Public Displays of Affection.

I was just reading an article in the Times about same-sex public affection, about how it's still kind of a big deal. I guess the discussion was spurred by that Snickers commercial. I don't have a TV, but I saw the commercial later on YouTube. What is the deal with American heterosexual men being so grossed out by two guys kissing each other? It's so childish. It's like the whole cooties thing in 2nd grade.

When I was maybe 21, living in the East Village, I said good night to a guy I'd spent the evening with -- I don't remember who it was, I think maybe we only had the one date -- on the corner of Broadway and 10th St. We talked for a few minutes, and then we kissed before he went west and I went east. I lived on 10th between First and Avenue A at the time. I had walked about a block east when a car drove by, windows open, full of young men who shouted "faggot!" and threw bottles at me. None of the bottles hit me, but they shattered on the sidewalk at my feet and scared the hell out of me. The car kept moving, and I kept walking. I'd lived in New York long enough to know that it's usually not a good idea to let your attacker know you're afraid. But they went around the block and came at me again, throwing more bottles. This time I ran like hell, turning right on 3rd Avenue (it's one way the other way, so the car wouldn't be able to follow me). I ducked into a store for a few minutes and then ran all the way home. I was terrified. Much more terrified than I was either time I was mugged in New York, because this attack was personal.

Many years later, J. and I often held hands when we walked down the street in the East Village, where I still lived. This was in that period of infatuation in a relationship when it's just really hard not to. I don't remember any negative reaction, but, more than once, people we passed smiled and gave us a thumbs up or some other sign of approval. It was nice, I guess, but it made us self-conscious. Maybe nobody was throwing bottles at us, but we didn't blend in. It takes a real toll on same-sex couples to know that every time they express affection toward each other they are committing an act of civil disobedience.

And now, Z. I don't think I mentioned before that he is younger than me. By about 15 years, which is a whole generation, at least down here. He is completely unself-conscious about expressing affection in public. Last week, on Valentine's Day, he took my hand and held it across the table in a restaurant without the least bit of shame. I almost cried when he sat next to me on a couch in a crowded coffeeshop, put his hand on my knee, asked me for a kiss. And I didn't see anybody around us react. They didn't roll their eyes, or look away. Nothing. And we're in Texas. I almost cried because I realized that I didn't feel afraid, or ashamed. I didn't feel like a freak. Okay, I was still self-conscious enough to be looking at the moment and taking note of my feelings. But I do that anyway.

Back to school.

I just submitted my FAFSA, the application for federal student financial aid. I remember it being so complicated when my mom and I filled it out way back when. Now it's all on the web, which makes it easier, and my financial data is probably simpler than my parents'.

If I understand this correctly, I will be expected to come up with a little over $2000 toward the cost of my first year's tuition and expenses, including living expenses. And I'm guessing they figure more for living expenses than what I typically spend, since I live on so little. The wrench in the ointment, or whatever that expression is, is that I will still have my credit card debt from the film to pay every month. I wonder if they let you suspend those while you're in school. Have to check that out.

I can't wait for school to start!

Practice.

If this time here isn't good for writing, at least it's good for my Buddhist practice. I'm thinking mostly of the part where I'm trying to learn not to hate annoying people. And I'm doing pretty well. I want so badly to describe these people here, but I think I probably shouldn't.

Anyway, I haven't figured out how and where I'm going to write yet. There's a computer lounge with several computers and a few comfortable chairs and a sign that says it's a "quiet area." But it's usually not. Quiet, that is. The last two days, a woman has been sitting at one of the computers playing some sort of Where's Waldo-type game and talking baby talk to her girlfriend, going back and forth between complimening her "back," ("you are so sexy to me, it don't matter what you say, just you talking to me turns me on") and consoling her through what seems from this end to be some sort of crying jag ("oh baby, I wish I could kiss your tears"). How could anyone write when there's that to listen to?

I should just ask her to be quiet. I want to, but I don't. She's bigger than me.

Between meals, the dining room can be quiet. But there's a TV in there, so often someone will be in there watching it. If I come in here, like now, and it's just me, I turn the TV off. But at any moment someone might come in and turn it back on. The bedroom is my best bet for quiet, but it's hard to stay focused and alert in bed. I get drowsy and kind of achey if I lie in bed for very long. And even in there, people talk on the phone, or nap and snore.

Yesterday, several of us were waiting in the procedure room to have our vital signs checked, and there was a simultaneous lull in the various conversations, a rare silent moment. I was just becoming aware of it and feeling my body relax for the first time in days when someone said loudly, "It's too quiet in here. Somebody sing or something!"

Jimmy.

