Part 3: Existential Cozies, Comforts, and Joys

Well my little hall-deckers, if Christmas it must be, then the Yuletide ought always to be like last night! Maybe there is, after all, something to this keeping an account of my cozies, comforts, and joys. So, Part 3.

MEGAN HILTY

andrea and charlie

Me and my Andrea between shows. Big drinkers; me with a coffee, Andrea with a Coke. Yep. Whoo-freaking-hoo!

Big fan. First saw Ms. Hilty as Galinda in Wicked. Next saw Ms. Hilty as Doralee in 9 to 5: The Musical. Next, became rabid fan of Smash, founding member of Team Ivy. Then, my dear Andrea birthday-surprised me earlier this year with tickets to see Ms. Hilty in concert at the Kennedy Center Terrace Theatre. And then AGAIN, a few weeks ago, Andrea surprised me with tickets to see Ms. Hilty’s Christmas Concert at the Kennedy Center for last night’s 7:30 show. It was only yesterday afternoon that Andrea told me she had gotten tickets NOT ONLY to the 7:30, but, also, the 9:30. And so, the two of us, front row, aisle, house right — for the first show, somehow, despite it being sold out, we were the only people in the front row, and for the second show, the only OTHER person in the front row was a yawning, unkempt looking fellow in aisle seat, house left. I don’t know HOW Andrea gets these amazing seats, but, uhm, she always does.

About Ms. Hilty. Wow, the last time I saw her, my birthday concert (yes, MY BIRTHDAY concert), she was quite preggers. She delivered the girl-child, Viola, three months ago, and is back, better than ever. She can belt with the best of them but she is also able to quietly croon you to tears. She invests each song with its beginning, middle, end, telling the story with an expressiveness of voice and emotional depth I think is rarely equalled among current singers and Broadway performers. She really is a treasure. Listen to this — which she did last night in an arrangement of mostly guitar (as played by her husband, Brian Gallagher, more below).

And, MOST OF ALL, the relationship between Megan and her husband, Brian Gallagher, who plays guitar and sings with her during these concert appearances, is so freaking beautiful. I want to be one of them. The love they share just radiates from the stage, envelops you in its warmth and fairy-tale goodness. Ms. Hilty sang the song A Place Called Home from the Broadway musical version of A Christmas Carol, and she started weeping just introducing it and speaking of having found “the love of her life” and having a child. Not only was she crying, but as she sang it, so did Mr. Gallagher weep. Both shows. It wasn’t performance, it was life, and love, and so much Light on stage. Great show. If you’ve a chance to share some time with these people, you really ought to. And for me, being there last night (BOTH SHOWS!) with them and Andrea, so much comfort and joy.

COMFORTS, JOYS … quickies

  • And gas is really cheap right now, which is great, as I will soon be returning to Aftermath — where I love to be, which bucolic setting is twenty minutes from the gym. So, cheap gas is good.
  • And, thanks to a niece, found Starbucks Christmas Blend Keurig Cups for 8-something a box. This is a VERY good thing. I know it’s ridiculous, but I don’t think I could function without a Keurig.
  • And I have discovered (thank you TwitterLiterati) the Agatha Raisin mysteries by M.C. Beaton. Delightful fun. Happiness.
ford penis necklace

