Trinking and Mahler

I am happy. Whether I've explicitly admitted it or not, I'd gotten into a habit of drinking by myself every night, making goofy faces at myself while brushing teeth too recently doused in Guinness, then stumbling into bed, having to get up some hours later to get rid of excess beer. I've broken the habit -- three weeks now -- and am, alas, a boring person again. (Cue other late-night drugs: emailing, blogging,videogaming, movie watching, TV watching, Rupert G. dressed as Ugly Betty.)

I am happy. Last night was the first of my San Francisco Symphony concert series. A Mozart symphony (36? who knows? it was in C and was delightful -- the slow movement quite clever and beautiful) followed by my so-called desert-island music, the CD or score orpreprogrammed orchestra I'd most like to have with me while unable to make babies to save the human race: Mahler's Das Lied von der Erde. For my subscription I selected a seat in the rear "boxes" of the orchestra section. This was a free-standing chair that came with its very own program, just sitting there waiting for me, and my very own armrests. A small wall kept usroxies (short for rear-boxies) safe from the riff-raff of the rorchies (rear-orchestries). Thank god.

And the song of the earth . . . Wonderful, wonderful. The audience stood and clapped, except for that slight majority tunneling out toward their Jaguars. Some criticism, with the caveat that I don't know how to criticize orchestras: StuartSkelton barely broke above the full orchestra in "Das Trinklied," and the high notes were things to fear (fear hackling for every millisecond of their scoopy approaches). He pointed at us when saying "du" and conducted various other phrases with his own right hand. He seemed unequal to the stature of Thomas Hampson, who performed hampsonlike (mellow voice, big hair, and pre- and postorgasmic expressions) and off music.

Skelton's most sucessful and enjoyable movement was "Der Trunkene im Frühling." He came well above the orchestra and sang light and lovely, though his sibilants were particularly thick. (I have a thing for detecting so-called speech impediments in my singers and actors. Schwarzkopf is another with freakyesses.) Hampson was particularly effective in the long-lifetime-long "Abschied" that closes the work.

This weekend will be lovely. Anjuska is coming to visit, unless her premonitions get the better of her. On Sunday I'll be meeting with my Berkeley friends for trio music for the first time in many, many weeks. I'll bring the flute and torture a bit. I've also decided to hunker down and start learning the second Mendelssohn trio -- which is going to require (let me just throw out a ballpark figure here) some 112 hours of practice time. DJ Desultory is also spinning Sunday night, so I'll groove to some cool jazz. And sometime in there I might get to see ProfessorPuppyeyes . . .

As mom says, keep those cards and letters coming.

Straight ballet

I decided to pop in the DVD of Born to be Wild: The Leading Men of American Ballet Theatre for a quick peek while I finish up some cereal and try out some newly cold-brewed coffee before heading out to do laundry. After five seconds I realized I could not support this mini documentary by watching it. The movie begins with this quote from dancer Ethan Stiefel:

The single best thing about being a male ballet dancer is that you're working with women all day. [Smiles] And you're working hands on [Smiles and chuckles] with women all day, and they're pretty fit. And you know, that's the thing people don't know they're missing out on.

Is it really necessary to beat us over the head with straight masculinity at the beginning of a documentary about leading male dancers?

Well, shit, now they've turned to Mark Morris, and he's choreographing the four men. All is forgiven.

Various dancers

A few fun things to talk about, but feeling a little under the weather.

An old friend and I went out for dinner and drinks on Wednesday night. At the first bar, an androgynous sprite overheard me say that I had never been to the bar before. He took great pains to explain that the "event" of Wednesday nights was up the street at a different bar. We decided to get drinks first. The bartender said we were a cute couple, and we explained that we weren't together. He said, "Well, you should at least do porn together. Now, which one wants to be the boy on the cover?"

At the second bar, we got busted for analyzing a certain guy (who was not up my alley), but there were good-natured smiles all around. A second goof of a guy was charming at first, for having come up to us and asked whether we were also immune to the charms of the boy dancing in and out of the back of his underwear. The second time he stopped by he had morphed into a demon, first blitzing us with lies about his age and then insulting us directly (he threw something at us about TJ Maxx). By then we were on go-go dancer number 3, but I was distracted by the full mob in the bar and the clothed orgy that moving and even standing had become.

In all honesty, I must say I was surprised. I felt quite strange and ugly when I first reached the Castro. There is a certain predominant style, or range of styles, or way of life. Part of it is simply urban, part of it is urban gay, part of it is Castro. (I believe in Atlanta we used to say there was a culture of Midtown gays, so geographical cohesion is not so very strange or even problematic.) The first bar was in fact quite country, quite rural, quite Sears like myself. The second bar was not, but even still I never felt invisible or repulsive.

