of money. I told him I couldn’t help him but offered to get together and help him sort through his finances. He slammed down the receiver, and I haven’t heard from him since. Today I found out that he’s in the Psych Ward at SF General, has tried to commit suicide 4 or so times, lost his home, job, car, and all of his belongings, and at the time that he was committed was homeless on the streets of San Francisco. He’s undergoing electro-shock therapy. I didn’t know that they still did that.

“His problem.”

“Not your responsibility.”

“Manipulating you again.”

Our past conflicts stemmed from a total lack of concern for boundaries (It was an affair, first of all), and extreme manipulation on his part. If I get in touch with him, I know I can be firm about my own boundaries, but what can I do for him? What should I do? He has nothing and nobody. I can’t not do anything. Am I willing to befriend him and risk his dependence, further manipulation, or even his rejection?