October 7, 2007

THE FOUNTAINHEAD

BY

AYN RAND

 

I read a lot.  I read a book a week if not more.  I tend toward Science Fiction, Biography, and Gay Fiction.  After reading the entire Ringworld series, I read Toni Morrison’s The Bluest Eye.  Then I read the Fountainhead.  I’ll confess.  My boyfriend found it on the street with many others in a box in his neighborhood of Bay Ridge here in New York.  He read it when he was in college and suggested I read it.  We had already spoken of Objectivism and I had my opinion, but confessed that I had not actually read any of Ms Rand’s novels. He brought me one and it was six months before I could pick it up.  I assure you it was not the 700 pages that deterred me.  I’m also reading the Norton Anthology of English Literature.  I had heard of Objectivism and heard the opinions of those I respect.  I didn’t feel honest about my own opinion until I read it for myself.  Here is what I thought. 

 

The style is ROMANCE.  I’m talking bodice-ripper.  I think a better cover would be of a strangely attractive muscular man with red hair overpowering a pale-pale elegant blond with the skyline of New York of the 20’s in the background.  (There are no black people, Asian, Hispanic, homosexual, etc in her novel.)   So!  Okay, I’m reading a romance.  I couldn’t read a romance if it was just a romance and this one isn’t.  The dialogue is film noir where everyone is a smartass.  One can picture Barbara Stanwick and Fred Murrray in Double Indemnity.  I have laughed out loud, to the worry of my fellow subway passengers, as I read Ms Rand ridiculous human dialogue.  I think it would make a good play, though and would encourage a stage adaptation.  That’s essentially the feeling.  I found the plot and dialogue so arching and dramatic that I thought it belonged on the stage and not, NOT in a novel.  Ms Rand was a screenwriter before she became a novelist, we can remember. 

 

I can also remember holding the book at arm’s length because what I reading was so distasteful.  The rape scene that leaves our heroine passed out in her bathroom because she cannot bear to remove the scent of her rapist from her bruised body.  After reading the novel I understand more, and I’ll go the distance for Ms Rand.  The character of Dominique (cute for a rape victim, don’t you think?) needed a violent interaction to take her out of the mundane.  She wanted to be jolted into a new reality.  And I can understand a person putting out that need and expectation and having the universe give it, but a rape?  I have trouble with Ms Rand’s method here.  But this is a ROMANCE.  Women are controlled and conquered etc.

 

Toohey provides the subplot.  Toohey is a monster.  Not a monster we don’t know, however.  Today we know the monsters of Toohey’s ilk.  Carl Rove is an excellent example of Toohey’s philosophy.  But how are we to counteract the Tooheies of the world?  They are masters of the public thought and masters of public opinion.  Toohey can manipulate opinion because the masses are so predictable.  I was very depressed by this thought.  I knew that I could not have civil rights, could not have equal protection, etc until the masses saw it as their advantage.  That is where the Tooheies of the world congregate.  Ayn Rand does an excellent job of showing how the public is manipulated in order to further political goals.  For that I shall always be grateful for Ms. Rand.  But along the confession mode…I’m grateful for little else.   According to Ms Rand the masses are ignorant, stupid, mean, petty, have no memory and desire to grow up.  When I’m in a mood, I do think that way too.  I ride the subway, as you know. 

 

I read on my breaks at work and on the weekends and on the train to and from work.   If you’re reading the Fountainhead, you’ll be stopped by someone who wants to talk about it.  I’ve was approached about three times in the week it took me to read The Fountainhead.  I was reading outside my job in Manhattan and a woman of moderate means asked me what I thought of the novel  Here is the dialogue.

 

“Excuse Me!  You’re reading The Fountainhead!  What do you think?”  She was a woman of ten years my senior, making her roughly in her early 50’s.  She was clean and a bit eclectically dressed.   She had dyed hair and lots of jewelry. 

 

“It’s the best S and M Romance novel I’ve ever read.”  I stated.  “All the dialogue is right out of Film Noir with lots of rambling monologues by depressed people.  As far as the philosophy is concerned it’s cribbed from the Justice League in Bizaro World.”  I confessed also that I couldn’t put it down. 

