Disingenuous.

My new language pet peeve is the overuse of the word "disingenuous." I remember many years ago having to look it up when I encountered it somewhere and thinking what a good word it was. Now, suddenly it's everywhere, mostly used interchangeably with "insincere." I hope it doesn't end up one of those words that loses its particular shade of meaning because people use it indiscriminately -- it really is one of my favorite words.

I don't have any examples -- it's 7 a.m. and I'm getting ready for Biology class -- but I'll try to find a couple.

A Judy Diversion.

I was prepared for my days to be suddenly very different, I was prepared to work hard, but it's still a shock. I'm either in class, reading, or studying almost every moment now (except when I'm hauling 40 pounds of books around town on my back). I was sitting in the student union building today (they call it the "Texas Union" because everything is Texas something here) -- there's a nice quiet study lounge where I spend quite a bit of time between classes -- reading, and I felt a sudden shiver of joy realizing that this is what I do now: sit around and learn stuff. And I'll be doing it for quite a while, years even.

Yesterday when I got home I really needed a break. It's been very humid this week, and of course it's always hot (Texas hot), so when I get home I just want to get dry. So I turned on my a.c. and watched a Judy Garland musical which had arrived several days before from greencine.com but I hadn't had a chance to watch it: Presenting Lily Mars. Whoever wrote the blurb on the sleeve called it "so-so" but judging from this writer's summary of the plot, he or she didn't even watch it, so... I know a lot of the MGM musicals are trash -- J won't even watch them with me anymore -- but I'll watch Judy Garland do pretty much anything.

The movie was full of cliches and over-the-top sentimental (of course) but I enjoyed it. Great musical numbers. And there's one scene that broke my heart, between Judy as Lily Mars, who moves to New York from Indiana with nothing but a suitcase and wants desperately to be a Broadway actress, and the charwoman (played by Connie Gilchrist, who has had a long prolific career, but I know her from Auntie Mame, in which she plays Mame's maid). Lily camps out in the theater, and the charwoman, mopping the stage, discovers her asleep in the orchestra pit. Well, it turns out Connie, when she was a young thing, also had Broadway dreams. Her dreams didn't quite pan out, but she loves the theater so much she'd rather be mopping the floor of one than be anywhere else. She sings a song called Every Little Movement, Judy joins in on the second verse and they sing in harmony and do a soft little shuffle across the theater floor in the dark. It got me.

The finale is pretty dazzling. It jumps forward to when Lily is a big star in her own big Broadway show. The number is about 10 minutes long, a big flashy dance medley. Wow. Judy delivers. Other highlights are Bob Crosby and Tommy Dorsey and their big bands.

One Down.

Today is the first anniversary of the day I moved to Austin. J and I went to see Cleopatra at the Paramount Theater downtown. It was the original 243-minute, 70 mm version of the film, which hasn't been seen in theaters since it was released in 1963. The first half is better than the second half, which gets a little tedious, but wow what a feast. Afterwards (speaking of feast) we went to Hoover's and had catfish po-boys and mashed potatoes.

Heart.

I loved Heart when I was in high school. I was obsessed with Ann and Nancy Wilson. There was a group of girls in my high school who were a few years older than me, the older sisters of my group of friends, sort of pothead bad girls but beautiful and, I thought, glamorous in their frayed jeans and gauzy tops. I idolized them. I still swoon a little when I smell patchouli because Carly, who I thought was the most beautiful of those girls, wore patchouli. Ann and Nancy Wilson were the apotheosis of that type of girl. I thought they were the most desirable people on earth. I sat in my bedroom and stared at the Little Queen album cover and longed to join their caravan of rock and roll gypsies, imagined what it would be like to be married to Ann and Nancy would be my sister. I drew pictures of them, I listened to Little Queen and later Dog and Butterfly over and over, I knew every word, every inflection, every guitar riff. Ann Wilson is the only woman I was ever sexually attracted to.

Around 1977 or 1978, I saw Heart play at the Indiana State Fair. I can't think of any show I've seen since that surpassed the thrill I got from that concert. I don't even remember who I went with -- maybe my brother? -- I was so single-minded through the whole thing. I devoured it.

