Zeitbites: The Lost Weekend (this is what happens)

Ray Milland in The Lost Weekend

Ray Milland in The Lost Weekend

It’s the Monday morning after my most recent Lost Weekend. Not Ray Milland-y, alcoholic haze lost, but, rather, an existential sort of wandering (and, thus, wondering) around: gym, coffee shops, bookstores, retail outlets, parks, here and there in order to afford some privacy and space to the people with whom I live, who put up with me. And, since most of my friends are fictional, virtual, long-distance, or busy, most of my pursuits are solitary. In the process, I become many different people: these are their stories.

Djokovic 1

Novak Djokovic – not bad for a man his age.

 

WIMBELDON & NOVAK DJOKOVIC’S ASS Serena won Wimbeldon again. I love Serena. I love watching her play. I love that she won. But holy crap, have we not evolved beyond the coded (and blatant) misogyny, sexism, and ageism that suffused the coverage of her win? The New York Times in particular should be ashamed. But, I’m a bright side kind of guy – thus, in an effort to spread the gender-bias-objectification-judge-y shit around, here’s some Novak Dojokovic objectification. He won Wimbeldon too. I was surprised the ass on a man Novak Djokovic’s age was so firm and juicy. Good thing too, because his shorts were tight. No doubt he wanted to show off his rumored-to-be very large package. He’s still hot for someone his age, and, wow, he can still play. Sadly, he hasn’t the Nordic-blonde-Aryan beauty of Lleyton Hewitt, or who knows how much money he’d be making from endorsement deals. (What? He’s worth in excess of 90 million already? That’s my boy! And Djoko – is that dick pic floating around the web really yours? If so, nice one.)

UNEMPLOYED & BROKE & NORMA DESMOND I AM NOT . . .

It’s July and I’m home … this is not good. Not good because the prevailing cultural norm suggests one ought to vacation during the summer months. Well, not only am I not vacating, none of my usual clients are vacating either. So, I am stuck in the batcave during the sunny (although, not so much with the sun this year) summer months generating zero income. But . . . (Another aside: I would be happy to discuss house sitting or pet sitting for you – all you people out there, my people, out there, in the dark.) It’s a life theme, that; Generating Zero Income. So, going with it, here I am, blogging for free. Why the hell not? I hereby promise to Zeitbite you more, darlings, meaning; I shall spread my particular brand – Sure, I have a brand, why the fuck not? – of Love and Light more often. Which means regular doses of dash & aside & idiosyncratically punctuated blathering; sometimes happy & funny & snarky, other times insightful & deep & contemplative, and other times dark & sad & suicidal. (See how I use ampersands/& when grouping adjectives but write out “and” when moving to a new-ish topic? That’s me – idiosyncratic. AND WITHOUT AN EDITOR BECAUSE I WOULD SURELY DRIVE ONE – or, a few – TO DRINK.)

JUSTIN BIEBER’S ASS (is this ass thing a theme?)

Bieber's ass - Summer 2015

Bieber’s ass – Summer 2015

Other things happened this weekend. Justin Bieber deleted his ass pic. He has feels. Listen:

“I deleted the photo of my butt on Instagram not because I thought it was bad but someone close to me’s daughter follows me and she was embarrassed that she saw my butt and I totally wasn’t thinking in that aspect. I felt awful that she felt bad. To anyone I may have offended I’m so sorry. It was completely pure hearted as a joke but didn’t take in account there are littles following me!”

Oh Justin, I know what it’s like to have Littles following you. In fact, just last night JustinBiebersLyrics followed me on Twitter. I blocked it, like all the other bots. Anyway, your Bieber-ass is pretty enough – but you’re no Djokovic. (Notice how easy it is to type the words “Justin Bieber” and “ass” close together? Poor Little Biebs – although – Biebs – is that dick pic floating around the web really yours? If so, nice one.

SPEAKING OF ASSES 3 (or, make that 15 now I think). . . . . .  insert here the name of any of the GOP Presidential candidates. I refuse to type them.

SPEAKING OF ASSES literary . . . . . . I am a book blogger – sort of – so I ought probably to write about the big release tomorrow but my feelings about it are all tied up in having spent a lot of time in my life with people in their eighties – especially those in assisted care, and having a lot of manuscripts and writing of my own packed and boxed away, and how I might be persuaded – should I live into my eighties (and please I do NOT want to) and have need of a trusted someone to manage my affairs, how I might be persuaded by that someone – no matter how good their intentions might be – to reveal/publish/share things I NOW, sound of mind and body (well, sort of, shut up) would choose NOT to share. The whole thing makes me feel dirty and I’m not going to read it. (Confession – I didn’t care much for TKAM anyway.)