 

She was a bit confused.  She said she liked romance novels and Film Noir.  She stated she also thought Ayn Rand was a very smart woman, if a little homely.  I asked her a question.  “Would you rather live in a world where bad people did good things or good people did bad things?”  She stated she believed that world was basically good and sometimes people did bad things.  I asked her if she thought a good solution came from one mind or a whole bunch of minds contemplating a problem.  She said that she thought solutions came from many people over a long time were better than one imposing solutions over all.  Me too I said.  That’s why I’m reading Ayn Rand. Ms Rand thinks just the opposite, as far as I can tell.  “I never thought of it that way!”  the bejeweled woman said, and began to rearrange items in one her bags. 

 

I’ve learned some things about myself by reading the Fountainhead.  One is that I understand her wish to exalt the individual artist.  There is a lesson there about remaining true to one’s self that I think is encouraging.  I also like her overall way of describing the understanding between Howard and Dominique or Gail and Dominique.  She often states that no words are necessary, that those in this elevated union do not require anything of the other but the witness of a shared experience.  I believe that. Ms Rand also reinforced my opinion of the television nation, however.

 

I don’t need to tell you by now that there are no three dimensional characters in Ms Rand’s ‘novel’.   They are all see through and two dimensional.  They are also beautifully so (they all stand for other ways of living after all).  The background eroticism is apparent even when I don’t think Ms Rand was aware of it.  I half expected Roark to bed Mallory, a fellow artist, and Mynard, his best friend at different times.  Ms Rand’s plot is ripe for a porn rip off.  Here’s the plot:  Architect tries to get the commission to build a building.  He fucks his rivals’ wife.  After receiving the commission he fucks the sculptor commissioned to do the centerpiece of the work.  Then he fucks the foreman of the construction company.  When the local tabloid starts hatting on it, he fucks the paper’s owner.  All the while a sickly old man tries to do him in. 

 

This is not the plot of Fountainhead, there are two trials in the story.  But that’s the basics.  Man loves modern architecture.  Man gets thrown out of architecture school because he is too modern.  School mate is hailed head of class because he not modern.  Man builds reputation by bootstraps, complete with dying mentor’s advice.  Architect finds a friend in a construction worker.  School mate becomes famous builder by appropriating Architects designs.  Man gets commission to build a temple to the human spirit.  Architect finds friend in a sculptor.  Tabloid newspaper calls temple sacrilegious.  Architect is sued for not building appropriate temple and looses everything.  Architect goes to work for quarry.  Beautiful woman sees him there.  Architect rapes woman.  Woman marries class mate. Woman divorces class mate and marries tabloid owner.  Architect becomes best friends with tabloid owner.  Architect repairs career by bootstraps.  Architect designs prestigious housing project under class mate’s name.   Architect blows up building in mid-construction, goes to trial and wins not only the case but the woman he raped at the quarry.  Tabloid owner hires Architect to build a great sky scraper that “rises above the pinnacles of bank buildings”, the “crowns of courthouses” and the “spires of churches”.  Subplot:  Slimy opinion monger tries to destroy Architect in the public arena.  The End. 

 

The book is supposed to illustrate Objectivism.  If you want to learn about Ms Rand’s philosophy, please read her non-fiction.  Her fiction is awful. 

September 26, 2007

WHAT ARE THE CHARACTERISTICS OF A GOOD MARRIAGE?

The characteristics of a good marriage are the same characteristics for any good relationship. The degree of intimacy varies in our relationships with others. The most intimate we call marriage. Whether we are speaking of a business contact, family member or spouse, all of the characteristics impact its success. It’s our intent that defines them.

The word marriage comes from the Latin for husband, maritus. That would imply that a man is transformed into a husband upon marriage. The word for wife in Latin is uxor, a legal term. (Our word wife comes from the Old English for woman, wif.) A woman remains a woman whether she is married or not, she becomes a legal entity upon this union. These ideas form the paradox that we today call marriage. A marriage must transform us and allow us to remain ourselves. A heterosexual marriage is the easiest way to discuss these ideas because in a same sex relationship the roles are individuated. There are six characteristics of a good marriage and they can divide into masculine and feminine aspects. One could also say inside and outside or us and the world; it makes no difference.

