I’m not quite as caught in the undertow as I was in yesterday’s post “Homes, Housepets, Husbands, and Heartaches Not My Own; A How Not To Manual” [click it] but, warning, still not as perky as I might be. Trying. Really, I am.
First world existential issues: my internet connection here where I am house/pet sitting is iffy and odd and disconnects me frequently. Being frequently disconnected feels oddly, terrifyingly symbolic. I’ve been disconnecting myself – as it were – anyway, and other than yesterday’s blog, pretty much hiding out in my own weirdness. Too, one of the doggies here has wakened today – and did I mention they make me get up at 4:30-5:00 a.m. here? – with stomach issues. Gwennie didn’t eat her breakfast, has chewed a lot of grass, shat on the rug, and has stomach-growling going on the volume of which challenges mine from a few weeks ago. I sympathize, Gwennie. She is on my lap, passing gas and gastro-gurgling as I type.
Life is hard right now. There is a lot of loss going around and I – as if yesterday’s post wasn’t proof enough – am having difficulty maintaining purchase in the land of the grounded, wallowing, instead, in self-pity and fear. I apologize. I cannot seem to do anything but dwell on who and what has been lost in my life, or, worse, those losses yet to come, and, while I am overjoyed AHS:HOTEL begins tonight, at the same time, Miss Lange will not be there – this hurts me. I mean, how much tragedy, how much loss, can I endure?
I have been a devotee of American Horror Story since its debut season during which Jessica Lange’s genius blazed inferno-like as a Tennessee Williams-esque flawed heroine, delivering a monologue in the season finale that was a fulmination, a technically sublime concatenation of every emotion she’d roared, blasted, screamed, whispered, hinted at, revealed, and ignited throughout the season. It was a resplendent, near transcendental experience, the likes of which she has continued to deliver each season since.
Of course, such is my life (and everything is, after all, about me) she is not returning this season. But, Sarah Paulson, Evan Peters, Finn Wittrock, Denis O’Hare, Matt Bomer and Cheyenne Jackson (among others) will be there. I know there are those who make sport of bashing Ryan Murphy and his work, deriding in snarky tones of assumed cultural superiority what they see (often with a subtle homophobic undertone) as campiness or bandwagon-Zeitgeist-social-issue-pandering (which has its own undertone of white-male-heterosexual-patriarchal-privilege anger that attention is finally being paid to someone else) but, for me, Mr. Murphy and his ensemble of regulars are always dependably interesting, reliably there, in the moment, in the same world with the same concerns and questions as I have, addressing my reality with humor and anger and love and light.
And, he has brought me near naked Evan Peters, Finn Wittrock, and Matt Bomer – that, my dears, would be enough. Yes, I am JUST THAT SHALLOW and EXACTLY THAT LONELY. So, there. (And – here. You’re welcome.)
So, I’ll be watching tonight at 10pm. (And texting one of my dear A’s; I watch, alone, with friends, from a distance. Again, story of my life.)
Like I said, life is hard right now. I feel lost. I feel alone. I also feel foolish and guilty for being stuck in the dysthymic down.
So, here is my attempt at looking on the bright side.
My Mom. She is a lesson in resilience, that one. Her Sunday fall – not to mention her preceding 87 years – would have left many (me, included) a rattled, leave-me-alone while I recuperate mess. Not her. Yes, her face is bruised but not nearly as much as one would have expected. We lunched and then she wanted to go to Boscov’s. Yes, not even the Frankenstein-stitching, the glued-together nose, and the butterfly-bandages can stop her need to find another pink blouse or sweater-set. A marvel.
The library. After sending her off to shop with name-redacted-older-sister who is always on my side – I headed back to house-pet-sitting gig, waited until afternoon feeding time, and then took myself to the library. I spent a few hours reading the Paris Review and the London Review of Books, and picked up “Meanwhile There Are Letters: The Correspondence of Eudora Welty and Ross Macdonald” which I’d put on hold and had been informed had arrived. These things comfort me.
I like comfort, and laughs. It is – as my aunt always said when I was whining like I am now whining – better to laugh than to cry. I am still no more sure of that platitude than I am of another of her favorites, “You don’t die until your time comes.” Well, uhm, really? If you die, then, CLEARLY, that is your time – I mean, what the fuck? Anyway. I have aging issues. And boyfriend(less) issues. And Brian Jordan Alvarez’s Gay Age Gap YouTubes make me laugh. Maybe a little too much. Although, I must say, this is way more talking than I would venture with a twenty-something. And, honestly, most of my twenty-somethings would – I mean – IF THEY EXISTED, haha, this is just blog-talking – have a girlfriend and be eager to tell me all about her while we fucked. If, in fact, I did fuck. Or, you know, knew twenty-year-olds. Okay. Just watch. Funny.
And, finally, today is the anniversary of the first recording of “Over The Rainbow” in 1938, a story about which was on the PBS News Hours last night. I watched this and wept. Surprise. Give it a view. So cool.
Oh, Judy. Oh, Charlie. Oh being an aging gay. Oh, a Toto clone on my lap. Oh, Ryan Murphy show tonight. Oh, vulnerability and loss and … okay, here I am, going.