The concert started with Nancy in a tight spotlight, playing the acoustic introduction to Crazy on You, her hair blowing like a flag. (It's not short, that intro. Nancy Wilson is a great guitar player and this is her moment, at the very top of the show, to show off, because once Ann is out there she's going to get all the attention.) Nancy hits those harmonics at the end of the intro. She pauses, and you can see her wind up for the opening riff. The beauty and suspense of that moment. The band kicks in, the whole stage is flooded with light, and Ann strolls up to the microphone. I probably cried.



When I moved to New York and became a cynical, detached young art student, I found I could keep my Heart obsession if I turned it into camp. If you're going to say you're a Heart fan, it's better if you're wearing black and chain-smoking in an East Village cafe than if you're wearing a Doobie Brothers t-shirt and a mullet. Or so I told myself. I was such a smart-ass. I probably used to say that Ann was like a drag queen. It helped that she gained weight and turned from a sexy rock and roll woman-child with a huge voice to a big, flamboyant rock star with a huge body to match her huge voice. But what never fit into that reductive view of Heart is that they were a great band, and that Ann was and is a great rock and roll singer, the best. Who is better? Okay, Janis Joplin. But who else? Etta James? Anyway, Ann is up there with very few peers.

One thing I love about the youtube age is that you can easily find clips that confirm or refute your memories of public events. The clip above must be from around the same time as the concert I saw, maybe even from the same tour. It's exactly as I remember it. The clip below is from some sort of tribute concert a few years ago. Ann doesn't look like a drag queen -- Wynonna, who appears in another clip from the same show, looks like a drag queen, bless her heart -- Ann looks like the motherfuckin' queen of rock and roll. And Nancy is still kickin' it.

Gym.

I had time between classes today, so I decided to check out the gym. It sounds so casual to just say it like that, but it was a big deal for me. Next week, I plan to start working out for an hour 5 days a week. I haven't been in a gym since I was 16, back when I would cry myself to sleep on nights before P.E. class.

I rant a bit from time to time about the soul-destroying culture of body perfectionism that either springs from or at least feeds the fitness industry. Not that I don't still believe that, but all that bluster also functions as a great excuse not to be in better physical shape. And I've come to see that a big part of my aversion to gyms is simply fear. I'm surprised -- I shouldn't be -- to realize how traumatized I still am by the experience of being forced during puberty to parade naked in front of, and compete in athletic contests with, boys whom I was just discovering a (horrifying and deeply shameful, but powerfully stimulating) sexual attraction to.

So I just walked right in that gym today, puffed up my chest a bit, and sniffed around. It's gargantuan. Lots of big rooms full of big machines. And a cafe.

My friend the Gardener, who knows all about physical fitness (did I mention he was a helicopter rescuer?), offered to come with me to the gym a couple times and show me what to do, and that's exactly what I need. I'm a little reluctant to put myself in such an uncomfortable and vulnerable position with a very new friend. But I'm gonna do it.

So Far, So Good.

All but one of my classes has met at least once now, Spanish twice. My American Government class won't meet until next week, but I've received a couple emails from the instructor and she seems enthusiastic and engaged. I like my American Lit. professor quite a bit. He obviously loves teaching. The reading and writing for his class is going to be a bear, several novels in addition to a stack of shorter readings each week, a critical journal, and two more formal papers. But that's what I'm here for.

I dropped Environmental History, reluctantly. It looks like a great course, but I'll take it later. When I looked at the syllabuses of all my classes together, I realized I would be reading a book a week for Lit. and a book a week for History. I'm used to reading a lot, and I could probably get through two books a week if I weren't doing anything else. But I'll have a lot of reading for Biology and Government, and Spanish homework, too. Without the history class, I still have 14 hours, so it's still a full load.

Day One.

I love my biology teacher. The class is called Biology of AIDS, so it dips into many areas: molecular and cell biology, genetics, immunology, epidemiology. Today she gave a very condensed history of the early years of the epidemic, talking about the Reagan 80s like someone who remembers what it was really like. I was the only person in the room besides the professor who was alive in 1981.

