My Daily Bone: 06/01/07

I decided to give up on love. That word is so self-important. I have a friend who said he decided to give up on sex just about the same time I said it, but I didn't say sex and it wasn't for the same reason. It seemed like every time he got close to another person, like that, he would catch something. Nothing serious, just an annoying disease which requires antibiotics or, worse yet, crabs, which require all kinds of horrors. Half a dozen times in as many months. He said, "We can be celibate together." Initially, that sounded right, sounded like the right statement, but later I had my doubts, even though I said, "Okay." Or did I even say okay? Maybe I just thought it. That was my intention anyway.

My decision came from the realization that everybody I'm attracted to isn't attracted to me and everybody who is attracted to me I don't feel all that attracted to. Everybody. Or so it seems. It's frustrating; some of the people who are attracted to me are quite fine in their own way. Mostly these are women. And while I find them attractive, and am even perhaps attracted to them, there is no kind of physical chemical attraction when I am near them. That doesn't bode well for a relationship.

And really that's what I'm talking about, relationships. I have a friend who says there's all kinds of relationships, who refuses to be pigeonholed into a specific kind of relationship. But he has specific interests in terms of relationships, and those have mostly if not exclusively to do with sex. But he has decided to give that up, or so he has said, after his last visit to the STD clinic.

I find it a little disheartening, these matters of the heart, in my case. Maybe I could have a relationship with a woman (or any other person) which wasn't based on sex, and it's even possible that the physical side would flare up, so to speak, on occasion. And once a woman got a taste of my prowess (when I am on, I am really on!), har-har, then she would want more, more of what I wouldn't always be willing or able to provide, and that would be that. Sooner or later.

The reason this subject came to my mind this morning was because a man at the reception desk said something to me, something kind, nothing forward, just general, and it took all of my will power not to spend the rest of the afternoon going back downstairs in hopes of him noticing me again, saying something kind again, perhaps asking me if I would like to have a relationship with him. It's not so easy to let go of just because I have decided it's the best thing -- or at the very least that it's what I want.

I think my head wants one thing and my heart wants something altogether different. Or perhaps it's not that altogether different when you get right down to it.

12:16

walk #1
How long does it take to walk around the pod? Support hose up above the knees, smiling faces as they pass, all kinds of hope and tragedy wrapped up in hospital clothes or pajamas from home, messed up hair, if there's any hair at all. Some of the nurses and other technicians just ignore you. It takes three minutes.

walk #2

It's 10:26. John and Artur, John's Filipino PT, are heading out for trip #3. I watch them disappear and see -- can't help but see -- a nurse in her tropical yellow-and-orange scrubs passing by, reflected in the linoleum. A young man walking with his dad -- the young man the patient, mask and support hose on -- looks into the room curiously as he passes. I smile as big as I always try to do, though it feels hopeful as much as it feels compassionate. Maybe even more so. Then I realize he's probably curious more about Dillon than me. Now it's 10:30.

I am a writer.

I’m writing my first novel. I'm actually fairly close to the end of the first draft. But I'm struggling. Writing a novel is hard!

I’ve been writing all my life (well, since I was in first grade). Around eighth grade, it became therapeutic. Maybe it was all along and I just didn’t realize it. I started by writing short stories. I “wrote a movie” in the eighth grade based on an urban legend from the town I was living in, featuring a Goat Man who killed the teens he caught on Lovers Lane by removing their legs and leaving them to bleed to death. I didn’t know anything about writing a movie; it’s pretty funny to look back at the script/story now. The camera and music moved around the scene like characters (i.e., “The camera climbed the street sign, it said Evergreen; the music screamed!”).

I moved from Bigtown, Texas, to New York City when I was twenty-four, with hopes of writing musical plays. I loved Oklahoma! and Hair and thought that loving them was enough to make my dream a possibility. I joined a group of musical playwrights and was told I didn’t know anything about writing musicals. I started writing straight plays, short stuff, one acts, monologues. Most of it black comedy. I was fortunate to have several of my plays produced, one of which starred RuPaul; it was "an intergalactic one-act," sort of an "I Love Lucy" that took place on the planet Ramada. It was called "My Pet Homo" and it ran for a couple of months as a late-night show in a theater in the basement of a Methodist church. It got pretty good reviews, too, even though the two main actors usually flubbed their lines (some of the reviews were good because of that fact.

I met Steven in 1992 and he and I fell in love and started performing (simultaneously). He had a background in writing music for the theater and I was writing plays and we became a musical duo, a sort of Prairie Home Companion or Grand Ole Opry of two. We called our act "Y'all." We both wrote songs and we both wrote stories, but Steven wrote more of the songs and I wrote more of the stories. We turned the stories and songs into a faux autobiography of the characters we played onstage, self-published it and sold it to our fans.