Some friends of James Baldwin had a black cat named Jimmy, after him, which warmed my heart to find out, because J. and I used to have a little black cat named Jimmy. She was not named after James Baldwin, but she was a great cat.

Jimmy had lots of problems, starting with the ASPCA telling us she was a boy, which we believed until she went into heat. We thought she had gone insane, but it turned out she was not crazy, just female. When we pulled out her paperwork to take her to the vet, we saw that the ASPCA not only thought she was male, they thought she was a dog.

This was back when I was with B., my first long-term partner. When we got a dog, Jimmy started to pee on the floor and couldn't be persuaded not to. We didn't give up on her. She peed on the floor every day for 2 or 3 years until B. and I separated. I took Jimmy and our other cat, and B. kept the dog. Jimmy stopped peeing on the floor a few days after we moved to our own place.

When I moved in with J., he had two cats, so Jimmy was one of four. That's when she really came into her own and ruled the roost. Four cats in a studio apartment in New York. She was the smallest and the least likely to back down. Even during that very ugly spell with the infected anal glands.

She had a congenital heart defect, which we knew about all along. When she was about 15 years old, her heart swelled up, huge. She was very sick and suffering, so we had her put down.

James Baldwin.

I'm reading a biography of James Baldwin, by David Leeming. Baldwin's a favorite of mine, and I've read most of his non-fiction and some of the fiction. There's lots of autobiography in his essays and novels, so I already know quite a bit about his life, but this bio fills in the gaps.

He talked and wrote often about the tension in creating fiction that deals directly with social issues (in his case, racism) without being merely polemical. To really get at the life and soul of the characters and not just lecture. Which is not to say that a writer can't express strong opinions, or that a work of fiction can't make change. That it can't be persuasive.

Baldwin's thoughts on this are good medicine for me right now as I struggle with my little story about men and love and sex. I realize I'm being very timid at both ends of the question. I could stand to get deeper into these characters' souls, and I could stand to have a point of view on the subject.

The first couple days of this study are kind of hectic. We took the drug this morning, and at intervals they take our blood (starting at every 15 minutes, then every 1/2 hour, then 1 hour, 2 hours, etc. decreasing in frequency for the next 3 days) and our urine -- every drop of urine we produce for 72 hours they want. And they check our vital signs. So, except for the couple of days after we dose (which happens twice while we're here), we won't have much on our schedule except meals. I should get some writing done!

The power of music.

This is funny. Or really fucked-up.

I was going to give a copy of my CD (the soundtrack to my film) to Z., this guy I've been seeing for a few weeks. But I stopped myself because -- and these are the words that actually went through my head -- I don't want him to fall in love with me. Fucked up in so many ways. First, that I would be so sure that my music would have that effect is a little conceited, huh? And to think that I would or should have control over whether someone falls in love with me or not. Besides, I don't believe in falling in love.

Z. and I spent last Sunday together, most of the day. When I told him I would be holed up in this drug trial for 11 days starting Thursday, we decided we should try to see each other once during the week. So, we met for a beer on Tuesday. He asked me if he could see me at least briefly on Wednesday, and I was not at all reluctant. Downtown was crowded for Valentine's Day crowd. Neither of us acknowledged the day except in sort of a generic way, not related at all to the two of us and our situation. What I mean is, no flowers or chocolate were exchanged. It would be a little soon for that kind of thing, I think, even if I didn't think that Valentine's Day was the most inane holiday in the universe.

I like that he likes to do free or cheap things. Since I don't have much choice.

Jesus Is Magic.

I watched the Sara Silverman film, Jesus is Magic, tonight, because it's one of those movies everyone screams at you that you HAVE to watch it because it's SO GREAT, but all the screaming just makes you avoid it. I finally relented on this one.

She's very funny. A couple jokes made me laugh out loud. But after a while it was kind of the same joke over and over, and it got exhausting. The DVD also contained her scene from The Aristocrats, so I watched that too, and I didn't think it was funny at all. Her scene, I mean. I'm still avoiding the movie.

I don't want to be dismissive. I want to say that I appreciate what she does, but somehow that sounds mean. I'm sincere, though. At her best, she makes us see how ridiculous our racism is by making us laugh at it. She's working with really tricky subject matter, and she seems fearless.

What we can't talk about.

Tomorrow morning, I go into the drug study clinic for 11 days. I'll have internet access and my laptop and cell phone, so there's not much I can do out here that I can't do in there. Except sleep well and eat good food.

I don't know how much of what goes on during the study I'm allowed to share in this public forum. I don't think I signed anything that said I couldn't talk about it. I did agree not to talk with other study participants about any side effects we're experiencing, but that seems different.