My Spanish teacher is a small, shy young Asian woman who speaks halting English. I'm sure she speaks Spanish beautifully. (But she did a very weird thing this morning. I'm still trying to figure it out. She was sitting at a desk in the front row as the students came in and took seats, so she looked like just another student. At 10 o'clock, she turned around and said loudly enough for everyone nearby to hear, "Is this Spanish 506? Did you know the instructor for this class has been changed? Who is this Sheena Lee? Oh! I'm her! Ha ha ha!" and she got up and started the class. It was a bit surreal.)

My only other class today was the discussion section for my American Lit. class. Here at U.T., the big lecture classes are broken into small groups that meet once a week to discuss the material with a graduate student. The instructor didn't show, I guess because, since we haven't had a lecture yet, there's nothing to discuss. Still, it would have been nice if someone had let us know. We all just sat there for 10 minutes and then one by one got up and left.

I spent $350 on books today. That's just for two classes. My Spanish book cost over $200. I have one more textbook to buy, for my government class. The books for my other classes are regular trade paperbacks which I hope I'll be able to get cheap used or maybe even check out at the public library. There are about 10 books on the list for my lit. class and just as many for my history class.

On another note, my jaw hurts. I have TMJ. Usually it doesn't bother me much, but last week I strained my left jaw muscle while I was chewing. I could barely eat for two days. Now it's just a dull ache. When I told J that I had strained my jaw, he said, "That's not very good for dating, is it?" And when I told Z, he said, "How'd you do that?" and he smirked. One bad thing (or good, depending on your sense of humor, I guess) about being a gay man is that there are times when your life feels like one long blowjob joke.

Off the Hook.

I heard from Z. He'd been trying to call, but he's climbing a mountain somewhere (South Dakota? I can never remember, he's always climbing a mountain somewhere) and couldn't get through. He told me I wasn't as much of a freak as I thought I had been, and that his new boyfriend thought I was very nice. Much relieved, it occurred to me that maybe it's good the marijuana threw me so far off balance Friday night, because if all I'd had was a couple beers I probably would have done something like pull his boyfriend aside and say, "You better be good to him, 'cause if you break his heart I'll kill you." (Not really. I wouldn't do that.)

I Feel So Young.

I forgot to write the best part of the story about the woman older than me in the counseling workshop last week, the woman I came very near to insulting. About ten minutes into the thing, she fell asleep. Full-on, head rolling back, mouth open, asleep.

Somebody Please Turn Off My Brain.

I still haven't heard from Z. All day in my head: Please tell me that a) I wasn't as ridiculous as I thought I was, or b) I was ridiculous, but it's okay, you forgive me. Please let me off the hook! I don't think Z has seen this needy, insecure side of me -- I tell him how insecure I am but I don't think he believes me -- and I'm not sure I want to show it to him, but I might not be able to stop myself. I had one chance to meet his new boyfriend and I fucked it up. I wanted so badly for it to go ... better. I hate that I could not rise to the occasion.

I keep going back to the question, why do I resist him? Why withhold so much of myself from him and our relationship? Why not let it follow its natural course? I hear women who have grown children and accidentally become pregnant talk about the feelings it provokes, mostly, "I can't do this again. I just can't do this. It was beautiful but that part of my life is past.... I don't have it in me." That's how I react to my feeling of attachment to Z. That's how it feels.

Offering to the Döns.

I get so confident with my 46-year-old self, coasting along believing I'm ready for whatever lands in front of me. Ha.

In my meditation practice, I use a set of slogans which, together, form a system of training called lo jong. I won't try to explain, except to say that it's Tibetan and very old. One of the slogans is a reminder to make offerings to the döns. Döns, when you see them depicted in art, are like little demons that pester you and try to throw you off. Sometimes they bring sickness and conflict. They're unpleasant. The instruction is to thank them for waking you up, showing you where your hangups are, reminding you that you still need work, and giving you an opportunity to practice equanimity and compassion.