Tom Ford $800 Penis Necklace

  • And Tom Ford is selling what appears to be a gold phallic symbol. [See New York magazine article here.]  How cool is an $800 dick necklace? I’ll tell you how cool — Bill Donohue of the Catholic League [click here for the fucking moron] is upset about it. And, an idiot. I mean, who even THOUGHT this was supposed to look like a cross? I mean, now, every time I see a nicely arranged set of male genitalia, I’m going to connect it even more vigorously to my memories of my catholic youth — those years when my knees were hardened and trained to the tasks and sacraments for which the catholic church so lovingly prepared me. Thank you to the catholics for making me so good at so many things involving being on my knees … speaking of which ….
  • And, at the gym yesterday, a really good-looking guy came on to me in the showers. I have no idea why someone as good-looking as he was would come on to someone like me, I didn’t see any mistletoe hanging on the shower head — but — without going into details — this was not another one of my hallucinations. He actually, really and truly, did come on to me. I did not reciprocate nor respond except to politely indicate the gym-showers were not a location where I intended to frolic. Truth, I am still snotty and unwell — this cold thing — and it would have been not just dangerously undignified (and, possibly, illegal?) to fool around there but, too, I’d have been spreading cold germs. But, you know, HOPE —

SPEAKING OF HOT MEN … Russell Tovey is cheating on me …

russell tovey nude looking

Russell Tovey on top of the home-wrecker and fantasy-killer, Jonathan Groff

Andrea broke it to me last night that she’d seen a preview for Season 2 of HBO’s Looking and it seems as if Russell Tovey — who I claimed as my own YEARS ago when he was in The History Boys on Broadway — is continuing — in the plotline — to have sex with Jonathan Groff’s character. I am not happy about this. And, clearly, the universe and all the demons of hell sent after me because of my lapsed catholicism and ever-increasing atheism (wait, that doesn’t make sense, well, so what) have conspired to torture me because this morning, Russell is everywhere. He posted this one of himself:

Tovey, Russell Dec 2014

Tovey by Turner

CLICK HERE FOR the website Cocktails and Cocktalk, and a whole series of new hot Tovey photos.

And, as if that wasn’t enough to get me all … well, whatever it is a man my age (who, I hasten to add, was COME ON TO in the showers yesterday — WHILE NAKED) gets, then, I was assaulted by this photo to the left in my Twitter TL. An entire new set of Tovey photos. Dear god (in whom I do not believe) STOP!

SPEAKING OF GOD … final comfort and joy of the day …

Andrea. My dear, dear Andrea, she who allows me stays at Aftermath with her dear, dear Judah, yes, Andrea is a Pastor. Pastor Andrea. A person of the cloth.

I know, right? I can hear many of you exclaiming — as did my family and some other friends when I spoke of Andrea and they inquired as to details — “How is a Pastor friends with you?”

Well, here’s how. In a life you meet/have a very few people — if you are lucky, and I am INCREDIBLY lucky in this way — who “get” you. These people see you, who you are, at the soul, at the source, at the center of your Love and Light. They don’t judge you, they don’t try to change you, they don’t forgive or accept, they don’t have to — they KNOW you. They never see anything but the Love and the Light. If I believed in God — and when I did believe in God — it was that sort of seeing I thought defined God. My complicated cosmology didn’t have room for sin or hell or right or wrong — but, rather, had space only for the aim of seeing only the Love and Light at the source, at the core. Not saying there aren’t people who behave in heinous ways, saying, instead, the job of a God — the job, I think, of everyone, all life — is to believe PAST all of the heinous, to believe that — ultimately — the Love and the Light, no matter how distorted they may become, are all that are. All That Is, the truth of the Love and the Light. Everything else is illusion, temporary, words, labels, not important.

How does Andrea stay my friend? Because for Andrea, that is all there is. Andrea is what anyone who wants to do God’s work should be, a person who works always to live in and see in others that core of Love and Light, and believes in it — no matter how those others parse it or fuck it up or hurt themselves and others or fail at life — Andrea sees and encourages and cultivates and BELIEVES in the Love and the Light.

That’s faith. Faith. That’s God. And I am incredibly blessed and comforted and cozied and joyed and un-deserving of having found this late in life (although I hasten to add I was come on to when naked in the shower yesterday by a very attractive much younger man — ARE YOU LISTENING RUSSELL TOVEY?) a friend, a dear one, a treasure, like Andrea. Andrea, a Pastor who doesn’t measure me by whether or not I profess to believe in God; Andrea, who doesn’t measure me at all except by the glow of my Love and Light, and finds me to be friend-worthy. I love her. So much.

