Hateful Reveries

This morning, during the 20 minutes it took Jason to shower and make the coffee, I somehow managed to fall asleep and have a terribly upsetting dream.

I am in a large, wooden, lodge-style house. The crepuscule creeps through the large windows revealing that it is evening. There is some sort of large, extravagant formal party going on (I can tell because everyone is wearing a tuxedo or some sort of slinky black cocktail dress). I stand speaking to Amy Smart (I know, why her?) and I whip out my iPhone to take video of her for some habit-seeming although unknown reason.
Now here is where the first strange conflict occurs to me: Something about the style of dress, decor of the home, and sound of the music weaving its way amongst the partygoers implies that the timeframe is somewhere around the 40's. And yet I have an iPhone and use it with a seemingly automatic ease. I realize this in passing and then move my focus elsewhere.

As I am recording Amy, watching her comely features wrinkle into an impish smile, I hear some kind of low hum coming from outside the house. It's not unfamiliar enough to immediately raise my attention but Amy's face goes from cheerful to confused and then all of the way to frightened.

"What is it?" I ask her, stopping my recording.
"It's an air raid," she responds urgently, looking at the ceiling, her face growing more and more creased with fear.
"Air raid?" I am completely confused? Why would there be an air raid?

Then the first bomb drops.
Somewhere within the surrounding mile radius of countryside an explosion tears up earth, shreds lazy tree branches, and sends vicious tremors through the ground, shaking the house at its foundation. All of the guests have become aware of the outside threat and have begun the quick decent into mass hysteria. Ladies shrill voices calling for their husbands pierce the drumming noises of collective panic. Somewhere a child begins to cry, a desperate, terrified sound.

By the time I collect myself enough to begin moving I am already caught in the rampaging motion of dozens of guests trying to make their way to the basement for shelter. Hustled along by a sea of glitzy jewelry and black velvet, I strain to catch a glimpse of the landscape outside. Eventually, after struggling my way to one of the frames along the hallway, I pull aside the drapes. Outside there are patches of flame riddling the surrounding forestation and from the trees come a multitude of green-clad soldiers (reminiscent of the hollywood notion of Nazis).

I continue being pushed along by the crowd of scared guests (realizing that I have lost Amy amidst the throng) and eventually end up on the main floor (apparently the whole beginning of the dream happened with me on the second floor). At the base of the stairs there is an eerie quiet and all of the once-crazed guests stand in a still, silent daze in the main room. At the center of the space, in front of the giant stone fireplace, stands a regal looking officer wearing a brimmed hat and the same green-colored uniform as the outside soldiers, only his lapel is patched full of bright ribbons and medals. I cannot make out what he is saying but I know that he is delivering the "you are all my prisoners and you are all going to be shipped out to a containment facility immediately" speech.

In my bewilderment I turn around hoping to find somebody to ask precisely what is going on. I come face to face with a frumpy, smug looking female officer with a large scab running diagonally across the arch of her nose. It's terribly distracting and for a moment I am too taken aback to form a complete sentence. However I quickly regain my composure and try to ask her why I am being rounded up to be taken.

"Our directive is to gather and relocate the local Jewish community," she said with a cruel half smile.
"But I'm not Jewish," I tell her, only slightly frustrated (I don't want to seem difficult).
"That's not the reason we're taking you," she says with a knowing sneer. Had she continued to speak I knew her message would be something like, "you disgusting faggot."

There was an insidious, dripping hatred oozing out of her so palpably acidic that I rushed away from her as quickly as I could. I felt so angry, so scared, and so injured. It was as if I had just been set upon by a swarm of insects whose venom filled me with a sense of dirtiness, of foul, disgusting imperfection. I felt as I was disfigured.

In the morning the whole party is made to empty onto the lawns where a number of large trucks with gated beds, like the kind used to transport cattle, are parked along the edge of the grass. In front of these trucks are three or four white pavilion tents with picnic tables beneath each one.

We are all forced to file into the gated rear portion of the trucks, jammed in, closer and closer until it is quite obvious that there will not be room enough for anyone to sit down. I manage to position myself against the side of the cage so I can see what is happening around me. At the tables under the white pavilion tents sit all of the servants who had been serving the cocktails and the hors d'oeuvres at the gala the night before. They now sip coffee from china mugs and snack on biscuits on silver serving trays. They behave as if absolutely nothing is out of the ordinary. I want to cry out to them, to beg them for help, but I know they will simply ignore me and continue on with their mornings as if my pleas are no more than a few pesky summer flies.