There were other dancers this week: the Mark Morris Dance Group with Mark Morris's Mozart Dances, based on the 11th piano concerto, the sonata in D for two pianos, and the 27th piano concerto. These were performed live and gloriously last night by the Berkeley Symphony Orchestra with Garrick Ohlsson on the concertos and Yoko Nozaki joining for the two-piano sonata. I love Mark -- always and in all ways. He has proven himself and can do no wrong.

I prefer Mark when he is being clever, but I admire him when he is being precise. The evening was solid music and dance, movements calmly reflecting the tacit beauty of Mozart. Naturally, I was most moved by the circle of men in the slow movement of the sonata. The reflected sunshine of Noah Vinson is almost too easy, but even in this movement he was not made too delicate.

I sat, it is true, near at least four other singletons. A middle-aged blond woman to my left, a fiery-headed younger woman to my right, a crazy white- or bleached-headed older man on the other side of her. After the first intermission he engaged the fire-head in conversation; I joined in when I realized she was asking whether he had seen Hell's Kitchen Dance in Berkeley last year. I jumped in, and she said it wasn't "Aszure Barton" but "Barton Azoooor." Before long, bleach-head was offering us water from his bottle and telling us that he had run into the Mark Morris dancers at the nude beach (Baker, presumably) he frequents. (I had noticed the men were in various states of tan and sunburn and figured they were just back from Hawaii or something.)

Mark, Mark, Mark, Mark, Mark. I will see you again in December for the Hard Nut, when Drosselmeyer and the Nutcracker Prince will make me cry again . . . (As well as the Prince and Clara at the very end -- I'm not so very gay that a woman will ruin it!)

Finally, to the bulbous white truck that hit me at Bancroft and Fulton: No worries. All is forgiven. I was able to push off your hood to the safety of the sidewalk. My only wound was some dirt on my palm, which was easily brushed off.

Virgin

I had cause to open my chest of little-used objects, and I was compelled to reach into a plastic container of personal histories and pull out an old journal. I'd been thinking about dredging up something from the past and slinging it around here. And not merely for humor. I've gone through a fair amount of transition and upheaval recently, and it feels like it's time to look back and reconnect to the old PG, so much younger and inexperienced but hopefully closer to original hope and imagination. The journal I chose seemed to be full of the usual useless adolescent pining, until I turned a page and landed on this entry.

It is 15 years ago. I am 16.

5 August 1992

As I said to Donald earlier today, either I've broken a great oath or the two of us must get married.

Yes, what an interesting night it was. Completely wonderful, yes, and interesting.

This is not how I had expected it. Perhaps my expectations could not have been met without an incident like this, though. Perhaps if I were not thrown into the water I would never feel it. I believe that.

I regret in no way what has happened; I do not even regret the breaking of my oath. Why bar things that are of no known detriment and plenty known benefit? Why not smell the flower that's in your hand?

There are two reasons that I see, but they are not enough: personal health and possible loss of focus. The first I have no fear of. We were quite safe and neither of us has a known problem. The second I have no fear of either. I maintained focus throughout the night, and I am focused now. Some things are pleasurable, yes, but I do not believe they will overcome my focus to be at least marginally beneficial to the world's inhabitants.

What am I now, then? I'm the same little boy but more knowledgeable and more happy. Some words no longer apply to me, and some others now do, but that is of no consequence.

What of our relationship, then? It seems to be there. I have a certain amount of love for him -- more now than then, what say? -- and he tells me that he loves me. I seriously doubt that Donald considers me more than a close friend; indeed, he may not think in terms of "life companion," as I do. I don't think that we are the complementary pair I had in mind, but we may work out that way.

Several things are certain: We each are delighted by the other. We each respect the other's differences. We are ultimately comfortable with each other.

If that is insufficient for a substantial relationship, I don't know what wouldn't be. I predict we will stay close -- though at any moment either of us could see a "better" man, and other other would be gone.

How pleasant, though, it is to enter his room in the morning and join him in the bed and be well-received! How wonderful it is to touch lips! How wonderful those animal anti-procreation instincts are! Ah!

I'll calm down.

We shall see.

* * *

I must be careful, though. I do not want to end up with a bunch of lovers. I don't want to go through life moving from one body to another. This now is either a transition or a hidden lasting love.

But it is true: At any given moment of the day I would rather be entwined with Donald. There I must be careful. If such feelings last and grow even the slightest bit, I would risk becoming something I do not want to be.

