Art.

I have an annoying habit, annoying to me anyway, of, every time I encounter a creative work that I like, or that I think is good -- a story, a painting, a song -- thinking, "I could do that. Why am I not doing that? I should be doing that."

I've never been a comic book fan, but I found some great erotic comics this week. I guess it's the sex that drew me in enough to really look at them, but the fact that they're so well drawn is what impressed me and held my interest. Well, the sex held my interest, too. Here's a link -- don't click if, for some reason, you don't want to see depictions of sex.

I've been looking at a lot of painting, research for the artist character in my screenplay. Especially Caravaggio and the many painters he influenced in that period and after. The Blanton Museum here in Austin has a great collection of European painting, and it's not crowded, even on "Free Thursdays," so I can really spend time looking at the paintings, something that is pretty much impossible to do at the bigger museums any more.

It's not so much that I think I could ever paint like Caravaggio, but I do think that I could have been a good painter. I think I am that talented, if only I had stuck with it. Maybe so.

Back then, painters learned to paint. They studied for years with experts, studied the materials, craft, techniques. They copied paintings to learn how they were made. When I studied painting at Parsons, we did no such thing. We had one class, two hours a week, on materials and techniques. We learned how to make our own stretchers, prime a canvas with lead white paint, we made paper. We made oil paint and egg tempera. Lots of little crafty projects that we laughed at and considered very passe and unnecessary.

Meanwhile, in our studio classes which were the core of the curriculum, consisting of drawing or painting and critiques, we had philosophical discussions about the meaning of art. We learned how to bullshit. Any instruction in the actual making of art was practically accidental. (An exception was my painting teacher, Regina Granne, who spent some time in the first few weeks teaching us about materials, how to work with oils, how to clean our brushes, etc. She was a figurative painter in a sea of abstractionists whose teachers were the New York School generation.)

It's not that we were discouraged from actually learning to paint. We could do it, but on our own time.

This is one of the most respected art schools in the world, and, if we wanted to take a dump in the corner and call it art, it was fine as long as we could talk about it in the correct vernacular. Maybe I'm exaggerating a bit. Maybe not.

We in the Fine Arts department looked down on the Illustration majors. They had copped out. We were artists. Looking back, I wonder if, had I chosen to study illustration, I would have learned more.

I've been investigating life drawing groups and classes in Austin, because I have a strong urge to start drawing again. But I worry. After two years of college, studying theater, I decided I needed to study painting because I wanted to be a director and to be a great director I needed to know how to paint. But when I was in art school, I "realized" I actually wanted to be a painter. Painting led me to start playing in a band (we all know how that is), and from there I started composing for experimental theater, which led me to folk music, and then to film. Which is where I am now and trying to stay put.

I know one thing leads to another, and there's nothing wrong with that, but I worry about one thing leading to another so quickly that I never finish anything.

Whew.

We finally broke our streak of disappointing films. We rented Permanent Midnight. I don't know why I didn't know about this film when it came out (a few years ago?), but it's so good. So good. It's based on the story of Jerry Stahl, a television writer who was also a heroin addict. It's intense, funny, heartbreaking, visually beautiful. Maria Bello, one of my favorite actors, is in it.

Another breakthrough in my culture consumption: this week I read Play It As It Lays, Joan Didion's 1970 novel. It's short and intense. I've been a Didion fan for many years, but for some reason never read her fiction till now. I'm so glad I did!

I usually read about a book a week, but I hadn't finished a book in a couple months. I got bogged down trying to read Moby Dick and a Foucault reader at the same time. I so rarely don't finish a book I've started, but I had to take both of them back to the library. I just couldn't do it. I don't know what it was about Moby Dick. I'm used to reading big, old novels. I love them. I was even enjoying the characters and the beginning of the story. But I was 200 pages into it and nothing had happened yet!

(Part of the difficulty may be that I'm preoccupied with my screenplay right now. I'm also having a hard time sitting still for 20 minutes to meditate.)

And the Foucault. I've tried a few times over the years to read Foucault, because his writing has been so influential in so many areas. But every time, I give up, feeling stupid. I'll read paragraphs three or four times and still have no idea what he's talking about. It's like code. The words are familiar. The sentence structure is familiar. But the meaning is hidden.

