We’ve got a winner…

I substituted for Ski, running an AA meeting at a church referred to in sobriety circles as “Our Lady of Safeway”, given it’s proximity to the grocery store. It’s the only thing he’s asked of me since he’s been gone, so I gladly stepped in. Though he called this morning from Jersey, he seems to enjoy talking on the phone even less than me, so he almost always cuts our conversations short; not the most promising sign of his inevitable declaration of love to me. Ahem.

Later I wander back into the ‘stro for the second time today and head over to another sober event; a fundraiser for the annual AA convention here in SF this summer. Drag Bingo, co-hosted by Marlene Manners, one of the Galaxy Girls. And you don’t think sober people have fun! She fared well with us, not the easiest crowd. Towards the end, massive battles involving air-borne bingo cards and pull tabs raged on and on, much to the ladies’ chagrin. I found myself smiling and upbeat, the first in a long time, though I have to admit it probably had more to do with the fact that I was engaging in some flirting with this cute bodybuilder boy at the next table. I’ve run into him once online, when he told me he doesn’t date guys from AA, though the way he was looking at me tonight, I might get a chance to break some rules with him sometime. Been a long time.

The Kandinsky. It’s painted on two sides.

Took Louie for a good walk, ended up in the ‘stro at the deserted dog run behind the Colllingwood rec center where for a short while I watched these two men practice synchronized baton twirling as a John Phillip Sousa march rang out on their boom box. Later I ran into Bearbait and some friends who hadn’t seen me since I got back. It was the Studly Couple, giving me bear hugs and kissing me and telling me I looked good. They had both recently buzzed their heads and they make such an adorable couple that I’d probably reconsider my personal rule against having sex with more than one person at a time, but then again, nobody’s asked me to.

I return home and catch the last half hour of Six Degrees of Separation, my favorite part where Stockard Channing as Ouisa has her rant and breakthrough at the stuffy Park Avenue dinner party as her husband tries and fails spectacularly at steering the conversation back into safe terrain.

Since I’m out of shape I hit the straight gym (not that you could call any gym in San Francisco straight) for back and biceps and a twenty minute run on the treadmill that I barely complete. I’m back to looking like Frankenstein’s monster, lumbering gracelessly along , lungs struggling to sustain me.

Back home with groceries and I rummage through some boxes in the garage to find my copy of Six Degrees, the original play, because what her character says at the end applies so well to blogging (at least for me).

“OUISA: You were attracted to him-
FLAN: Cut me out of that pathology! You’re on your own-
OUISA: Attracted by youth and his talent and the embarrassing prospect of being in the movie version of Cats. Did you put that in your Times piece? And we turn him into an anecdote to dine out on. Or dine in on. But it was an experience. I will not turn him into an anecdote. How do we fit what happened to us into life without turning it into an anecdote with no teeth and a punch line you’ll mouth over and over years to come. “Tell the story about the imposter who came into our lives-” “That reminds me of the time this boy-”. And we become these human juke boxes spilling out these anecdotes. But it was an experience. How do we keep the experience?”

-John Guare, Six Degrees of Separation

I don’t know, Ouisa. I keep writing these experiences, I post them here and 99% of the time there’s no voice back, no dialogue to sustain. But there are a few exceptions, and I’m beginning to remember what I loved about writing; about the futile, addictive challenge of describing life with only a few words, stringing them together in such a way that it hopefully trandscends the status of clever anecdotes and instead connects with others’ experiences.

I want more revelations like yours, a sudden shift in perspective that causes a rippling movement through your entire vision, changing the self you project towards others, opening yourself to things you couldn’t possibly see before.

…Must…break…this…cycle…of…isolation

If you have a first-hand knowledge of depression, then you know what I’m talking about. But it looks beautiful out there and I know, if only for the dog’s sake, that I need to get outside for a bit. Nevermind the noonday demon, or the growing sense I have that my infatuation isn’t recipricol. The world turns, and either you keep moving, or you stay put.

You never promised me a chemically-free rose garden…

The world’s got me a little sad today.

Now, I’m not particularly naive. I know every day is like this, and the challenge that faces us all on a daily basis is to continue living in the face of adversity and the things humans do to each other. Some of us have it easier than others, granted. And denial sure helps. I know myself well enough to know that I’m feeling worn down, fed up with work, uninspired by external forces. The recent trips home messed up my gym-going momentum, and my endorphins are probably hibernating by now. So I know. But if you have any stories about grace or kindness, pass em along.

On the lighter side, this guy’s analogy of art and kissing is kind of how I feel about writing. At the least, it makes a good visual.

I Claimed Authenticity…

Why did I cry watching the Olympics tonight, good underdog stories notwithstanding? Because whenever I’ve landed a triple lutz, I’ve always thought of my mom first.