The first three aspects are Self Respect, Self Love and Self Knowledge. These are the inside or feminine traits that support a good relationship. Can we expect success in any endeavor without these attributes? What is inside is where we begin. We start with ourselves. If we pollute ourselves, we should not be surprised to find our relationships polluted. If we have no love of our desires and intents then is it any wonder we create conflict? If I pay little attention to myself, how can I devote attention to another? We cannot offer what we do not possess. One must begin at the source, ourselves. We must cultivate the feminine first and respect our limits, appreciate our individuality and appreciate our own existence. If we have ourselves we can begin to draw from the limitless well of source.

The masculine elements concern the world, what is outside of us. The three equally important aspects of a successful marriage are Spirit, Honesty and Commitment to Growth. These are the tools, where the first three are sources of power. Power flows to the tools. If we’ve reached the source through self we can expect manifestation in our world. Can I share my spirit with another? Can I be honest about what is erotic for me? Am I prepared to transform myself and activate the transformation of another? A good marriage is evident in an honest sprit in transformation. This is where the world’s goals are accomplished, careers and fortunes made. Behind success is source. Our human source is our mate. We are the tools. We must take action to bring our dreams into the world.

These are not difficult ideas, nor is this their first evocation. From the earliest writings about the divine nature of man to underlying cosmology of the popular novel, these ideas can be gleamed. A good marriage begins with good person. To be a good person we must look in ourselves and accept the good we find, admit our humanity, and understand our intent. With this knowing we can endeavor upon the path of commitment, the most intimate and perhaps the most rewarding is marriage. The joy of being home and the thrill of embodying home for another is the reward.

What is marriage but a paradox of getting the world by giving of oneself?

May 17, 2007

Tenant and Landlord Conversation:

Tenant:  I’ve tried to unclog the bathroom drains with Liquid Plummer and Drano, but that doesn’t seem to help.  They’ve been clogged for a few weeks now.  Could we schedule a plummer to take a look?

Landlord:  I told you to call me whenever you have a problem.  You could hurt yourself with that Drano.  Hold on a minute.

Silence, then three rings.  The plummer picks up.

Landlord: You know the tenant on the second floor?  He’s having trouble.  The bathroom right?

Tenant: Yes, the sink and the shower.

Landlord:  About an hour or so?

Tenant and Plummer: Uh. Okay

An hour and a half later the drains are clear.

This is sort of a microcosm of my macrocosm.  The truth is the sink hasn’t drained in a month and the tub/shower for two weeks.  I just knew it was going to be this long drawn out affair getting ahold of my landlord and getting a plummer to come over.  I just knew I would have to take off work or give away a weekend day or two dealing with it all.  None of that happened.  The fiasco of my non-draining drains could’ve been done in an hour and half weeks ago.  If I would’ve made the call to ask for help.  If I would have made a decision to tackle the problem one step at time.  Once that first step was taken, that was all it took.  Not what I thought would happen.

But finishing my BS is not a one step process.  I’m real good at collecting brochures.  I’m good at researching schools too.  I’ve even been accepted at two schools.  One was very, very expensive and the other came at a time when I was about to get laid off from my previous job.  I’m persuing it again.  I’ve been talking about this for nearly twenty years.  I don’t fear the work.  I fear the cost.  I don’t know how its going to come out because I don’t go to the next step and apply for financial aid/grants etc.  I know that if I’m going to move ahead in my carreer I need those initials after my name, no matter that I have excellent experience and my talent has been recognized.  I’m as far as I can go without more education.  Could this be the same thing as the clogged drains in my bathroom?  It might be easier to accomplish than living with my procrastination bat?

I’m actually jumping out of my skin with anxiety over this.  I feel as though I cannot move on to this.  Give myself permission?  Do the next thing? What’s the next thing?  I got a call from an on-line school that offers a diploma in my chosen field of experience.  Then I remembered I had read something about the University in the New York Times about them getting fined for their recruiting practices and the low level of expertise of their teachers.  I know that I cannot cut corners.  If something is worth working for and paying for then when its all done, one should have the thing one wants right?  I’m not going to attend the on-line University because I’m not sure I’ll have anything other than an expensive worthless piece of paper that will not help me reach my goals.  This on-line University has a 6% graduation rate?  Then again I could be just talking myself out of it again.  I truly don’t know.