I am beside myself with terror, wonder, and utter despair.

And then I woke up.

Veering in a new direction

Following yet another rejection from a prospective employer, and again on the grounds that I am "too big a personality to work in literary representation", I've decided to take a new approach to the beast that is my occupational future.

I'm tired of questing for something mysterious and foreign. I've begun to realize that perhaps this whole notion of orbiting aimlessly around the idea of writing is the one thing holding me back from diving into something at which I could really excel; that could invigorate and thrill me in a more immediate way; that could permit me access to the glamour and excitement I've always been too ashamed to own outright.

It's not to say that I don't want to write. Clearly I do. It's just that the notion of writing being this sort of work-in-progress device for flying is beginning to feel slightly unrealistic. I'd rather climb onto a plane and have someone teach me the controls while I craft my own original form of flight on the side, a sort of hobby to fill up the lazy evenings and weekends.

And this is my plan.
I'm in the midst of a period of assessment, a moratorium of pursuits and aspirations. All I want to do is to be successful, bombastic, glitzy, and still taken seriously by those who really know me.

In the timeless words of somebody I don't remember, "fuck 'em if they can't take a joke."

The latter, better choice

This is the first time in 11 days that I have not had to work.

It's a silly, giddy feeling, knowing one is actually free for the day. Already there is a crisp lifting inside my chest like when looking over a high ledge. And all I can contemplate is how much day is left for me to spend as I see fit. Magnificent.

Touching back on the subject of my recent bout of workoholism, as its presence has prompted this day's appreciation, I will give myself the credit of acknowledging that I elected to work hard, save money, and be prepared for the future. I feel these last two weeks of work have been directly related to that very endeavor and I must say that I am quite proud of myself for having weathered the storm and come out on top.
Sure, I'm a bit more tired than usual, I started smoking again, and yes, I drank the alcohol. But I'm happy.

Goals hang in front of me like dangling carrots only I refuse to be fooled into thankless mobility. The moves I make are based on rewards I craft for myself out of what I already possess.
I think this may be part of the mysterious arcana that is searching for purpose.

But here I sit, wasting away this free day of mine in front of a colorful screen, when I very well could be running wild in the streets.
Lord knows that latter is always the better choice.

Planted

It's been my here-and-there custom to spend some of my New York days in Marc and Floyd's swanky Murray Hill apartment where Marco and I have established a rather lovely writing discipline:

A white porcelain tray full of tea things (including a white cow-shaped creamer...for milk, get it?) sits on the tv-stand-gone-coffee-table where we both take turns resting our feet and/or our laptops. The two of us sit languidly on the oversized red couch strewn with notebooks, scraps of paper, and reference books. We stare out the large windows overlooking the East Manhattan skyline as it stair-steps toward the river, contemplating the next line, paragraph, chapter. And we take the occasional break to brew more tea, grill a ham and cheese sandwich, or hit the John.

All in all, I'd say we're both happy as clams about the whole setup.

Just today, having dug up an old piece of somethingorother I had tucked away in a forgotten notepad, I began transcribing some of my hurried scrawl, editing along the way, and my eventual product was something unlike anything I had crafted before. It was concise without a hint of terseness, imaginative without losing a strong descriptive foothold, and had a literary risk to it that I normally reserve for love letters.

Marco was wonderfully supportive and showered me with accolades (which was a much-needed bit of affirmation) and now I have the pleasure of going about the rest of my day with a delightful sense of new possibility. I only hope that in continuing in this piece I'll maintain the gravity of the beginning.

Maybe the maxims muddy the line

People say that believing hard enough can make anything happen.
I've always found such ambiguous maxims to be something of a false assurance. It's as if we're placating ourselves with the notion that saying something remotely spiritual disables the looming terror of defeat without so much as a thought given to the possibility of real consequences.

The key to success is a thing made up of many parts, belief being chief among them, to be sure. But what of planning? mindfulness? strategy? and the good old worst case scenario?

I remember getting angry with my father for being a naysayer because of his advising me to keep aware of these very facets. But the end of the line has come, the bell is clanging in a thankless rhythm, and I'm sure of only a very few things: I'm sure that I'm where I am supposed to be; I'm sure that I'm doing the best I can considering the circumstances; I'm sure I am loved.

Frankly, I wouldn't have it any other way.

Life as a pot of tea

This week has proven itself more exhausting than usual.
Perhaps it's the manic nature of the weather, perhaps it's the daunting responsibility of financial planning for a new life, or perhaps it's simply me experiencing a tiny burnout.