So Joan Didion was a relief. Clear, direct, beautiful.

Rain.

It's been raining softly for hours. Almost all day. It was dark when I woke up. I thought it was about 7 or so, judging by the light, but it was almost 9.

I'm reading a book about Jusepe de Ribera, a Baroque painter, who I think is going to be a favorite of my artist character. He paints in a style made famous by Caravaggio called tenebrism, where the emotion of the scene is heightened by the use of dramatic illumination and deep contrast. He's famous for paintings of the martyrdom of various saints, so there are lots of pictures of figures twisting in agony, faces contorted, etc. Beautiful stuff.

Looking at these pictures makes me want to find a life drawing class or group in Austin.

Spoiling Movies.

Don't read this post if you're going to see The Namesake and you don't want your experience to be affected by my opinion of it. Don't worry, I won't give away any of the plot.

J. and I had been looking forward to this movie since we saw a trailer for it weeks ago. I loved the film of Vanity Fair, made by the same director. I didn't see Mississippi Masala. But The Namesake is another film where the trailer is much more coherent and affecting than the actual film. The folks who make trailers these days are very talented people!

It wasn't a downright awful film, but it suffered from the problem of so many film adaptations of novels: a structure that starts to feel like "and then this happened and then this happened and then this happened," etc. That said, there were plenty of really beautiful and moving images and sequences.

The actor who played the central character -- well, it's hard to say for sure if he's the central character, which is kind of a problem, plot-wise -- is great. Every moment that he's on screen feels true in a way that the film as a whole does not.

Eyes and teeth.

For Christmas last year, my mom and dad gave me $500 for new glasses. I told them I thought I would spend it on a trip to the dentist instead. My eyes and my teeth need attention, but I decided my teeth should come first.

I used to get my teeth cleaned every 8 months or so. I loved my hygienist and dentist in New York. And in Nashville, I went to the clinic at the Vanderbilt dental school. But I got out of the habit when I was living on the road, and since then I just haven't had the money. So it's been a few years. I take good care of my teeth, brush and floss religiously, but still...

So I took my $500 to the dentist down the street. He found a few cavities, nothing too big, and he decided he wanted to replace the enamel in some spots where my gums are receding. Fine. But the whole thing was going to cost about $1500. So I had him do $500 worth.

The price of the first visit, the exam, included a cleaning, but he said they do that after they fill the cavities. But since I can't afford to have the rest of the cavities filled, I don't get the cleaning that I paid for. I guess I could go down there and tell them I won't have the money for the cavities any time soon, so I'd like to cash in on my cleaning.

I'm embarrassed to do that. Embarrassed, I guess, that I'm so poor I can't afford to take care of my teeth. Worried that the people in the dentist's office will think I'm pathetic. As if it matters what they think of me. It seems every little stress in my life can be traced back to my feelings of failure.

Now, every day when I have to take my glasses off to see anything closer than 2 feet away, I am reminded that my teeth still need attention and I still need new glasses.

A Good Reason to Go See Bad Movies Anyway.

In the screenplay I'm writing, one of the characters, a photographer, is obsessed with something called the golden ratio, which is also called phi, or sometimes the golden mean and other names. Though it is endlessly fascinating, I won't even explain what it is, because, well, I discovered this afternoon, when I was doing some research, that the golden ratio is what The Da Vinci Code is based on!

Damn.

Okay, I will explain a little of it, only because it's so interesting. The golden ratio is the ratio where the relationship of the smaller portion to the bigger portion is the same as the relationship of the bigger portion to the whole. It is an irrational number (1.618 and on and on forever). But not only is it an irrational number, it is the most irrational number possible. It is the irrational number that is farthest away from a rational number.

And it appears over and over in nature; in the way seeds arrange themselves in a flower, the pattern of leaves on a stem, the way stalks of celery grow, the spiral of a snail shell, the chronology of rabbit offspring. Because of this, people in many cultures and religions have regarded it as a sacred and powerful number, close to the source of life. All kinds of religious symbols are based on it, from Vesica Pisces (the Christian fish) to the Flower of Life (a pattern made of interlocking circles which contains all the Platonic solids, and the Tree of Life, which is used in Kabbalah.

