…zeit-bites…bad dreams prompt me off the fence to find my soul (or, Sohl)…

I have a history of fence-sitting.

I was a very young teen in a very small town when Patti Smith‘s iconic album, “Horses”, was released. I was desperately, impatiently waiting to escape the life I had in which I lived in secret and silence, to a life where I could jump the fences in which I felt trapped and escape to fields where I could be my true self. I had just learned thPatti Smith - Horsese term “androgyny” and seeing Smith gave it tactile truth; she became one of my idols. My dream of moving to New York expanded to include not just the musical theatre and Warholian Studio 54 realm, but the whole Mapplethorpe and Burroughs punk-elastic sexuality, faux Rimbaud scene.

Richard Sohl & Patti Smith

Patti Smith and Richard Sohl

I became obsessed with Smith’s pianist, Richard Sohl. He was long and thin, sunken-eyed, and radiated the anemic, etiolated, halo of mysterious damage and unspoken ache, the ambiguous combination of vulnerability and cruelty that was to become the defining quality in all the men I would try to love. Which, to me, meant “save.”

Richard Sohl & Patti Smith 3

Richard Sohl and Patti Smith

I had no one with whom I could discuss these things until I attended a summer theatre camp. On my first night, there was a meeting for we few-twelve residents of the more than one hundred workshop students. It was my first time in a place where no one knew me, and Continue reading

…I had a dream…a wonderful dream, Sondheim…

Last night I had a dream about Stephen Sondheim, noted locutionist, lexicographer, and philologist, and so I thought it the perfect opportunity to meet the challenge a few friends (queerplungers all, who use me to acquire the coin of mockery for themselves) had presented to me (found here) about using 18 obsolete words (marked in bold) in a column. Here goes…

sondheim 4

Most of my dreams of late have been markedly unpleasant, which might be attributed to my excess of waking-stress or my reluctance to groak alongside my gourmand pal on our nightly I-Hop visits and thus over-indulging in rich sausages and ripe cheeses too close to bedtime – so perhaps I am, after all, a practitioner of tyromancy – but nevertheless, the waking from such irksome, unlovely scenarios results in a curglaff requiring much coffee; but often I am so shaken by the nightmarish adventures, my java is jirbled all over the counter, or into my lap, prompting me into a deeper pussyvan than that in which the chimera-echoes have already left me. Most of those slumberland hallucinations are less than Englishable – at least, they defy the skills of this beef-witted bookwright, and so I don’t share them. However, last night’s fancy of the shuteye was a wonder-wench of delight from which I awoke all a-tingle (and no, filth minds, it had nothing to do with liaisons with multiple snoutfairs) and so this spermologer must take advantage of such a nocturnally pleasing event by writing about it.

sondheim 1

As is often the case in my dreams, I was Continue reading

…friday zeitbites…2 vids of kids who make me proud…

It’s Friday and my eyes are blurred with sweat and tears (luckily, no blood) and I am feeling all Tennessee Williams from watching young people on videos making the world a better, lovelier place, including Riley Roberts testifying for marriage equality in Nevada, and Beth Crandall bringing a “Guys & Dolls” vibe to Justin Timberlake music.

It’s too damn hot. I was born for cooler climes.

The inimitable Mr. Tennessee Williams

The inimitable Mr. Tennessee Williams

The oppressive humidity and heat that radiated earlier this week belong not here in what is essentially the Mid-Atlantic, but, rather, in the deep south, that landscape strangled in the embrace of creeping kudzu and rotten with the ripe perfume of the magnolia and lilac with a hint of the stench of swamp and too, that rotting odor of the barely-repressed desires of Tennessee Williams heroines.

The only benefit of the sweltering, scalding scorch of the summer’s searing parch is the emergence of the bare-chested boys on their bicycles or bouncing, loping lazily along in laconic languor, not quite completely settled into their humanity, still part sweaty, wanton satyrs, casually concupiscent, prowling, sultry and libidinous, sticky and ripe with torrid, blistering, dangerous desires ready to explode like the thunder-storms that come and rage with the same sort of beautiful but terrifying and tumultuous, uncontrolled energy; that whibare chested bicycle boych cannot be constrained, that which must seek to roar in rapturous release; rash, incautious, heedless, unwary of and unable to contain the violence and destruction that sometimes results.

Youth. Today I am moved by two very different videos with this in common: they moved me to tears, they gave me Continue reading

…zeit bites…my pop culture rants & raves…

A ZeitBite-sized PopCulture round-up: Justin Bieber’s non-disclosure contract, the book based on him (sort of) LOVE SONG OF JONNY VALENTINE, a grown teen-idol, Leonardo DiCaprio in THE GREAT GATSBY, season finales from BATES MOTEL to DANCING WITH THE STARS, and my new lover is a KINDLE-FIRE!

This week I’ve been catapulted to the low end of my dysthymic emotional scale, resulting in a temporary withdraw from social media, Facebook in particular, where I was seeing too many posts that shouldn’t have upset me the way they did – always a sign to take a break from the relentlessness of all that information. So, I’ve been catching up on pop-culture while Continue reading

…five circles of hell…i’ve kindled my own private inferno…


Okay, confession time. I can’t stand the guilt. I know the ghosts of Balzac, Proust, and Isherwood are bound to haunt me for it, but here it is: I have downloaded a book to read on the Kindle I was given for my birthday. I’ve been wanting to read “The Love SonMay 20 Kindleg of Jonny Valentine” by Teddy Wayne and although I looked, it never made it to the local bookstore. I have this Kindle and a gift certificate and . . . well, after weeks of delaying even plugging the device in, it is now fully charged and loaded with a novel. Please don’t hate me.



I’ve been thinking a lot about hate and the expectations people have (or have had) of me for the past week or so. I had hoped, by now, to be making a bit more money than I am with my combination of Continue reading

…the gym…observations and lessons…

Must it fall on me to tell everyone about themselves in every location? Apparently, from what occurred at the gym this morning, it must. Okay people, listen up.

Being a man of a certain age and not quite as delusional as is commonly believed to be the case, I go to the gym not to release and sculpt my own inner Brad Pitt

Brad Pitt working out: note he smokes as he does so. I may have to take this up.

Brad Pitt working out: note he smokes as he does so. I may have to take this up.

-there is no chance of that happening – nor to socialize or meet people. I go to the gym so that I might Continue reading

No writing today . . .

I don’t have time to blog. I’m supposed to be turning over a finished chapter tonight and while I have pages and pages of notes and outline and pieces, I have yet to shape it into a coherent whole –


it is, instead, an incoherent HOLE, down which I’ve fallen. I’m grappling my way upwards – which does not, alas, mean I am writing. Rather, I am trolling online. Tumblr. Facebook. Etc. All the while writing thousands of versions of an opening sentence. I know better. I know that my inability to Continue reading

“Writing My Life” or “Writing, My Life”

I write because I am compelled to. I have always written but three years ago the voices in my head (given assistance by a few very good, loving friends) insisted that if I wished to stay alive, then Writing – with a capital “W” – was what I had to pursue. That I should – no MUST be a “Writer” writing full-time. The vociferous voices in my head and the berating beatings of my heart and the demanding truth-teller in my soul insisted that after spending long years of molding my life story into shapes that facilitated other people being able to live and tell their stories, fulfill their dreams, it was now my turn and I must take it, or die.

I’m not now and likely never will be Stephen King famous. Hell, I doubt I’ll even achieve… Continue reading