There isn’t a plummer that can unclog this for me in an hour and a half.  I’ve got to make the best decision I can and then the next and then the next.  I would like someone do to all the work and tell me who to write the check to and where to go.  NYU?  Columbia? CUNY?  There has to be a school where I get the BS without having to go out to Queens, Long Island, or New Jersey!  Am I making this too difficult? Require too many conditions?  Is it too much to want an affordable school, keep my job and attend classes at a place that will give me a respected document? If I needed a GED, I’d be set.  If I wanted to be a dental hygenist I’d be set.  Healthcare Administration? Can’t find it.  Yet.

Perhaps this is just the first step on the road.  Take the step.  Be your own plummer.

March 4, 2007

Scene: Mid-Western big-ole Farmhouse on a hill surrounded by woods. It’s the middle of summer just after sundown on a full moon.

Ten adults hold hands around a small fire. They are of various races and ages and genders. A woman, her large breasts exposed, is casting a Circle. The particpants slowly sing/chant, some look into the fire, others clearly meditate eyes closed. The air glimmers around them as the Circle is completed.

The Directions are called. From the East came a caressing breeze. The fire sparked in the South. The eldest called the West. North was a goat.

The Holy Pair is invoked. A vain teen boy shows off; reads poetry well. Bare breasted woman brings in the ritual. The work of the Circle commences.

A long loaf of bread is broken and passed. Whispered words are heard as the bread is dismembered by each member. Breasts and chalis follow the bread with vain teen as wine-bearer. The attendants sip one after another the chalis held up to their fire-lit faces. The Circle is blessed.

Thank the directions. Thank the Ones. Close the Circle.

A cheer. More wood is placed on the fire. Drums, dance and drink follow.

Group worship was a significant part of my childhood spiritual practice. It was a common spiritual practice of my family. I was raised attending group worship at least twice if not three times a week. Occationally, as I grew older, I was asked to perform a leadership role, but was mostly an active participant. Active participation was encouraged. I enjoyed some of the ritual services, but not others. I remember them all with comfort now, and more than a bit of nostalgia.

I fell out with the group worship of my childhood. I fell out with its structure and its symbols. I didn’t join group practice again for many years. And when I did, I realized that I had neglected a very valuable spiritual practice. I recovered the baby in the bathwater that I had thrown out. I re-learned the art of celebrating the spirit with others. For several years I participated in a ritual at least once a month. Only a few times did I take a leadership position. Eventually I moved away and began my solo practice again, enhanced and strengthened by the group.

I’m missing group practice. I’ve been to too many disruptive, ineffectual rituals these few years, not to mention challanging ones. I’ve realized recently that if I want to have a meaningful group practice, I must manifest it for myself. I miss the organization. I miss the intent. I miss the lessons and reminders too. I miss having others to commit to, and to be held accountable by. I miss the words of elders and the questions of the young.

I’m also feeling the need to strenghen my practice. I know myself well enough to know that I’ve left this duty to others. I’ve been fortunate to learn from skilled practioners of ritual from several tradions. Their experience has been passed on to me; thank you Simone, Jeff, Donald, Michelle, Gordon and my parents. I’m feeling the need to take responsibility for my spiritual needs and the form of its practices. It helps to have the discipline of a deadline and the positive force of honoring the trust of others.

I have found solace, wisdom and healing in group practice. I love Yoga class. I’ve enjoyed the many guided meditations and group meditation instruction I’ve received. I still found something lacking in all of them. These forms of group practice do not lack anything in their forms or intent. I had intent that wasn’t met by these forms. I wanted a more intimate relationship with my fellow posturists and sentient beings. I feel the need now to create a space for open-hearted and disciplined ritual.

I won’t say that I will never attend a ritual led by another. But I will be careful about who I have ritual with and my expectations. I want to support ritual by creating it. I think it’s likely I’ll find my Cirlce when my ritual will enhance it. I must FIRST have a deeply personal practice. More ritual and more practice. I know intimacy’s source: the Most Intimate.