SPEAKING OF ASSES . . . mine . . .

July 2015

July 2015

Yesterday at the gym a fellow who is in no way someone with any interest in any sort of shenanigans with me said, “You are really looking good.” That was nice. I have worked hard to lose nearly thirty pounds in a healthy way – a pound or two a week for months, exercise daily, good food. It was nice for someone with whom I have no relationship other than sharing a gym to tell me my consistent efforts were noticeable even to strangers. Thank you, Universe, for that Love & Light. (No ass pics nor dick pics of me floating around anywhere – that crazy I am not.) The pic was one I posted on Twitter. You should follow me there. I’m kind of funny (sometimes) and sad (other times) and I’ve been singing little snippets of songs for my darling, Her Grace, the Duchess Goldblatt (you should follow her, too, because she is the Queen of All Things.) In the past 24 hours I’ve talked about the gym, teens eating all my frozen diet treats, Chet Baker and how I love singing “My Funny Valentine”, my late night trolling of the Algonquin Hotel website, the thickness of mattresses on fold-out-couch-beds, Djokovic’s ass, Troubles by J.G.Farrell, new shoes I want, being judge-y about other people’s depressions, and more. I’m a renaissance man, a flaneur of the interwebs. FOLLOW+ME+DAMMIT+ (and re-tweet me and publish me and stuff – you don’t want to be an ASS entry, do you? Wait . . .  ass entry . . .  never mind. Love and Light, dear ones.

… it was 26 years ago today … marching on d.c. …

April 2013 5Twenty-six years ago today I marched with some dear friends in Washington, D.C. along with an indeterminate number of people in support of equal rights for everyone regardless of who they loved. It was a beautiful day, a beautiful event, and in the quarter century since, there have been many, many beautiful changes and forward strides toward equality and embrace of all people which have made the world a better, safer, more loving place.

Are we finished? Never. Being alive is about evolution. There will always be ways we can improve – ourselves and the world. But, having fought and pushed and argued and striven for equality and recognition and understanding in ways that were sometimes angry, strident and reactionary to wounds I felt I (and others) had suffered, the very most important thing I have learned is that freedom begins in my individual soul, heart, and mind.

I am more and more careful with my words, with my reactions, and am much more easily shocked by the things people say to and about one another. I have learned now to remain silent – sometimes – at least until my heart stops pounding, until I am breathing normally again and can acknowledge the humanity of all the sides, all the points of view, until I can remind myself that everything – every word, every action, every atom of reality – no matter how heinous, hateful, and incomprehensible I may find it – begins at Love. It may become distorted, twisted, poisoned – but my goal as a human soul, is to always REMEMBER that somewhere – somehow – the initial intent, at the beginning, somewhere in EVERYTHING – there is a seed of Love.

I try NOT to respond until I have ACTIVELY thought that thought. And then, I try to respond FROM that thought.

I fail, every day. But, I’m learning. And still, quite surprised. As in today when I received an anonymous attack which began: “You talk waayyyyyyyyyy to [SIC] much. Why don’t you shut the fuck up.” And went on in that vein. I knew that I should NOT engage, but NOT engaging is difficult for me. So, I did, in a questioning way, saying, “I’m sorry my words caused this response in you but I’m not sure why you think it is incumbent upon you to share that with me. And, it should be ‘too’ not ‘to’.”

You can imagine the vitriol that ensued, including “The world is full of pussy faggots like you” and “Lucky me to get a spelling lesson from a pissed on old queen.”

First of all, no one ever has nor ever will piss on me. Secondly, many a Queen would be insulted to have me added to the ranks. And, old? We know how I feel about old.

It’s 26 years after the march. So, I had to wonder to myself where was the love in this attack? All I saw was sorrow that someone could be so full of hate and anger they had to strike out in such a way, and anonymously? And too, what had I done to encourage such a thing? c blog 3

That’s my sticking point: in those things – the behaviors and words of others with which I have difficulty finding the seed of love – how have I shaped my life to make space for them? How have I allowed them in? And how can I let them (and the people who bring them) go? Is it hubris to think that I can help to heal such disconnect? Certainly I have been burned in the past by my ego telling me I could or should save someone. Who am I to decide someone needs saving? Maybe I should shut the fuck up. (Happy now?)