Perhaps I should take Zorba's philosophy? I should fill myself with what I desire until I want no more?

No.

I miss Donald considerably.

* * *

Now I am quite restless. I miss the company of Donald greatly. I am sure this will pass soon, but right now I want him.

Why? Do I rationally desire him? Mostly, methinks. His tender sincerity -- which I am tempted to pray is not his adroit acting, which I doubt -- is wonderful. Coupled with his humor and internal and external beauties, it is not odd I should like him. I do not like only his flesh.

Admittedly, I like what he perhaps represents: at least moderate love toward PG. This is most evident in actions, so I would miss that.

Oh, Donald! Will you forget me? Will you find another and look back on me and laugh? Will I become like my best friend? Please, no.

And yet, what am I doing? I'm placing myself too low. Come back up, PG! Donald is Donald, and you are you. Donald's feelings toward me could perhaps be best described as inconsequential (if they are not the feelings I would like).

I want to be singular in your eyes. Not that I think I always should be, but right now that would be quite nice. Quite nice.

Happy

At the risk of seeming blind to the realities, I must say I'm a little happy now (being, say, since Monday). The weekend was a little insane, as somewhat captured in this previously censored paragraph:

The last postings have been insane. To those of you who could have chastised me but let me go this time, I thank you!

I'm not sure things are improving. I was rather insane this weekend. How insane? So insane that I avoided my usual coping methods for fear that they would take me too much farther into the insanity. (Are they gone forever? Let us hope.) Why was I insane? No reason. The usual. A transition period. A sore back (stupid people shouldn't attempt exercise without stretching first) led naturally to fears of being stuck in my apartment in pain with no one to call. There are people, of course; the greater obstacle is something akin to pride.

Still, one looks around an apartment on a Friday night . . .

Also censored were some feelings about something new in my life. These feelings (old now) have been fully restored and are now available on a Criterion DVD:

I'm engaging in . . . an affiliation . . . that is against sense and reason. Sure, it made me a little insane this weekend, and for all the reasons typical of the weakest of my Piscean brethren (combined with what I must be able to claim as my very own weaknesses). Not it so much as all it entails: my aloneness, the wacky power of emotion, the reminder that who I am is partly a reaction to who is around me to love.

Should I or shouldn't I mention this . . . affiliation?

In general, some amazing things have happened:

- Seeing one of my favorite gay movies, William Friedkin's film of Mart Crowley's play The Boys in the Band at the Castro Theatre
- Going a week without fermented self-medication
- Checking out the fantastic new Olafur Eliasson exhibit at SF MOMA, including a few minutes spent in a humongous freezer (7 degrees Fahrenheit) examining Eliasson's ice car while snuggling in a MOMA-provided blankie
- And the affiliation, doomed but delicious

And there are also a lot of other random things I love. These bear thanksgiving:

- The people on the bus -- how I love you! Especially today. We really all came together on some of those sudden stops.
- Old friends on the phone -- you're fantastic!
- Text-messaging friends -- keep 'em coming!
- Instant-messaging friends -- you're wonderful!
- Clarinets in my little apartment making music against my own little piano
- The bushes in my backyard that are turning yellow despite California's Eden
- The Castro Theatre -- tonight it's Friedkin's Cruising with . . .
- My dear friend, may the gods protect him from leather daddies
- and, finally, the nice couple at the corner with their coffee and bagels

Thank you

My darling Esses, thank you both for talking with me today. How easy it is to take for granted those we love and who love us!

The ramblings become inappropriate

I have to say something. Even if it makes me a fool later. Because I want to be a living fool. This programming . . . is so very successful. These human chemicals, so very powerful. The forgotten joy impossibly returns. Tomorrow, sure, the remembered sorrow. But tonight -- tonight we sleep with the memory of the forgotten joy!

Everything is tempered: Emotions, chemicals, are heightened with cocktails, with these winds and fog, and with Strauss, that damn composer who these couple years has kept me tied to earth, to the West, to history, with his damnably Wagnerian and Mahlerian emotional soup. Strauss, whose Die Liebe der Danae nearly rivals Daphne in consistent perfection. "Wie umgibst du mich mit Frieden" -- this heart-bearing jewel of an aria.

Temper, temper. I sleep to awake to the eternal joke. But tonight I dream of far away lands, of my uncle Wotan, my uncle Wotan who . . . loves me? No, it is not Uncle. It is Wotan. Morning: ticky ticky ticky ticky tappy tick. In the blood: flavors, scrapes, and invisible scenes bubbled in oblivion.