Renaissance artists were very into phi. It's used as a compositional device in paintings, sculptures, and buildings by Leonardo, Michelangelo, and others. Which I guess is why it figures in The Da Vinci Code. I didn't read the book, didn't see the movie. Wasn't interested.

It's good I found out now, before I'm too attached to it in my story. (I was a little attached.) I spent most of the rest of afternoon researching something else for my photographer character to be obsessed with. I think I have something better than phi. Well, not better than phi, but better for the character to be obsessed with.

The thing about phi is that the photographer was going to be covered with all these great tattoos of the various geometric symbols. There's an amazing 5-pointed star criss-crossed with hundreds of lines making it look like a crystal. Damn.

Beets.

There were beets in our box from Johnson's Farm again this week. Last time, J. juiced them. From time to time, he gets out the juicer and makes carrot, ginger, beet, whatever juice. I can't drink it. I can eat almost anything, but there's something about beet juice that makes me feel like I'm going to retch.

On the other hand, I made a great beet salad for dinner tonight. We had some red beets and some Chioggias (the pretty striped ones). I boiled and peeled them, then sliced and tossed them with a sliced apple, toasted pecans, and feta cheese, in a red wine vinaigrette with sweet onions. The beets stained everything bright pink. Beautiful and delicious.

Home.

J. and I were walking somewhere the other night. Oh, yeah, to see a movie at the Alamo, but it was a special Austin Film Society screening, cash only, and we didn't have cash or enough time before the movie to get cash, except at the ATM right outside the theater, which charged $4, so we went and had fish tacos and beers instead.

The movie was Fish Kill Flea, a documentary somehow related to the upstate New York town of Fishkill, which is where the Fresh Air Fund camps for poor kids from New York City are located. I worked as a counselor there the summer before I moved to New York, when I was 20.

Anyway, it's the walk I wanted to write about, not the film. Walks in our neighborhood often spur discussion of gentrification; there are so many houses being built or restored, moved or torn down in the blocks around us. It's an exciting time to live here, while this neighborhood changes. Of course, gentrification is good and bad, usually depending on where you sit class-wise, but there's a lot of effort in city government to plan sensibly, to manage the growth of Austin so it's sustainable. We'll see. J. and I could easily be displaced. The house we live in is pretty run down, but the lot under it is probably worth a truckload of money. I don't know the economics of it, but at some point it will probably be more lucrative for our landlord to sell the house than to keep renting it.

As we walked down a block on which every house has been razed and new, much bigger houses are being built, I was telling J. that Z.'s parents have been trying to sell him on the idea of buying a house in Austin. I guess that's something a lot of parents do: try to get their kids to buy a house, so they have something secure for the future.

I like the idea of owning the home I live in, having something stable. It's an appealing thought after a lifetime of renting and being at the mercy of landlords, some benevolent, some not so. But it's hard for me to buy the security argument when I look at what's happening in our neighborhood. People who have owned their homes for decades and have paid off their mortgages suddenly can't afford to live in them anymore because the property taxes have gone up. What kind of security is that?

J. has talked on and off about his desire to buy a home. He has thought about buying a house; lately he's been thinking more along the lines of a condo. There are several big condo developments going up around us. Some of them are actually not bad: mixed-use high-density developments. J. asked me if, were he to buy something that was big enough for us to share, I would be willing to pay half his mortgage payment as rent.

I came to Austin to live with J. I love Austin, I love living here, but I don't think I'd be here if he weren't here. I want to live with him. He's my family. So, yes, I would share a home with him if he wanted to buy a home.

I worry sometimes that this attitude of mine puts pressure on J. I asked him if he saw himself, in the future, possibly meeting someone, becoming involved in a relationship, wanting to set up housekeeping with this person, and asking me to leave. The conversation took many turns as we walked, and I don't think J. ever gave a direct answer to my question. I didn't expect one. Because really, who ever knows that stuff?

There's no category where J.'s and my relationship fits. It falls somewhere in the space where long-time friends, married couples, college roommates, and spinster aunts overlap. I can't imagine a more ideal domestic situation. I have the benefits of companionship, emotional support, without the expectations and hurt feelings of a romantic relationship. I can ask for attention if I need it, but my feelings are not hurt by a shut door.