I've known my friend Z for several months now. We've had a very sweet friendship, unlike any relationship I've had. We're physically affectionate with each other, there's a lot more touching and petting and kissing than getting naked, though we've done that too. Because he travels a lot for work, and because I'm neurotic about preserving time for myself, we typically see each other about once a week or less. He has a close group of friends he spends time with, and I've met them a few times and like them but don't feel drawn to be a part of the group. Our relationship has always felt like a precious thing we keep to ourselves, separate from any social context, like the fluttery first few weeks of new love.

For a while, when we'd been seeing each other for a few months, I grew concerned that he wanted more time, more commitment from our relationship than I wanted to give, but we talked about it, like we talk about everything, and the tension disappeared. I told him more than once how remarkable I think he is and that I wished sometimes that I had met him earlier in my life so I could be the boyfriend he deserved.

Toward the end of July and into August, our traveling schedules overlapped and we didn't see each other for over a month. We were in touch, sporadically. When I came back from my retreat, I had a powerful hankering to see him. We made plans to have dinner Wednesday night. He picked me up. When I got in the car, we hugged and I kissed him. He held back. Not in a way that felt like rejection, but it felt different. We can both be a little moody, so I didn't think much of it at first, but then it dawned on me: Z has a boyfriend.

I told him all about the retreat, and Lizzie Borden, and U.T. orientation. It was his turn to catch me up on his life. He told me about his trip to Arizona with his parents, some new volunteer work he's doing, then he said, "And ... I've ... been seeing someone."

My first reaction, I'm proud to say, was sheer joy, and still it makes me happy to see my friend, who I think the world of, in love. But of course it changes everything. He and his new boyfriend -- they've been seeing each other for about a month -- have decided to be monogamous, which strangely, I applaud. I think even if that weren't the case my relationship with Z would need to change. Just because you agree to have an open relationship doesn't mean it's going to be okay to continue making out with someone you were dating when you met the new guy.

But where does that leave us? Suddenly it becomes obvious that a big part of our interaction was touching. We held hands, we kissed, we rubbed each other's legs under the table. Sometimes it was more erotic than at other times, but I suppose it always had the seed of something sexual in it. So we stop. No transition, no weaning, cold turkey. We can hug, but hands above the waist. We can kiss, but no tongue. It's so fucking weird to suddenly have these boundaries. Weird and heavy and sad.

When we said goodnight on Wednesday, I wanted to tell him that I love him. It seemed like absolutely the right and necessary thing to say. And at the same time absolutely wrong, so I didn't say it. I'd never used that word with him, because, though there's no question in my mind that it is love I feel for him, the expression is too loaded. But now that things are changed, I want badly for him to know how deep my feelings are. I second-guessed myself and worried that if I told him I love him he would think I was competing for his loyalty, which is almost the opposite of the message I wanted to convey, which was more along the lines of, "Because I care so much about you, I want you to be happy." I'm sure next time I see him, I'll tell him all this stuff that's running in my head, but I couldn't put it into words in that moment of saying goodbye. He's leaving tomorrow for another road trip and won't be back until the first week of September. It occurred to me that it would be good to have an adjustment period before I see him again.

I went out last night, on the spur of the moment -- I know I won't have time or money to go out carousing much once school starts, so I decided to have one last night out with the boys. I smoked some pot before I went out. I had a couple beers. But I didn't feel inappropriately impaired for the setting. I planted myself on a bench near the bar, and I chatted with a guy I'd talked to there before whose name I don't know. I decided to stroll around.

I was walking from the front bar to the back and saw Z leaning against a wall. I have never once run into him in this bar. He doesn't go there. So it was a huge surprise, but a nice one. I gave him a big hug. He introduced me to his boyfriend. And then suddenly I felt very high and completely at a loss. Every molecule in my body wanted to flirt with Z, touch him, act like a girl, but I checked those impulses. But my brain wasn't giving me alternatives, so I stood there like an alien trapped in someone else's body. And I was stoned, so suddenly even more self-conscious. I tried to chat like a normal person, but I couldn't form sentences. I made a fool of myself, and I think I was probably rude to his friend. They left shortly after our encounter. ("This place is full of freaks, let's get out of here.")