It’s about evolution. It’s about asking the questions and looking for the Love inside even the hardest, most hurtful situations, and moving on, growing on, becoming on.

Happy Weekend, Friends. And happy loving whomever you love.

 

“No One Has Ever Loved Me – So Much Happiness”

From Sondheim‘s “PASSION“. I am Fosca. Only, I didn’t get that brief happy ending she enjoyed. No one who I loved deeply and unreasonably ever actually returned the love, or, at least, never out loud. I am so filled with sadness, I think, I wonder, has anyone ever died of sorrow?

 

. . . moving . . . on . . . or . . . not moving . . .

How to answer the teen-child’s question, “What do you DO?” and why I thought it better NOT to. Answer. Or, do.

Tomorrow I will leave this house/pet sitting gig and spend three nights at my mailing address, in my own bed. From the beginning of the “summer” season in June through mid-September, I will have spent less than two weeks in that bed.

Which is okay.

I really like it here. I’m quite comfortable in this home, where a family of my best friends live, and this neighborhood, where I have a few other house-sitting gigs and have been to parties and such. It’s quiet. I can hear the insects and animals at night. It is wonderfully welcoming. And this house vibrates with love. The art, the decor, the history, the warmth all speak to the couple who live here and have made this place, built this place, sustained and maintained this place, survived marriage and child-rearing and in-lawing and crazy friend-ing; this is a HOME, not a house, and it is suffused with the energy and aura of the beautiful people who live here. They have made a “family” and they have welcomed me into it.

Good people. There are so few. And by “good” I don’t mean saints or platitude-spouting hypocrites; I mean that these dear friends of mine are Continue reading

. . . I love a microfiber mop and a Dyson vacuum . . . my simple house-sitting life…

I don’t know when I de-activated my Facebook page – maybe two or three weeks ago – which was shortly after I had deleted my Tumblr, which was shortly after I saw a picture of someone I love somewhere that seemed to me to be a place where they ought not to have been if all their talk of love and family really was true rather than pose.

In any case – that’s another story for a NEVER time – and not the point. The point is, here I am in yet another house with yet another trio of animals for yet another house-sitting gig and with the exception of this blog – which is barely interactive – I am off social media.

And, pssst, it’s really nice. Except for this fucking beagle.

What is it with me and beagles? This one is a puppy and I am trying to like him, really I am, but, he doesn’t listen. He won’t sit or come. In the time I have been here he has managed to climb up onto tables and knock over TWO glasses of ice water and WORSE – while I was in the shower – he chewed up one of my books – not the way to my heart –

Not the real culprit. I don't want to "mark" Bear for life as a criminal, so I'm keeping his face private - FOR NOW.

Not the real culprit. I don’t want to “mark” Bear for life as a criminal, so I’m keeping his face private – FOR NOW.

and he is relentless in his nagging of the dog here who is my fave, my Lucky. Lucky is high strung and likes his routine, likes his own way (hmmm….no wonder I love him so) and has been here forever, as has Zoe, who mostly ignores everything and sleeps all the time (hmmm….no wonder I love Zoe so-ey) whilst this new interloper beagle puppy, Bear (as in UN-bear-able) is – well – a PUPPY!

We are trying. However, whilst I was playing with Bear yesterday to try to wear him out, Lucky peed on the carpet. I get it, Lucky, really I do, but, what’s a fellow to do?

Good times. Love this house though. I sit in the library and read most of day and night when I am not writing. And there was an open bottle of a lovely Bordeaux with a note “drink me” – I did (well, I started, still some left – come over tonight?) and – call me crazy (doesn’t matter, I’m not on Facebook and – shit – I need to delete my Twitter too – forgot I had one) but my FAVORITE thing about this house –

The Swiffer-y floor mop thingy with the Scotch-brite microfiber pad which I use to do the hardwood floors

Ahhh....the Scotchbrite microfiber floor mop!

Ahhh….the Scotchbrite microfiber floor mop!

AND BE STILL MY HEART, a top of the line Dyson vacuum – oh but I love vacuums and there is NOTHING in this world like a Dyson.

A Dyson vac. I could spend all day with this delight!

A Dyson vac. I could spend all day with this delight!

I spent an hour last night watering all the glorious plants outside and an hour this morning swiffering and vacuuming – although – no one warned me that both Lucky and Bear attack the vac.