It's also a bit like an artists colony here, because we inspire and motivate each other and leave each other alone to work.

The Baby Will Be Fine.

Z. is in San Francisco. He left this morning, and he'll be there for 4 or 5 days, a long weekend. We were together Tuesday night, didn't do much. I walked to his house, we went to Freebird for burritos, he bought me a malt at Amy's, then back to his place and watched Practical Magic. Well, we didn't really watch it. Perfect date.

He asked me when we were saying goodnight if he would see me before he left, and I said I didn't think so because I had rehearsals Wednesday and Friday. I didn't say I have plans Thursday, but I didn't say I didn't. In fact, I had plans to not have plans.

He really seems fine with my lack of urgency, but every once in a while he'll say something like, "I'm really getting used to you." Things which make me want to say, "Don't do that, please."

He called me when he got to San Francisco this morning, to let me know he got there. It was so sweet of him, and it was nice to listen to his message. But I don't have any desire to call him back, or to talk to him before he gets back.

I go back and forth between feeling sometimes very guilty that I am being manipulative and other times telling myself I am not being dishonest and that there's nothing wrong with him and me having different attitudes about this, as long as we're enjoying ourselves.

When I don't return his calls for a couple days, when I make him wait, it's like the episode of Mad About You, when Paul and Jamie's baby was colicky and they had to let her cry all night without going to pick her up so she would learn that she won't always get attention when she cries. And they both spend the entire night right in front of the baby's bedroom door, listening to the baby cry, not sleeping. J. and I just sobbed watching that episode.

We were very attached to that fictional couple for a spell.

Perfect Life.

I said last night to J. that if I had more money, I would probably drink a lot more. I was saying that my idea of a perfect life would be to have enough income that I could get up in the morning, read the paper, putter around until noon, then spend the afternoon writing. At about 5, have a beer or a glass of wine and start cooking dinner. Eat at 7 or so. Then maybe a few nights a week, I'd go to the pub on the corner and find out what everyone else has been doing all day.

So, more or less, not including the underlying financial anxiety, I'm leading my ideal life right now. The only thing I don't really do is go down to the pub. Because there is no pub. And even if there were, I wouldn't have the cash. Maybe it's good I'm so broke all the time, because I would eventually just become a fat drunk. And I would start sleeping all morning. And go straight from reading the paper to cooking and drinking, skipping the writing part of the day entirely.

Thank god for poverty.

School.

J. and I took a free 2-hour screenwriting class given by the Austin Film Society. The woman who teaches the class offers a much longer class where students work on original scripts over several weeks -- this was just sort of an introduction and sales pitch for her particular method.

She takes the traditional 3-act structure and breaks if down further into 8 sequences. She also stresses specific relationships among the protagonist's flaw, the first act "event," and the nature of the crisis at the end of the second act. It was interesting. I actually came home and made a couple small changes in the script I wrote last year, based on her method. And it gave me some things to think about in the script I'm drafting right now.

Experienced screenwriters will tell you that every screenplay fits into a very neat structure based on Aristotle's Poetics. And it's pretty much true.

I go back and forth in my opinion about where in the process it's useful to start thinking about this theory. It's useful to have something to hang the story on. Strict rules can stimulate the imagination, like in poetry. On the other hand, when it's early in the process, expecting elements of the story to conform to specific narrative demands may have a way of shutting down the imagination. I suspect, when I'm watching a movie and the story feels forced, it's because the writer pushed the formula onto the story too hard, too early.

But it's hard to argue with something proven to work for over two millenia.

Shit or get off the pot.

I think I first heard that expression from my mother.

It seems that there is a point, in dating, where most people expect the relationship to develop into something new (more serious), and, if not, then it's time to move on. I get the feeling Z. and I have reached that point. The thing is, I kind of like it the way it is. I don't have any interest in spending more time together, in saying, "I love you," or meeting his family, or anything. A nice walk, maybe a meal together, make out, talk, look at the stars, once a week. It's enough.

At first, it just happened that we saw each other about once a week. He travels for work, I was doing the drug trial. We'd get together, then two or three days later, one of us would call and we'd make plans to get together again. But now, he consistently calls me the day after we've seen each other, though I usually don't return his call for a few days.