Another thing I'm not sure how much I'm allowed to talk about here is this guy I'm dating. I've been pondering that question, and, well, I still don't know. I guess since he doesn't know yet about this blog -- to be honest, no one knows about this blog, so it's all academic for now -- it's okay to talk about him. So I'll do that. But not tonight. He's on his way over.

Today I am a writer.

Yesterday and today I have felt more like a writer than I have in a long time. Yesterday I finished the two essays for my U.T. application, and I spent a good amount of time working on a short piece I'm writing for an online magazine about Buddhism and the arts. The piece is an essay on the particular challenges of being an artist and a Buddhist at the same time. And I shuffled through the scraps of scenes that want to be my new screenplay.

Today, I finished the artist/Buddhist piece, a first draft, anyway. And I really dove into the screenplay. Over the last several days, mostly in my head, but I took a few notes just to ensure that I kept it straight, I had made some big changes in the main characters and their relationships to each other. I sort of folded an aspect of one character into another character. Changed a co-worker into a roommate, and gave the former roommate's personality to somebody else. Stuff like that. Which solved a heap of problems, untangled a bunch of loose threads. But it also created some unfortunate dead ends and puzzles.

So I spent the afternoon untangling. It's still a mess, but a slightly smaller mess.

The script is about a handful of urban homosexual men figuring out love and sex against a background of frequent, routine public sex and the risk of HIV infection. It's a tricky story for me to put together, because each of these men has a different attitude, a different set of beliefs and practices that he has put together to control the level of risk of emotional and physical harm. The differences are subtle, and I have to be very careful to keep them straight.

But in a way that's what the story is saying, that getting the hang of it, these days for gay men, is like juggling dozens of different versions of a story, sorting through information and advice that conflicts, changes often, and usually seems like it's meant for someone else.

Dating.

I had that date. It was good. He's cute. We met at a coffee shop. We talked for a good long time, and then we walked around the grounds of the capitol building a couple times. We sat on a bench and talked some more, until we got too cold. He drove me home, and we kissed in the car. Okay, we made out in the car. There wasn't a damn thing wrong with any of it. Did I mention he's cute?

We talked on the phone tonight. And we're going to get together Sunday afternoon.

Taxes.

I finished my tax returns today. Besides the federal return, I have two state returns. Good thing there's no state income tax in Texas, or I would have three. The reason I'm doing it so early is that I need the information when I fill out my financial aid application.

I was hoping, even if I didn't have a refund coming, that I would at least break even on federal taxes since I had money withheld from my checks at my restaurant jobs in San Francisco and Utah, but I owe $128 because of the $4000 I made for the drug study I did last fall. Because of that (and $28 in royalties for The Egg Man in a 9-year-old episode of Premium Blend that they rerun on Comedy Central every summer), they consider me self-employed, so I have to pay self-employment tax.

But I will get small refunds from California and Utah, so, in the end, I'm not too far in the red.

A date.

Maybe I have a date tonight. That must be why I'm so distracted. I met him in an online chat room. We were going to meet on Monday, but I had that eye thing, and he was doing laundry and packing for a business trip, so we postponed. He returns to Austin this evening and is going to call around eight and let me know if he's not too tired from his trip to meet.

I'm going to suggest we go for a walk or sit outside somewhere and talk and enjoy the beautiful weather (it got up to 75 today). My ulterior motive is that I'm hoping I can impress him with my fascinating personality before he finds out that I'm a dirt-poor, unemployed artist. If we were to go out for dinner, I'd have to ask him to borrow money, which might not make such a great impression on a first date.

Drugs.

I was bumped from the drug study I was supposed to start Friday, because they found on my ECG that I have an atrial pacemaker, whatever that is. I signed up for another one. This one is for a new drug for diabetes, and it's 11 days straight in the facility, instead of broken up into several visits. I think I'll like it better. Just get it done. It starts February 15, so I may not have the money until after the rent is due, which could be a problem.

Everything but.

I can't seem to focus today and stick to my schedule. To be honest, I've been having trouble for the last couple of weeks sticking to my schedule. I do well with the first part of the day, which consists of about two and a half hours (depending on when I get up, I have until noon) to read the paper, have breakfast, and do email. Then from noon till one, I take a shower and meditate. From one to four I write. All these activities are generally going well, though, in the last few days, I haven't really done much concentrated writing. I'm doing quite a bit of reading now, research for the screenplay I'm writing, so I've been rationalizing that I can do the research reading during my writing time, so that I don't cut into my scheduled reading time, during which I have a stack of non-research books to read.

Then from four to five, I eat. Okay, that's going fine, too. But, from five to six, I'm supposed to journal. I haven't done that for over a week. From six to eight, I'm supposed to work on my U.T. application. I've been procrastinating on that. I have most of it done, and I still have a few weeks before the deadline, but there are two essays I need to finish and I haven't even started on the financial aid application.