The Internet….lacking in content

As if I need more evidence that my current lifestyle ain’t so healthy. Maybe some kind benefactor out there could buy me a weekend retreat here. Of course, such a weekend would be more enjoyable interrupted every twenty minutes with hot gay sex, preferably with______ (I was gonna put a link to a pic of actor Jason Stratham (you know, the one in the Guy Ritchie movies) but I couldn’t find a half-way decent pic of him. What’s the matter with the Internet these days? Where’s the Jason Stratham fan club?) but then I wouldn’t get any writing done. And I’d miss you more than you’d miss me.

It’s been great to hear from some other bloggers out there, thanks for the emails, the praise, and the support. More! Bring it on, baby!

Like Bambi

Last night I was walking down Castro St and coming towards me was this incredibly hot guy, and as we got closer we made eye contact, and I decided to hold it just for the hell of it (because even though I’m not very cruisy, I still like to flirt) and as we passed he pursed his lips and made a kissing noise at me and suddenly I felt like a floozie with large breasts or something walking by a construction site and I couldn’t help but laugh. I mean, it was so ridiculous that I immediately lost interest, walking forward, no glances behind me or anything.

I remember standing in a club in Tampa, of all places, when I was 20 or something, and this hot boy was cruising me but I was getting irritated because he was looking at me like he wanted to kill me; a prey-drive sort of scowl that I see guys do when they are cruising that just doesn’t work for me. I don’t know, call me crazy, but to me the sexiest thing a guy can do when we’re noticing each other is to just smile, maybe laugh to acknowledge the silliness of it all. I can’t take the game too seriously, otherwise it’s like we’re acting out scenarios we’ve picked up from porn movies (not that I’ve seen any).

It’s been almost a year since the end of my relationship, and I’ve been out on maybe three dates. It worries me a bit, wondering if I go too long I won’t know how to do it anymore, but I acknowledge that it’s been a pretty crazy year and I’ve had other, more pressing matters to confront. Lest you think I’m like, desperate or something.

Ohmigod, I’m like rilly rilly thrilled

My site is finally the first listed for “Dogpoet” on Google. You wouldn’t think that would be hard, but then you’d be surprised.

Any resemblance…

hmmm…it’s striking me, looking back at the last few entries, that the manner in which I’ve discussed Ski seems to imply a relationship that doesn’t exist. We’re friends, despite the context and weight of my words, nothing more. Yeah, I’m infatuated, yeah, it could be limerence, but it seems unfair to the truth to conjure romanticism out of a friendship. If authenticity is my aim, this should be clear. Having only begun the Campfire in December, I’ve yet to face the inevitable conflicts that can arise when some “real life” people begin to read these words (not that you aren’t real, darling) and I truly have no idea how that will affect me. Anyway, qualification seemed necessary.

Devil Children

The funny thing about working for a dog behavior department in an animal shelter is that I am surrounded by trainers who understand best how to rehabilitate problem dogs, yet have the most ill-behaved dogs in the world because they are drawn to the sad cases, adopt them, and then are too busy training other dogs to work on their own. Which means that I am left for hours at a time in an office filled with trainers’ dogs who misbehave, bark at every sound, pee on the floor, howl from separation anxiety, surf the desks and counters for food, and generally cause headaches with each passing minute. There are good dogs, but because like mine they curl up quietly under the desk, you don’t notice them. Only the devil children. There is one next to me now making a noise through her throat that sounds like a cross between a pigeon and a velociraptor, pining away despite my comforting presence. The sad irony is that I’ve become a little callous towards dogs, spoiled by my own quiet, well-mannered companion. I’m like the crotchety school teacher who thought she loved kids but over the years has suffered their torments too poorly to continue with grace. Then again, I’m writing this from work, and I get to bring Louie everyday, I wear jeans, I have health insurance and a regular paycheck.

Ski’s father’s funeral was today and he called me a little while ago to update me. He sounds sad and tired, trapped in his mother’s house in Jersey which is like everything you might imagine; crammed full of loud, drunk relatives reminiscing, shouting, crying, and getting lost on their way to the bathroom. As we talked, someone picked up the extension and starting hitting the digits until Ski yelled, then a gruff voice says, “Ski, is that you? Get off the phone, we have an emergency.” Who knows what that could be, but when he asked me to help him cover a commitment back here, I welcomed the opportunity to do something.

The day of my mother’s service was the hardest, if only because the presence of all those people coming together to share memories made it impossible to deny that she was gone. The pictures of her up at the alter, holding her dog and cat and smiling so wide, ah it was cruel.

I’ve been so caught up in the craziness at work since I got back that I haven’t had much time to think about her. Which is not to say I feel the need to be busy, nor to wallow. I ‘d rather have some more time off, but I’ll plan that out. Authentic would be the word I’d choose; I want to remember her authentically.