In the last week, I've been writing for several hours a day, and I told Z. that I would be preoccupied with this and might not see him as much. He's patient, he understands. He's not at all demanding. We chatted on line Saturday and made plans to get together Sunday night (last night). I was a little stoned when we chatted, and the idea of cuddling and watching TV sounded really nice, so I said yes.

But when I woke up yesterday, I canceled, because I just wanted to get high, cook, and hang out here with J. all day. Z. was a little miffed. Mainly because I emailed but didn't call and he didn't get the email until after the time we said we'd get together. I had my phone turned off all day. I hate the phone.

Just the fact that this is even a thing is more than I want to deal with. I try to keep my life simple. Maybe I should say that right up front when I meet people. "I'm going to keep things simple, okay, so don't get all complicated on me."

Christmas in April.

J. just said that it feels like Christmas today, and I was thinking the same thing. It's a Jesus holiday, and it's cold as hell outside. Well, it's warming up -- now it's about 45 degrees. I took the wrapping off the tomatoes and the Meyer lemon.

I got a craving for scones this morning, so after I read the paper I made cheddar and scallion scones (with the scallions from the CSA farm). I also put a chopped jalapeño in them. J. suggested they'd be good with poached eggs, so when the scones came out of the oven I put on water for poaching. But then I decided what would be really good would be some roasted potatoes. So I cut up some red potatoes and tossed them in olive oil and salt and pepper and garlic and they're in the oven roasting now.

Cold outside, stuff in the oven = Christmas. Plus, for breakfast we had sweet potato pie. I think that's what really made it feel like a winter holiday.

Yesterday when we went to the Longbranch for banana pudding, the woman behind the counter said, "Do you like sweet potato pie?" The question didn't even register with either of us for a moment. Is that a question that has more than one possible answer? With our banana pudding, she threw in half a sweet potato pie for free! The edges of the crust were a little too brown, so I guess she couldn't sell it.

Easter?

I don't think it's been much above 35 degrees all day. The tomato plants are covered with plastic bags, and I wrapped the Meyer lemon tree in a sheet. The rest of the plants will have to fend for themselves. If this were say November in New York, I'd think "what a nice rainy cold day to stay inside, eat soup, and read a book." But it's April, and it's Texas. Jesus Christ.

Speaking of which, J., G., and I tried out our gospel trio act in church today. I'm a little unclear on what kind of church it was. It had a name with "Methodist" in it, but their web site says they're adherents of something called "creation theology." They have a big banner on the wall about 12 principles of something, and there seem to be a lot of queer families among their members. Queer in the modern political sense, not in the sense of odd. Nobody there seemed any odder than us.

They were having some sort of children's Easter thing with eggs, and we sang our songs. It was more like a rehearsal for us, one, because nobody was listening, and two, because we weren't very good. (Yes, I'm exaggerating. Two or three people were listening and during "When the Roll is Called Up Yonder" a bunch of little kids danced. And we weren't really that bad, we just need more practice.)

On the way home, it started sleeting. J. said, "If Jesus woke up on a day like today, I think he'd go back to bed for a couple months."

Slow cooking.

I put everything in the slow cooker for the soup, and I spent the afternoon writing. The soup was done when I was done. Oh boy, it was good. With it, J. and I had an organic South African cab (the same wine I used in the soup). Yum. And crusty bread.

Here's what's in the soup. I started with a recipe in Everyday Greens and added stuff:

sauté:
sweet onion
celery

deglaze with:
red wine

add:
a spice blend of toasted cumin, coriander, black pepper, cayenne, and cinnamon
garlic
fresh grated ginger
chick peas
canned diced tomatoes
vegetable stock

simmer till the tomatoes fall apart (a long time)

add and heat through (because they were already cooked):
sweet potatoes
beet greens

and garnish with:
chopped cilantro

I've written about 30 pages, which is roughly the first act. All the characters are in there now, doing what they do. The story is set up; I just have to run with it now.

Freaky weather.

It's downright chilly this morning, and the paper says it's going to get down into the 30s tomorrow. Just a couple days ago, I was sure it was summertime already.