February 23, 2007

Scene 1:

Two friends enter the C train in Brooklyn on its way to Manhattan on an early Saturday morning. Stepping onto the train they notice that all the passengers are evenly spaced along the hard benches. There is enough room between any of them for one person to sit down, but not two.

First Friend sits down next to a passenger. “Would you scooting down just a bit?” smiling indicating Second Friend.

Passenger: “No.”

First Friend: “What? You won’t move down to let us sit together?” eyes wide.

Passenger: “I paid my two dollars, just like everyone else!”

First Friend: “I don’t think I want to sit next to you, now.” and gets up to stand with Second Friend who has opened a book.

Second Friend: “I don’t know what two dollars has to do with it. “

The two friends ride a few stops and get off.

Overheard as they are exiting train: “Some people think they own everything!”

Scene II:

Six o’clock on a weekday evening as passengers exit the subway train.

The day is finally done. The last squealing whine of the train fades as the train pulls into the subway stop. There are about six people at the door ready to exit. The door slides open and the passengers on the train are forced to exit single file as the waiting passengers on the platform block the exit on both sides.

“Ahhhhghh!”The last passenger is is nearly forced back onto the train as the people on the platform surge into the car.

The last passenger shoves while shouting at those entering “Let me off the TRAIN!!” knocking a person on the platform back with a shoulder shove.

“ASSHOLE!” is heard.

Scene III:

Busy sidewalk on the Upper East Side of Manhattan, noon on a sunny weekday.

People have created two lanes, one going uptown, the other downtown. A woman is pushing is a double wide stroller downtown. There is no way to pass the stroller without running into the people walking uptown or stepping onto the busy avenue. She is pushing the stroller at a slower pace than the rest of the walkers.

She stops the stroller abruptly and moves around to its front to look and speak to the children it contains. The person directly behind her has to stop just as abruptly so as not to plow into the stopped double wide stroller. The UPS guy with a hand-truck behind him tries to stop, but doesn’t have quite enouph time. Boxes and envelopes scatter forward as the UPS guy tries to limit the damage to his goods and the other people on the sidewalk. The boxes spill onto the oncomming lane of uptown walkers. Now the entire sidewalk has stopped.

The woman with the stroller never stops talking to her tiny passengers, oblivious to everything around her. Some people step over the boxes and packages. Some people risk the avenue to get around the stroller and spilled boxes. The woman returns to the back of the stroller and continues along, unknowing.

I was raised in the South and the Midwest so perhaps I have a different idea of politeness, but I don’t think so. I try to smile and be considerate of other people’s space. With eight million people in the city, it helps to get through the day.

Politeness has more value the more of us that are congregated together. I’ve been to larger cities and more congested places around the world, includingTokoyo . Traveling in the Far East was difficult at times, but not because someone wouldn’t give me a seat if there was one, or one person taking ownership of the sidewalk, or even the bullying of others for a preferred place.

Politeness is worth ten times more in New York than it is in any other American city, and I’ve lived in the largest three. New York recently got the award for the most polite city in the nation. I don’t want to dispute that, but I would like to add a caveat. Most New Yorkers are polite. The ones who are not stand out like monsters.

The monters in New York come in all shapes, sizes, ages, genders, classes and races. I’ve had a smartly dressed business man give the look of death when I asked him to let me sit down where his Louis Vuitton briefcase was resting. I’ve seen young expensively dressed women wrapped around the subway pole, not allowing anyone else to hang on around them. I’ve seen people play music loudly on their cell phones in a crowded place (and shout along!) I’ve seen men, women, adults and children enter an empty train first; only to stand in the doorway forcing a bottleneck.

Who are these monsters? I’m not alone in my apprehension in speaking to them (its a frequent topic among my friends). We’re affraid they’ll get violent. What creates these monsters? I think these people are so self centered that they cannot even comprehend that their actions have any bearing on anyone but themselves. I think they need an incredible amount of attention to make up for the lack of attention they got as children, or at home etc.

If one doesn’t value oneself, how can we concieve of value in another? It’s usualy the most impolite people that I’ve encountered that have a paranoid concern about others showing them respect. Do they think there is only so much politeness or respect to go around? Do they think that inorder to get respect they must sacrifice being polite? Do they really think they get repect with rudeness? I think so. I think they feel the power of attention, and the notion that they are getting something from others. Very sad.