From eight to midnight, I read or occasionally I watch a movie or go out for a beer. (Well, I can't go out for a beer now, because I don't have any money, but I can watch a movie from Greencine.com (those are already paid for) or sometimes Jay rents a movie and we watch that.)

But today. I did laundry. That wasn't on the schedule but had to be done. (I need to give myself a regular errand and miscellaneous activity day.) And the last couple of hours, I've been reading blogs, looking at naked body parts on the craiglist mfm listings, listening to music, melting cheese on top of a rice cake.

Pet peeve.

Is anyone else bugged by this new use of the preposition "around"? I've only noticed it in queer activist/academic circles since the 80s, but that may be because of my taste in reading material. What bothers me, besides the jargoniness of it, is its imprecision. It's used to mean "having to do with" as in "questions around gender," or to mean "about" as in "conversation around sex," or "regarding," as in "knowledge, attitudes, and practices around influenza vaccination." When I see it in a sentence, it implies frustration because, for me, it invokes the "everything near, but not including" or "everything but" sense of the word "around."

My theory is that this usage came about among activists because, at least as I remember from my ACT UP/Queer Nation days, a lot of the discussion was not really about anything as much as it was just going around and around and around with the same problems, arguments, grievances, and issues.

Does anyone know where and when this started? And why? It doesn't seem like quite the right word in any of the above examples, but maybe I'm missing something. Do we need this new sense of "around"?

All my trials.

I got the call yesterday that I've passed the first screening for the drug trial which starts Friday. (They take your blood pressure, height and weight, temperature, do an ECG, and test your urine for illegal drugs, your blood for HIV and hepatitis and who knows what else to make sure you fall within the parameters required in the trial protocol.)

I go in for a physical on Thursday, and, if I pass that, I'm in.

Angels in America.

Jay and I watched the rest of Angels in America last night. I spent most of the three hours with my mouth hanging open and tears running down my face. I'm still reeling from it. I have never been so profoundly affected by a work of art; and I've encountered a lot of art that I've been deeply moved by.

My eyes II.

I asked J. if my eyes look any better today, and he said they do. "Yesterday they were all shapely." I think he meant "misshapen." They feel better, not so itchy, but they're still all puffed up. I look like an old Tibetan man.

I have a date this afternoon, but I'm going to cancel. It's a first date with a guy I chatted with online a couple days ago. (He's going to call this afternoon when he gets home from Molly Ivins's memorial service. The fact that he's going to Molly Ivins's memorial service seems propitious.) The last first date I had, I threw my back out the day before and had to cancel because I was still pretty much immobile. That was right before Christmas. By the time I was on my feet again, I was leaving town to visit my family. In the meantime, I guess we both lost interest, or momentum. Anyway, we didn't get in touch again.

What a beautiful day, in the 60s and sunny. Our neighbors next door are having a yard sale. J. bought a kitchen table. It's a little smaller than the one we've been using (on loan from a friend), so it doesn't feel quite so crowded in there. Perfect!

My eyes.

We went to the anniversary party, which was really lovely. They had a small black cat who reminded me of Jimmy, our little black girl who squeaked instead of meowing. (I've realized lately I think about and miss Jimmy much more than the others. Don't know why, maybe because she was the most trouble.)

I didn't know anyone at the party, except one of the women in the couple whose party it was, so I befriended the cat. She found me, really. Cats do that. She sat with me on the couch and I petted her while various friends gave short testimonials in honor of the anniversary couple. There was one particularly moving speech which made me cry, but then I kept crying, and my eyes started to itch. Soon, they were burning, and I could feel them swelling up.

I ducked into the bathroom to take a look. They were bright red and very puffy. I washed my face and hands, and remembered the last time, the only time, anything like this happened was at my friend S.'s apartment years ago after I'd been playing with one of her cats. I'm not generally allergic to cats, but every once in a while, I'll react to a particular cat. I must have rubbed my eyes when I started crying and gotten dander in my eyes.

I walked out of the bathroom right into the middle of a silent prayer. Everyone was quiet for a few minutes, and then they all rose and headed out the front door and into the yard for some kind of ritual. I grabbed Jay and asked him to take me home. By this time I was a little panicky. My eyes were really swollen and burning. We stopped at CVS on the way home and Jay went in to get some Benadryl. I took some as soon as I got home, and I put ice on my eyes and lay down for a couple hours.

I got the first disc of Angels in America from Greencine.com yesterday, so Jay and I watched that and I sobbed practically through the whole thing. I'm sure I would have found it very moving regardless, but the fact that my tear ducts are primed helped.

Now it's after one, and my eyes still look a mess, but they don't burn as much now.