I cooked a big pot of chick peas yesterday thinking I would make hummus, but in honor of the temperature drop I decided to make Moroccan chick pea soup, with garlic, ginger, cumin, coriander, cinnamon, tomatoes, red wine. It's a Greens recipe, and I'm adding some diced, roasted sweet potatoes, and some chopped beet greens. Because they're here and need to be used up.

(I saved some chick peas to make a small batch of hummus -- it was a big pot of chick peas! I know because I put them in a bowl in the fridge to cool, and later when I went to grab something else on the same shelf I snagged the bowl and spilled all the chick peas and liquid onto the floor. I scooped them all up and rinsed them off, but our soup may have a couple cat hairs in it.)

Presto chango.

I just realized that I haven't blogged about my big attitude shift this week.

All this back and forth about the drug studies recently -- first I'm in, then I'm out, first it's $7000, then it's $3500, first it's April and May, then it's not -- making me crazy about my financial straits. For the last couple of weeks I was feeling more and more strung out. I was anxious about my evaporating bank balance, but that stress reproduced asexually and suddenly I was worrying about my writing, about the garden, about Z.

The weekend was bad, I drank too much on Saturday (apparently, though I only had 3 beers), was sick on Sunday.

I hadn't smoked any marijuana for several weeks because, for the drug studies they test for "illicit" drugs as part of the screening process, and pot can stay in your urine for weeks. But Sunday night I said fuck it and I got high. God, I feel better. Ever since, I've been relaxed and cheerful and focused.

So I'll smoke for a few days and then give it up again for a couple weeks before I start looking again for a drug study to take part in. These drug studies are always going on, there are always more of them coming. My financial situation is not going to be any worse two weeks from now, so I might as well relax and make the most of this time I have for myself.

I'm a firm believer in the medicinal use of intoxicants!

Go!

I'm burning through the first draft of my screenplay. As I'd hoped, I had written enough scenes and bits of dialog and done enough pondering and considering so that, once I started putting it into screenplay format, it's all just flowing out onto the page. I've spent several hours every day this week writing -- about 6 pages a day.

The numbers are good too. I have 18 pages written, which is 5 scenes, which averages to 3 pages per scene. In my outline, there are 40 scenes, so that makes about 120 pages, which is just right for a feature screenplay. Of course it's still very, very rough, but to be in the ballpark is encouraging.

Moon & Stars.

I feel much better about the garden.

Z. seems to know everything about horticulture. I haven't known him very long, so it's possible he's a psychopath posing as someone who knows everything about horticulture, but my intuition tells me he's for real.

He told me the small patches of mildew on the cucumber leaves are minor, nothing to worry about. The one soybean plant whose leaves are turning yellow can be doctored by putting some coffee grounds around the base of the plant.

The herbs will be fine when it gets warmer and drier. Basil always gets brown spots on some leaves, they just look worse now because the plants are so small. The beetles on the Meyer lemon are, as I hoped, probably there to eat aphids. At any rate, it doesn't look like they're eating the tree.

And the yellow spots on the watermelon leaves are supposed to be there. I planted an heirloom variety called Moon & Stars which has yellow spots on the inside and outside of the fruit as well as on the leaves. Duh.

Bugs, etc.

All kinds of problems in the garden, most of which I have no idea what to do about. The cucumber and watermelon plants have yellow spots all over the leaves.

My internet research didn't help. I think it's mildew, but I couldn't find any advice on what to do about it, except to do things I'm already doing, like not watering at night. All the herbs seem to be covered with mildew too. The basil is doing especially poorly -- all three varieties look sickly. It's been a little humid and rainy the last couple weeks but no more humid than Indiana where my mom's basil does very well every year.

The Meyer lemon is on the verge of blooming. I noticed some red and black beetles sitting on several of the buds this morning. They're about the size of lady bugs, but they aren't. I also noticed one aphid, so I hope the mystery bugs are there to eat the aphids. J. released some lady bugs in the garden last week, but I didn't see them this morning. I hope they're still around.

Something seems to be eating the leaves of the chile plants -- they have big holes in them -- but they seem to be thriving in spite of it. The jalapeños and Thai chilies have a few blossoms already.

I'm discouraged. Maybe Z. will have some advice for me. If he comes over tonight before it gets dark, he can take a look.