Life. Off to write. Until the gym. And then, tonight, the new season of PROJECT RUNWAY. Oh, life is good. If it can only stay this peaceful and serene until my birthday.

A CASE OF YOU

It’s that kind of day. I was hanging at Starbucks, using up and using up and using up the gift card my dear Andrea gave me, and on came a version of Joni Mitchell‘s “A Case of You” I had never heard before.
I fell in love to this song. Once. He always tied different-colored bandannas all over himself, and he would visit me late at night when no one knew or saw, after he had left his girlfriend(s) and we would be together and no one could ever know and I loved him and he was ashamed of me.
And this song brings it all back. This is a gorgeous version by French singer, Ana Moura.
By the way, he wasn’t a bad man, we were both terribly young; 18. I already had my own place. Long story. He was afraid. I thought it was what I deserved: being kept a secret, being asked not to be what and who I was, and being loved only in secret and conditionally – and you know what, turns out I never learned any better.

He wasn’t the first or last who asked me to hide. My fault. I never learned to say no when asked to compromise myself.
Song of the day. Song of my life. I miss those bandannas too.

. . . merrily we roll along . . .

I worship Stephen Sondheim. No secret. And while “favorite” is not a word I like to use in reference to his shows, since they all offer so much, are so different, I have to say that if forced to CHOOSE, I would choose MERRILY WE ROLL ALONG. I love every number. I love the story. I love that it moves backwards in time and how, in doing so, the heartbreak of the final scene – when they are so fresh, so hopeful, so in love with possibility, and we already know just how sad, sorrowful, betraying and awful they will all become – such brilliance. I directed the show. I was quite proud of it – everything (mostly) but particularly the visual vocabulary via set and costumes and lights with which we told the story – it was pretty much – I say with hubris – GENIUS – because we did it with $0 – and yet, we made it rip roar sing move and FLY. It soared. I cried every night. I love MERRILY and now it’s hitting the West End for the first time. If there was a god or any justice, I’d get to see it there. But, I have never been to London, and never will go there. I will probably never see MERRILY again.Or direct again. Or love again. So, I’ll just get by on YouTube clips. Love this show.

So much truth. And – here at the end of life – god – I wish I could go back and tell Charlie – many different Charlies – what he shouldn’t believe, who he shouldn’t believe, and – oh my god – crying again – why love doesn’t ever work, and trust is a trick.

. . . birthdays . . . life, death, and all that jazz (the movie) . . .

Today is the birthday of my very best male friend. I only have a very few male friends, so, I’m afraid it’s not much of an honor being “the best” but I am quite honored to count him as my compatriot, my confidante, my companion through the journey of life. We don’t make sense as friends; he is decades younger and I have known him since he was in the single digits; and while we have much in common, we also have wildly divergent beliefs about some things, and extraordinarily different areas of interest, but, somehow, we work. And somehow, through all the decades I have known him and he me, we have managed not to betray one another. He, almost entirely alone, of all the children I have known and helped to raise, has never done the “turn on” and “abandonment” and “destroy your maker” thing. I adore him and I wish him many happily ever afters. I hope he finds the woman he deserves and of whom he dreams, I hope they find fairy tale joy and raise many wonderful children, and I hope he uses his sensibilities and intellect and empathy (and, my god, never have I met anyone with more empathy – he FEELS so much) to change the world to a better place. happy birthday, C, and finally, we can have cocktails together without me feeling like a criminal.

ImageSo, that said, today I am making birthday dinner for another relative. He requested Oreo cheesecake (which I made last night and which we have already had for breakfast!) and all-day country green-beans (lots of bacon fat and country ham and cooking until there is not one vitamin left) and mashed-potatoes (my special ones full of secret, decadent ingredients so they are like a savory dessert almost) and I am enjoying doing all this, enjoying spending a few days here at home with what’s left of my family.

About that, never mind.  Connected to which – I de-activated Facebook a while ago and I am finding – I think I am okay with this. I have retreated from what people think is reality: the shit posted on FB and Tweeted, most of the news, most TV. I haven’t been reading papers or watching/listening to news or looking at social media. I’ve been reading. Thinking. Spending time with dogs. Going to the gym.

I think I am okay with this. My life is winding down. This morning I rose and being in a home with others who DO watch and DO listen, I was greeted with the news that Trayvon Martin’s murderer was exonerated.