Here’s wishing all of you have an Andrea and such blessings as do I to count, and, my dears, at least one who sees your Love and Light like Andrea sees mine.

Love and Light kids.

 

 

 

secrets … confession … faith … happiness …

I have a secret. So do you. So do we all. Maybe we should keep them? Or, should we confess?

confession

I wonder. The modern culture declension into talk-show, tell-all, sin and redemption addiction, investigative-journalism, tabloid-muck-raking, social media personality-marketing, follower seeking, endless posting, navel-gazing, self-referential, self-involved empty introspection all in pursuit of popularity and fame and sympathy has turned the world into one huge confessional booth.

But, even with all this availability of daily (minute by minute by minutiae, even) details about hundreds (or thousands or tens of thousands even) of “friends” and “acquaintances” and “followers” – do we know people any better than we did before?

I think, for me, the answer is no.

Long was I a person to whom others told secrets. I kept my mouth shut. I did not judge. I could be told almost anything about almost anybody and it didn’t really change how I felt about them. I was a safe harbor.

Long was I – that safe harbor – a person to whom people came in a Susan Hayward, “BACK STREET” sort of a way. I didn’t just hear their confessions, I was, often, in collusion.

I believed confession was good for the soul. Secrets lose their power if you can share them with someone. But, too, I came to realize that – as the confessor or colluder – I would, eventually, be a reminder to them of the person they were when they held that secret – and, often – that would be a person they were happy to NO LONGER be and of whom they wanted no reminders.confession 2

Hard lesson, but one I got. Eventually, I came to be very cautious about whose secrets I would hear and certainly, even more so, to whom I would tell my own secrets.

Which is about faith, I think. In what and whom do you have faith? What do you believe? And, what do you believe in?

Those, I think, are the existential questions that are the foundation of daily, personal reality.

All of my life has been a grappling with those questions; which are fundamental. I have prided myself on not accepting vacuous suppositions, refusing to allow specious tenets of faith or patriarchal constructs to determine my behavior; I would not bow to religions or politics or . . . etc. One gets the picture.

I still don’t. I still question everything. And it is that questioning which can lead one to a very dark place. I think the human animal craves some sort of structure, the definite, the defined. I have managed to up-end and un-do most structures, to question the why of everything that is culturally approved – until I landed in a place that felt like I was far out in the middle of an ocean, bobbing and sinking and without a life-jacket, ready to drown in all the why.

And that’s okay. People want me (want everyone) to be “happy” – and it’s not that I don’t want to be happy, but that I don’t want to be the sort of happy that is an illusion of having accepted “truths” that aren’t – finally – really the truth; I don’t want the rat-race happiness lacking in a meta-cognitive examination of its source.

I have a secret; I am, ultimately, at the center and core of who I am, an optimist. It certainly does not LOOK that way when one listens to me or reads me – but, it is, ultimately, true. The reason I have been – often and of late – so pessimistic, is that I believed again and again and again in what I thought was the “happy end” (another discussion ENTIRELY) and when that hoped for outcome did not occur, I needed to find a reason why, and my “go-to” reason is always, “I fail.”

Thus, my secret, I am an optimist and the inner monologue I have been having with myself is, far too often, “Oh no, I have failed – again!” And my confession; it has taken me a VERY long time to come to this. But I have faith – I have always had faith even when it has been buried and denied beneath layers of seemingly impenetrable sadness and anger – I have faith that, truly and ultimately, the power of all things, the impetus of all things is to create love and light – but, too, that we must be VERY CAREFUL how we define that, how we expect that to appear – so that we don’t set ourselves up for disappointment and learned pessimism; because, finally, for me, happiness is not about money or fame or – well, it’s really not about anything but experiencing peace: the peace to continue asking “Why?” without feeling that asking defines me as a failure.