I’m not polite so others will treat me politely. Its a habit I learned from my parents and my up bringing. I can’t say that I think about it much except when I see others so cluelessly abusing those around them. And I’m frustrated because I don’t feel safe in asking them to move, be quiet, or share.

Febuary 12, 2007

3:00pm in a suburban kitchen in Virginia. 9yr old boy sniffling and sobbing silently at the table and benches his father built. 8 x 10s, 5 x 7s, and wallet-sized photos rest in the white envelope held in one out stretched hairless hand. Bright sunny day.

“They can’t be that bad.” She says wiping her hands on a kitchen towel. “Givvim here. Let me see.” Taking the white envelope out of the boy’s hand, she sits opposite him and proceeds to take the photos out and dislay them on the table. He sniffles loudly and sobs audibly when a particular reflection of sorrow is unveiled.

“Sweetheart! You’re so handsome!” She declares, picking up the 8 x 10. The boy knows different. He knows he looks too eagar. And his hair isn’t perfect. Too much teeth. He had felt so good when he took that picture. He remembers the photographer winking at him.

The boy ditifully inserted the photos in the school album his mother kept and filled out its questionair. His mother made extra mashed potatoes that night.

I was horrified at the disconnet between what I felt and what I looked like in the same moment. In observing myself, the truthy proof of photographs was revealed. My class photoshoot did not at all convey my concept of myself. But that was me. That was me that everyone else looked at. Looking in a mirror can’t give me the view a photograph does. I seem to learn the lesson of this nine year old everytime I take a look at a picture of myself.

I had my picture taken this weekend. Roger and I went for our second annual Valentine’s Day photoshoot. I like the photos. It’s doesn’t matter anymore whether I’m “there” or not. It matters that they’re representative. We had fun too. We couldn’t get the photographer out of his pants though. Oh well. So much for what you learn from colts, mustangs, centurians and titans.

Although I like the photos, I have to admit that I had to endure another dose of humility. The slow drip, drip, drip, Chinese water torture drip of humility. Learning the depths of the disconnect between how I think I am vs the way I’m seen. I have a renewed interest in the gym, predictably.

I no longer cry at sight of myself in a photograph, but I am not one of those photogenic people. I look like a different person in all of them. I did have to be consoled after seeing the CD copy.

February 9, 2007

Menu:

Salad: Romaine Lettuce, cilantro, tomatoes, scallion, white mushrooms, cucumbers, carrots, anchovies, sharp cheddar cheese and green olives in aTahini and apple cider vinigar dressing.

Main Course: Curried Chicken with Yams in a hot chili peanut butter sauce

Side Dishes: Collard greens and onions with pork and ginger. Black eyed peas, aldente.

On the Table: Sri Racha. Kosher salt. Pepper to grind. Pickled okra. Toasted pumpkin seeds. Almonds toated with rosemary. Yogurt. Gee.
Bread: Thin cornbread.

Desert: Butterscotch pudding with peanut butter and melted chocoate chocoate on top.

I call this Elvishna Cuisine.

Do you think we could change minds in the Middle East and East if we cooked together? I go to China Town, Atlantic Avenue, Bed-Sty,Bayridge and Jackson Heights to get my food. I think that coveres everyone.

I don’t think Americans or Europeans appreciate the cultures they are trying to advance. I think it’s a good idea that the Middle East and Africa are finnally being dragged, kicking and screaming into the marketplace. We somehow combine this with a superior attitude about our culture. Why do we need to take them out of huts and put them into cinderblocks ? Why do we require the view of women’s legs when we go there? I hope we can look at the opening up of the Middle East and Africa as a great, great gift to be treasured. When these conflicts are at an end, I fear we may mourn what we lost in haste to do good, and trade with an advantage. The west is about to assimilate the oldest civilization on the planet. That is a tall order. Its quite a grab. But what else was there to grab? We grabbed and lost in the 50’s, 60’s & 70’s. Could we do this a little bit better? How does one keep a culture and move it into the 21st Century? I would say slowly. We don’t have enouph of a cultural approach to our conflicts. Like cooking. Thought: If I eat so, will I think so?