I sent him a contrite email this morning. I hope he didn't have to spend too much time explaining my bizarre behavior to his boyfriend.

Today I thank the döns for reminding me that, as confident as I may be, I am still as squishy as an overripe avocado on the inside.

Against Spontaneity.

Yesterday I went to a workshop called "Don't Sweat It," led by one of the therapists in the counseling department. It was designed for transfer students: a combination of stress reduction and relaxation techniques along with an overview of the counseling and academic support services available at U.T.

When I walked in the door, an older woman, probably in her sixties, with white hair tied up in a red bandanna, was the only one in the room (apparently we "older students" like to arrive early). She smiled big and said, "Hello!" I almost said, "Oh, I'm glad to see I won't be the oldest person here." You have no idea how close I came to saying that. I think I even made a gagging sound as I stopped the words from coming out of my mouth. She was so friendly and bright, and I guess I thought it would be a light, funny thing to say.

I'm blushing.

And...

I passed the math test! I scored 520. You have to get at least 430 to pass out of remedial math. I'll only have to take one math class, but I won't take it this semester.

I Guess I'm Really Going to Do This.

I registered for classes this morning. I was up at 6:30 making coffee, making lists, making sure I was clear-headed and ready to go at 8. (I'm lucky that my name starts with a letter early in the alphabet making my registration access time first in the day.) By 8:03, it was all over, and I was registered for every class I wanted. I'm very pleased, but it was a little anticlimactic, after all the warnings about being flexible, having alternative classes picked out, waiting lists, adding and dropping, pleading with professors, etc.

I'll be taking First-year Spanish, Biology of AIDS, American Government, Environmental History of the U.S., and Masterworks of American Literature.

Periodically since I was last in school, I've had dreams in which I'm starting school, but I don't know my schedule, or I can't find the classroom, or I suddenly realize that it's the middle of the semester and I haven't been going to a class I'm enrolled in. Those dreams keep coming back to me now because U.T. is gargantuan, the room-numbering system in the buildings is completely opaque to me, and I've already gotten lost on campus a couple of times. Thank god I don't have a locker with a combination I have to memorize, because I also have that dream from time to time.

How'd the Math Test Go?

There were 50 questions on the math test. I felt pretty confident up to about 28. The rest of the questions I didn't even attempt because I had absolutely no idea what they were talking about. I'll find out my score in 24 hours. I wish I would have memorized how to figure the length of the hypotenuse of a right triangle. I think there's probably a formula for that, and if I'd known it I could have answered 3 or 4 more questions.

It's All Coming Back To Me Now.

I'm studying for a math placement test. I have to get a certain score (470, I think) in order to pass out of remedial math and into something called Applicable Math, which, if I can get into it, will be the only required math class for my degree. If I have to take remedial math, I'll still have to take Applicable Math.

I checked out an SAT prep book from the library, and I've been studying monomials and binomials, equations, and the rest. The test is tomorrow, and I haven't even gotten to geometry yet.

The thing I hate about math is that people who like math say how beautiful and logical it is, how, unlike life, it's rational and perfect and orderly. But it's not. Granted, if you follow the rules, it all unfolds exactly like you expect. But the rules don't make sense. Like, why does a negative number multiplied by a negative number equal a positive number? Negative 3 times negative 3 should equal negative 9, not positive 9. Math is all "because I said so, that's why," and that's why I hate it.

The last math class I had was Algebra II in 1977, and I know enough math to figure that that was a very long time ago. I got good grades in math in high school, but I struggled and studied and fretted and cried. Everything else in high school was easy. Math nearly did me in. I knew I had to get A's to keep my 4.0. If I didn't have a perfect GPA and graduate as valedictorian, I wouldn't get the scholarship money I needed to get me the hell out of Greencastle, Indiana. My parents helped as much as they could, but they weren't rich. I still have my final exam from Algebra II. I was right on the border between an A and a B all the way up to the final. If I got below an A- on the exam, my final grade would be a B+. It felt like my whole life hinged on that final. In a way, it did.