The lovely thing about living in a city so full of ceaseless movement is that one is totally aware of their potential for resilience.
In being an active person with a will to live fully, and even to excess, I look in the mirror at a face outlined with determination. There is no other jaw set so concretely as mine, no other brow furrowed as cautiously as mine, no other eyes narrowed as crisply as mine, and thus shall I ensure my successes be not only constant but comprehensive.

This is the time of my life where everything must have its value leached out as a tea bag has its flavors steeped from it.
And I shall toss aside the disappointments like silk sachets full of water-logged herbs, looking to come upon the next most flavorful venture.

A motherless mothers day

Sundays bring their own sort of happy sorrow to many people for many reasons:
It's the last free day before the work week grind revs back into action; It's a reminder to church-goers that they're still not quite blameless; It's a the football game that always seems to rocket newlyweds from romantic love to real life.

And this Sunday is that annual jab in the ribs to any and all who live too far from their mothers for a genuine hug.

Mothers day brings to mind images of red roses, dark chocolates, and tablefuls of bickering siblings hellbent on declaring themselves as the favorite child. These things may be all well and good but they are just images after all. Imagined ideas that comfort without quite satisfying. The same way that thinking about a breeze doesn't actually quit the swelter of a blistering summer day.

Today I miss my mother.
Not any more than usual. The only thing I feel at a slight increase is a pestering guilt.
Guilt at being remiss in calling as often as I ought, at not writing as many letters as might make her sure she's on my mind.
And it's nothing of a Catholic guilt by any means, simply a tiny sliver of unrest in the space behind my eyes.

In observance of this most hallowed holiday I took it upon myself to celebrate sans matriarch.
Jason and I planned a meal, invited a fellow mother-missing friend, and prepared ourselves an orphan's brunch.
One would think that such behavior might inevitably drive the three of us to talk about our childhoods, reminiscing about the best of times and most comical of incidents involving our mothers, but in actuality the conversation hovered over such topics as sex education and performance art.

I will be the first to express my strongest feelings of defense on all of our behalves in that our mother's would be proud, one and all, at the three of our genuine concerns for both contemporary awareness and intentional culture.

In a roundabout way I guess what I'm trying to say is that our mothers must have done something right. We're all happy, healthy, and ambitious. And on top of that, we all know we're loved without reservation.

Frankly, if left up to me to describe, I'd say that is what mothers day is actually all about.

Revue Review

Each weekend carries a certain sense of adventure.
Especially now that I have a marvelous comrade of conquest, one Mr. Jason Alan Knight.

Mr. Knight and Mr. Buck enterprises have made it a strong point to be highly involved in the arts community in New York as mutual scheduling permits. As such, weekend adventures frequently involve some sort of performance: musical, dramatic, artistic, etc.

This most recent weekend saw Misters Knight and Buck visit Theatre of the New City for the final performance of Denial: Time to Face the Musical.

The show can be summated in a single word: travesty.

Not to say that the concept was uncreative, it was simply tired, washed up, and poorly executed.
Mr. Buck felt it unkind and lacking in class to comment to this point however his staid behavior is completely counter-intuitive and he has thus opted to put off his politeness in an effort at fully explaining the horror that was a musical about a black girl who thought she was white.

You did not misread the last line.

Filled with catchy tempos and passable instrumentations the show's lyrics and dialogue fell to the wayside...

...as in I couldn't hear hardly any of them.

Blame it on the acoustics of the basement being passed off as a performance space, or perhaps the fact that the actors had little to no perceivable talent.

The lead was a poor excuse for a diva with a disproportionally large head and an even larger unawareness of her musical pitch (or lack thereof). This came as no surprise: the girl's bio contained the words "grateful to be making my New York debut in a brilliant musical I wrote myself". Some people would go so far as to call that assuming.
I would take it to the level of misguided insanity.

Either way, the first half was bearable enough: a sort of pleasant romp not unlike watching Cher dancing in a Chuck E. Cheese ballpit.
The second act caused me to begin contemplating methods for taking my own life.
There was the moment of revelation where the (clearly) black lead discovers that she is not, in fact, white and I'm pretty sure the entire audience was just about as uncomfortable as they would have been in a screening for Gigli 2. Only the show had less character.

I feel that I lost something during that show (and I am not merely speaking of my dignity) and I'm relatively sure it was approximately two hours of my life I would have rather spent reading Twilight.

Alright, alright, that's terribly dramatic. Unlike the show.