Music: Ghazal: Kayhan Kalhor & Shujaat Husain Khan.

Febuary 8, 2007

5am New York City studio. Figid winter. A couple in bed.

BEEEEEEEEEP-Alarm sounds.

Hairy arm extends, expertly pressing the SNOOZE button with one hand and tossing the cover from his legs with the other.

Smell of coffee and the sound of russling sheets. And warmth here again.

BEEEEEEEEEEEP!

“Last Time.” a voice from the covers. Pale arm whipping out and like a robot, smacking the clock with skill.

BEEEEEEEEEEEEP!

“Last Time.” same voice. same covers.

BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP!!!

Same expert pale robot arm. Turns it off. A figure then slowly emerges from the covers and sits up. Hair wild with the static of winter. Sips at the coffee.

Open eyes reaveal a smiling face. And muscle covered in hair.

“Do you need me to warm it up for you?”

“Hot” I said. And lowerd the mug into some stable quilt-folds at my hip.

We stared into the window at bed’s end; dawn beginning.
After I rented the studio, I pain stakingly layed out on graph paper the exact layout and footage. I populated it with a bar table close to the stove, a loft bed, some shelves and an entertainment center.  I no sooner had made the plans than I met someone. From batchelor pad to nest.  Plans changed.  I now live in a studio kitchen, but I had help in building the loft and shelves.
I searched for the perfect kitchen table for a year. We had ritual at our first meal.  This is how someone can change your life. Bar table to Kitchen table. Oak frame, green top framed in chrome trim, we sit at the altar of ourselves.  Wooden Temple dogs guard our supper blessings of spicy and sweet. For every table above it’s height, I would trade for this.

Febuary 7, 2007

Conversation at 6:45am on the 5 Train leaving Fulton/Broadway Nassau. Door Closes.

“And the Ri-Chus! Yes! The Ri-Chusssshall Inheirit the Kingdom of GOD!” He is a small handsome man, well groomed. He wears glasses. They match his watch. The long flap of his Blible-marker is also gold. Short twisted out braids, shake with his head as he searches for eyes. He is a dark coffee color. Clear fine skin. This is the best groomed preacher I’ve ever seen on the subway.

“Do you know you’re breaking the law?” I ask back at him. I must have looked a fright in my big grey wool coat and head covered in fur and leather, carrying my leather back pack. Six feet and 185lbs rushing on to the express train. Amazed to find a clear space right at the pole. I had to move around a cute guy standing in the door. He wasn’t cute for long.

“I Rebuke You, Satan! Get thee Away!” He abruptly closes his Bible and waves it safely away from me.

“Why do you think you’re above the law?” I ask, projecting my voice. I hear giggles somewhere. Shuffling of feet. The guy behind me in the opposite door moves down the subway isle, getting away.

“Get Out of this man, Satan! I command thee!” Preacher crouches in his matching orange-piped parka and Carhardt pants, not too baggy and Vasque hiking boots that look new. I think now he’s about my age.

“Why do you need this attention?” I ask him. Now I’m trying to get his eyes. He never looks at me. I never in this entire conversation get to look at his eyes. I think they’re brown. But Preacher never showed me his eyes. His head is dodging all around looking for eyes. Any eyes, but mine.

“Get thee Out! Get thee Out! In the name of Jesus Christ!” He’s actually shouting around me. He wears a gold chain around his neck that I noticed for the first time. Freed from his white t-shirt over a larger burnt orange long sleeve pullover, it swung out from him as he waived his gold-markered back Bible. The tiny gold cross, it’s weight, the only force, was freed from his chest. I followed where it pointed and went down the isle away from this beutiful madman.

“Lawbreaker! Christian!” I say back to him. I have yet to raise my voice and I’m not going to now. I replied as a school child would to rebuff something trivial.

“That’s right! Go have a seat!” And he laughs. A stage laugh. He starts in again on his shouting. I realize that I had stepped upon his stage, literally. At the other end of the train I heard a girl tell her friend what happened. They were about 15. They thought it was sorta funny and sad. I read Alexander Pope till I could change train cars.