I'm not going to completely re-learn algebra and geometry in three days, so I need to relax and do the best I can. If I end up in remedial math, so be it. I'd rather be in remedial math than struggle in a class that is beyond my capability. I have a hunch I'll be taking advantage of the free tutoring.

Back.

The retreat was like a dream of what life could be. Rise at 9 or 10, walk up to the big house for coffee. (Tim and I worked and slept in the caretaker's house about a 1/8 mile away from the big main house, where the rest of the group stayed.) Maybe somebody would be in the kitchen making a pie, and we'd chat a bit, wake up, then back to the caretaker's house to work for a couple hours. Lunch around 1, informal, but usually a group would end up eating together at a big table outside. After lunch, a long work session until dinner at 8 or 9.

We all ate dinner together in a big, low-ceilinged dining room with heavy beams and a wrought iron chandelier with candles. (The house was built in the mid-1800s and expanded in the 1920s. It was huge but unassuming, a little rundown, and very comfy.) We ate like kings. Each artist was responsible for preparing one meal, so of course everyone was showing off, making our most impressive, delicious dishes. After dinner, a couple hours of wine-fueled, free-wheeling conversation about art and politics around the table. Then Tim and I made our way back through the pitch black night to the caretakers house for a little marijuana and 2 or 3 more hours of work until we were so tired we couldn't keep our eyes open and we wandered off to bed.

We re-wrote the show pretty much top to bottom. We kept all the original songs and most of the text, but re-arranged everything and wrote three completely new songs, along with new verses and other changes to the existing songs. We did an unbelievable amount of work in such a short time -- really only five full working days. It's always a surprise and a miracle to me -- though it shouldn't be -- how quickly the work gets done when there are no other pressures, no distractions, none of the daily discomforts that derail the process.

The weather was perfect: 70s and low 80s during the day, sunny and breezy, 50s at night. We must have been at a fairly high elevation for it to be so cool and lovely, but the views of the mountains made it seem like we were low. There was no internet access, or I would have looked that up. I also had no cell phone access. It was a little eerie to be so cut off for a week, but I was glad for it.

I got back late Saturday night, and yesterday I attended an orientation event for students "older than 25." It started at noon, and I left my house in plenty of time, but I couldn't find it. I walked around for an hour, getting more and more lost -- for some reason I always get completely turned around on campus -- and finally called J at home and asked him to look up the location. It turned out to be in the basement of the building I had gone to in the first place. Since it was Sunday, none of the usual offices were open, places where I could have gone for information. I was almost in tears, it was so hot and I'd been walking around for an hour in the blazing sun, in bad walking shoes. I was so overheated I felt sick and almost panicky.

The orientation session was great. It was a diverse group, mostly much younger than I. Even people in their thirties look like teenagers to me, so I felt like an old man even among the older students. There was a talk on how to study effectively, which was enlightening, and a session on staying sane. (U.T. offers free individual and group therapy!)

Dropping Off the Face of the Earth for a Week.

This afternoon, I will fly to New York. I'll spend the weekend with Tim, and then we'll drive (he'll drive) up to Western Massachusetts on Monday morning. They tell me there's only dialup internet where we're staying. I didn't even know they still made that.

So I doubt I'll be blogging till I get back, which is good because I shouldn't be blogging anyway -- Tim and I have 5 days to do about 5 months worth of work -- but I would be tempted to write a little something if I had wireless there.

Eleven artists will be there. We'll work on our own all day, come together for dinner, and then commune in the evenings. We'll share the household chores, and each of us is responsible for preparing one meal for the group. I told Tim I would do both our meals (with his help), since he's not really a cook and it comes naturally to me.

They asked us to send a shopping list in advance. I planned two meals and wrote up my list. I had a little paroxysm of self-consciousness when I saw it written out. It seemed like simple fare when I thought up the menus (roasted Portobello sandwiches with red pepper and arugula, baba ganoush, cucumber salad with lemon and mint, etc.), but the grocery list looks like super-homo food snob in the kitchen. I wonder what everyone else will make.