Trayvon and his father

Trayvon and his father

I can’t cope. He profiled and targeted the child whose only crime was being the “wrong” race and wearing a hoodie. No, I can’t cope. And Cory Monteith died. Finn from “GLEE” – not connecting the two deaths, nor comparing, but, the world is such a difficult place and I become attached to these people I don’t know personally and their lives, their tragedies, all affect me too much.

The thing is, I can’t cope with or deal with the people I DO know personally. With few exceptions, most of those relationships are what I would call – well – I’m not going to call them anything.

I’m saying this. I’m watching Bob Fosse’s semi-autobiographical “ALL THAT JAZZ” again and there, Miss Jessica Lange, playing death, to whom he is inexorably attracted, also calls to me.

Jessica Lange as DEATH in Fosse's "ALL THAT JAZZ"

Jessica Lange as DEATH in Fosse’s “ALL THAT JAZZ”

After all the shows and the loves and the efforts I have made, and the way I have recently been dismissed because I was inconvenient to the agenda of others or got in the way of their addictions or self-aggrandizement, or because I am too old, too ugly, too poor, too difficult, too unconcerned with the things that people think OUGHT to be important and TOO concerned with things I think matter – like loyalty and truth and love and honor and listening to your heart –

Well, a little song a little dance, I guess – BYE BYE LIFE!

it isn’t suicide my friends, it is that I am done. And I am planning on dancing with Jessica in the not too distant future, because I have had more than enough of all this jazz.

. . . here i am . . . going . . .

Later today I will be departing this location, after this, my eighth day with the three canine pals; Sophie (the Queen), Judah (her Consort), and Rudy (he defies categorization).

I will have three days before my next sitting gig begins.

I will be spending the remainder of this day – once I leave here and get “home” – making a cheesecake for a birthday party taking place tomorrow for my nephew, a party for which I have already gotten the ingredients for all the other foods he requested, a birthday party taking place Sunday.

Monday, I will be going to another birthday gathering for one of my dearest friends.

Tuesday morning I have an 8a.m. meeting for an arts sort of construction sort of planning sort of advisory sort of something group – although I suspect that if the group continues to grow at its current pace, becoming inhabited by more and more of the people whose version of “my story” is one so thwarted, distorted and contorted that it challenges reality, I will likely fade away from this group too.

You see, it has people on it. Committees are like that. Full of people. And people do those things people do, and are happy to do, and think they are meant to do. People judge and spin and tell tales in their heads; people divide into bad and good and black and white and young and old and true and false and right and wrong and on and on and on and on, so very busy filling the world up with the CACOPHONOUS DIN of the noise of their dividing and labeling that NOTHING ever just IS.

With my dogs, in my silence, no matter how many times they might want to throw up or – as my aunt always said – “do their business” in the house – STILL – they ALWAYS come at you with hope, wagging tail, and the certainty that you love them without walls or grudges in much the way they love and accept you.

Dogs have been good to me consistently and in ways people have not, in ways – I fear – people cannot. And that’s okay. I’m a person too, and just as prone to disappointing behavior. Which is why, despite any of the issues I might have had with Rudy, I will still miss these dogs. (And don’t tell Rudy, but very soon, I will be back with Sophie and Judah, and no Rudy. We are planning absolute bacchanals of delight!)

. . . and your point? . . . i have none . . .

I have always been alone. I have no idea how to be alone.

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I went to the gym yesterday, as I do most days, and most often, I go and am alone. I walked in and saw someone I knew, there with a friend. We spoke, briefly. An exchange mostly about planned suicides, mine in particular. And birthday parties. His, in particular. And my next, which, currently, coincides with my planned suicide. Then, we went on our ways.

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I was pedaling on the recumbent bike when another friend approached. I have known her since we were sixteen. Many, many years. We had a deal then, if by the age of forty, neither of us had wed, we would wed one another. She wed. I didn’t. We have gone very different paths from our meeting way back when, cast members in a production of “GODSPELL” – my first turn as Jesus.

She congratulated me on looking ten years younger. Ten years younger than what? And I told her that since I had stopped smoking I have devolved into rather serious depression. She said, “Call your doctor, tell them you just need something to get you through.”

I don’t have a doctor. I don’t have insurance. I don’t have the facility or paperwork at the moment to visit a free health clinic, and I certainly don’t have the funds to purchase psychotropic drugs to “get me through.”

Get me through? What does that mean, really? Through what? I’ve been looking for something to “get me through” since I was – well – for as long as I can remember. I always – ALWAYS thought that Continue reading