I understand the need to evangelize. I bore my friends with the rightness of my opinions. I think I could come up with an opinion on anything, though I think only a few of them would be any good.

I evanglize about different things, I guess. I think I’m like this preacher in some ways. I hope you’re not trapped on a subway car and are forced to listen.

Tuesday Feb 6, 2007

Phone conversation yesterday morning at 7:30am.

“I can’t come in to work today.”-Me

“I don’t think you value the financial heath of this office!” -My boss. And continues talking.

“I think I’ve already proven otherwise!” Raised over his voice, which stops his talking.

“I am not well. I cannot come in today.” I repeat in a monotone.

“Okay. Hope you feel better.” Giving face.

“Thanks.” Dull. He hung up the phone before me.

Which means I had the day to my self. And that usually means porn these days. I went out and was again dissapointed. New York has been a frigid place these days. Creamcheese and Tomatoe on a Garlic Bagel in your coat. C to 14th St. Jumble. Stare. Ooogle. Judge. Should’ve ridden to 23rd. Cold Emporium of Porn. I was in an altered state. I need to learn that in these states, it not a good time to choose how to throw $50 away on porn. When I told Roger what I’d done, he laughed so hard he had to put the phone down. Crash of the Titans. Indeed.
I do feel fortunate though. I still would’ve bought it if I had known that Batman did a solo in it. I have a folder of pictures of Batman from this solo on my hardrive that I cherish. And now I have the full lenght video. I’ve never seen nor heard of “Thor” again. (Average consumer?). I now think the act of solo video is an artform. Mostly because it doesn’t turn me on at all. But done well, it’s so beautiful. I could could likely get off on the memory of it, but not seeing it. When Thor looks at the camera, and his persona. Never cracks. The performer makes it art with the help of the crew and the camera. I still can’t wait to show Roger.

“Crash of the Titans”-How many gay for pay maniquins can you put on one screen. The only other scene that I liked was with one of the brother’s lovers. A latin bodybuilder type paired with a American Football Quarter back, complete with blond hair and blue eyes. He was great. Even helped the gay for pay along. It was more real than the rest of them. He was something to watch and I don’t go for that type, normally. Accept when the other guy is gay-for-pay. The latin bottom at the last scene is also nice. I guess I didn’t identify with the brothers. Fairly strick tops who were good in the end, but didn’t expend too much energy on foreplay.

I realized something while watching the Titans go through their perambulations. I leaned that to be turned on, I had to work out the consensual psychology of the characters involved. Too much name calling and power games, I think.

Can there be a way between gay-for-pay and gay? I heard of a study recently that showed the exact same ratio of homo to hetro orientation Kinsey showed in his day. The interesting part was that 70% of men whose primary sexual outlet was with other men, called themselves straight (something Kinsey couldn’t ask). We know who they are. They are most of us. Are the other 30% doing something frightening? Is it our way or the highway? By ‘our way’, I mean come out of a closet and join a parade. I think there has to be way for us to come together. What can we do to benefit all of us?

E leven year olds use the word “Gay” as epithet that doesn’t mean homosexual. It means ‘tired’, ‘tacky’, ‘out of date’, ‘clueless’-asthetically speaking. Gay isn’t it. I don’t think we’ll be Gay in 20 years. Well, I hope not. Because it’s not a description of who we are. 100% of us. Logo Change. Re-emrging from Chapter 11. Hostile take-over bid.
I don’t know what’s next. Right now, but I don’t think it’s Gay. Broke Back is a portion of 30%. I think most of us choose to live within families and have serial partners. And not live in the utopia of the 30%. Why is that? Haven’t we shown a better way? Not really. We’re still too intoxicated with our freedom. Perfectly natural. Couldn’t be avoided. We love the past. We’re here, right? I think we of the 30% have some growing up to do. I know I do.

What unites us? What divides us? What splits churches? A powerful minority of parishoners leave. Those parishoners have been working and partying for a long time. But the masses won’t be converted. Gay is a bright spark. Enough really. The rest of us will remain in family settings. I think we have to find a way to brige this gap in our culture inorder to create something new. Gotta be more discriptive and honest than Gay.