Lost My Book, Almost My Bike.

I just got back from the library, my neighborhood branch. I've been reading all these Lizzie Borden books, and there were two I wanted to take with me to the writing retreat. One is the conspiracy theory: Lizzie's secret illegitimate brother did it. It's not due till after I get back. The other is called Forty Whacks, and it's my favorite. It's a sober telling of the events, more or less proving that Lizzie couldn't have done it because she didn't have time ... but neither did anyone else. It was due today and I've already renewed it once, so it was really due today.

Anyway -- and I've done this before -- I planned to return it and check it out again. They've done this for me several times, provided there isn't a "hold" on the book (meaning, someone else is waiting for it). Not today. Since the book came from another branch, I would have to take it to that branch, turn it in, wait till it's back on the shelf, and then check it out again. But I'm leaving tomorrow. I pleaded with the man, but no dice. Then I called the branch that the book came from and pleaded with the woman there. By this time, the book was already checked back in, so it was too late to just keep it and pay the two bucks for returning it a week late. That's what I should have done. Damn.

I've gotten in the bad habit of leaving my bike unlocked at the library if I'm only running in for a minute or two. It seemed like a waste of time and energy to spend on this activity which supports an attitude that my neighborhood is full of thieves waiting to pounce on an unlocked bike. I guess I want to feel safe in my neighborhood, even if I'm kidding myself. On my way out of the library, a man was walking quickly and purposefully toward my bike. When he saw me, he flinched, and then he said, "Hey man, do you have fifty cents?" I said I didn't, and he said, "Oh man, I was just getting ready to sit here and wait for whoever owned that bike to come out so I could ask him if he had any change..." and he told me a story about somebody giving him a burrito that was too spicy so he needed a Dr. Pepper.

I think this is the same guy who wanders the neighborhood scanning people's yards for whatever's not nailed down. J caught him "borrowing" some tools from our next door neighbor a few weeks ago. If it's not the same guy, they could be twins. They're both wiry and tattooed and good at making up implausible stories quickly.

Lizard in the Closet.

On the inside of my closet door, there is a row of hooks where I hang shirts and pants that I've worn that are clean enough to wear again. When I opened the door a few minutes ago, a shirt fell off its hook onto the floor and behind it was a baby gecko about two inches long. It froze in the light for a few seconds, and then it scurried behind the other clothes hanging there. Now I can't find it. Maybe it dropped to the floor and ran away. I hope I don't put my hand in the pocket of my jeans next week and find it there dead. I found a dead baby snake behind the garbage can in the kitchen last week.

Speaking of not knowing how things will play out, my new friendship with the Gardener is something like a science experiment. If you like science. I am mightily attracted to him, and I get the idea he's into me too. I think neither of us is accustomed to concealing such information -- and I get the idea we have similar opinions about "how men are." But possibly we also have similar feelings about the ethics of sex, and our better judgment tells us to practice some self-control. Not that a friendship can't begin with sex, but does it need to? (Most of the people I've had sex with I've never seen again.) So we say to each other, "What would it be like if we kept our paws off each other?" This experiment fits nicely with my Buddhist meditation practice, which is all about just sitting with the urge to do something, not scratching the itch, practicing not reacting.

The experiment doesn't sit at all with my philosophy that pleasure is good and that one should enjoy it where one finds it.

It's tricky -- at least mentally, for me -- because recently, well, in the last decade or so, I've tried to let myself be more physically affectionate with my friends. I was not raised by touchy-feely people. When I became an adult, sex was the only setting where touching was easy, and, inversely, touching of any kind felt sexual.

As usual, life is complex.

So, what do I make of my desire to touch the Gardener? I want to allow myself to give in to my feelings of affection, to touch him because we're friends and it's good to touch your friends, but I know that the urge has an erotic component, which I am trying to control. (Who ever said that the human capacity for self-reflection was an evolutionary advancement? I don't buy it. I say it's been nothing but trouble since day one. If we were dogs, we could just fuck, and everybody would be happy.)