The progression of our performing career started in the Gay & Lesbian Center in NYC, then progressed to Downtown theaters, rock clubs, random MTV and other TV appearances (one with Jon Stewart on his show before The Daily Show), Borders Bookstores (before they were so corporate and as they were becoming more corporate), folk clubs and coffeehouses, house concerts, retirement homes, and Unitarian Universalist churches.

We started in New York City, then moved to Nashville, Tennessee, to try to be taken more seriously as a musical act, then moved into a 20-foot travel trailer and lived on the road for two years, which was freeing and difficult in many ways. Our personal relationship was pretty much non-existent until we met Roger at a concert in Joshua Tree, California, and he moved in with us and we started having a three-way relationship. Things got more wonderful and more difficult all at once. A fan/friend who had supported Y'all over the years suggested we make a Y'all documentary, and he financed it. It became more of a documentary about the end of Y'all and the end of mine and Steven's relationship, and our relationship with Roger.

We split up toward the end of 2002, went our separate ways, anxious to do our own things. Steven went to Jersey City and edited the three-hundred hours of footage he, Roger and I had shot in ten months into a documentary called "Life In A Box." Roger moved around a lot and settled most recently in Massachusetts where he's a yoga instructor full-time. I lived in a Florida beach town, played nanny for a friend’s kids, did some community theater and made up a board game.

Mostly I was depressed, though. It took me a couple of years to get out of that. I was thirty-eight years old and didn’t know what to do with my life. I thought moving back to Nashville was the answer. It was and it wasn't. Things continued falling apart for me when I got there (a good friend died of lung cancer six weeks after I arrived; the UU minister who had had a strong influence on me, left the church, left Tennessee). But Nashville was also the place where dear old friends lived, and I started to heal. I lived with a couple of friends rent-free; one of them gave me a job, paid me more than that position usually paid. Tennessee had a good health care program at the time, so I was able to get psychiatric help; I met an amazing doctor, David Campbell, and took medication for depression for a while (Zoloft gave me panic attacks; Lexapro did nothing; Cymbalta was the bomb).

I got into meditating. Roger had gotten us into this when we lived on the road, he had turned me onto Pema Chödrön (her book "When Things Fall Apart" changed my life). But I wanted to go deeper. I found a small meditation group in Nashville.

At some point I decided to move to the West Coast, to Santa Cruz, close to San Francisco, where Steven was living, but not too close. I was in a relationship that wasn't really a relationship; it was frustrating and unfulfilling. A cross-country trip was part of the move. (I still love traveling.) I stopped in Houston and lived with my mother for two months while her mother died. I have a difficult time with my family sometimes, and my meditation practice blossomed; I was meditating an hour a day in half-hour increments, sometimes longer.

I was still in huge debt from living on the road those two years and meditation helped me come to the realization that perhaps the West Coast wasn’t the best place for me to be if I wanted to get out of debt. Houston is a cheap place to live, but I knew I couldn’t live there. I went to Austin for a meditation retreat and loved it. I decided after Nana died to move to Austin and stay until I got out of debt or until I stopped loving it, whichever came later. She died a lot sooner than expected and I found myself in Austin as of October 2005. I loved it so much that Steven moved here in 2006.

I got an idea for a novel (brought on by regular visits to NYC, where my freelance job is) and went to BookPeople in Austin to look for writing books not so much to tell me how, but just for inspiration. I noticed a book published by Shambhala Publications, which is the publishing house of a lot of Buddhist books I’d read, and for that reason alone, I picked up the book. It was Writing Down the Bones, by Natalie Goldberg. And it really helped open up my creativity.

So that’s what this blog is, essentially, timed exercises taken specifically from Natalie's book or from other sources. (The basic idea of Writing Down The Bones is to write non-stop for the period of the exercise, be it five minutes, fifteen, or sixty; the idea is to get past the internal editor to the artist deeper within.) If you decide to read what I've written, I hope more than anything else that you are entertained.

-jdjb

The last book I read was...

What Is The What: The Autobiography of Valentino Achak Deng, by Dave Eggers.

I love Dave Eggers. I find his writing style very inspiring. I enjoyed this book quite a bit, particularly because of the strong voice of Deng, and because of the history lesson it provides. There were things in it that made me cry, things that made me laugh. And there were things that really annoyed me, like the fact that for a while about three-quarters of the way in, there were quite a few evidences of sloppy editing, typos, words that didn't belong in the text. That shit drives me crazy! I feel compelled to mark the text and send a note to the author, but I haven't done so with this book, not yet anyway.

My Daily Bone

I'm over here now.

June 1, part two: 11:54 (22 minutes)

June 1, part one: walk (3 & 4 minutes)

Read the first two chapters of my novel!

My name is Jay.

I am a writer.

What I'm reading right now:

The last book I read was...

These are the blogs and other websites I sometimes visit.

These are my past blogs that you may have missed.