harrumph

How many ways can you find to loathe yourself before 9am? Rhetorical question. And not really the point, if you can just get past yourself long enough to live, to breathe, to appreciate one tiny fraction of the world around you.

meditation and ice cream

Tonight, driving home from meditation (well, meditation and ice cream, because it was the last night in the old Kadampa Buddhism space), I told E I started a blog today (I did start one earlier, but it was false and I’ve just started again), and she said, “Why?” And I said (“Because everyone else is doing it?”) … (“Because I filled the last page in my black and white composition book today so I may as well try journaling online?”) … (“Because I feel a desperate need to make a half-assed effort to connect with humanity?”) … “I don’t know,” I said. “Why not”?

“Hmph,” she said.

We agreed that we both felt better after meditation. E felt less frustration with home life. I felt less self-loathing. The possibility of shedding your self-centered burden of guilt for something else, I can't put my finger on it right now, was presented.

Kedreb, the monk who leads the class, talked about exchanging self with others. Not your whole personality, but the object of your intentions. Instead of self-cherishing, cherishing others to the point of meditating on their good as your object. During the meditation part, I tried to focus on the good of those around me. The blond woman in the front row. The guy with the long hair and small goatee, E. First I thought, so instead of meditating on my own petty desires and fears, I’m concentrating on theirs? How does that help anything? And then I felt like I could sort of see this abstract, amorphous “good” floating above us all, that we all yearn to be part of, call it what we will. That worked, and I started seeing larger circles of people—everyone in the room, and their lovers and families and friends, everyone in Chicago, including the dryer repair guy who was curt with me yesterday, and his girlfriend, who called him every two minutes while he was at my house, and the receptionist at the air conditioning place who tried to sell me on their exorbitant “flat rate” repair deal (I have a lot of repair issues going on right now; i won't mention the toilet or the car), and her family, and my family, and D—(do I worry enough about his welfare? Or just what I want from him?), and then everyone in Illinois – Barack Obama, and the governor, and the people downstate, and then the country, which of course led to George Bush, and I began to feel it’s interesting to see everyone in this way, and that you don’t have to approve of them to want their good. Or, it could all be nonsense, like saving up kisses from your dad when he puts you to sleep. Then we all went out for ice cream.

During ice cream, I talked with J, an actor who went Equity three years ago and hasn't worked much since. (That happens in Chicago a lot.) He wants to direct. THird time today I was reminded of the lesson I hopefully learned in the last production: the best thing I can do as a director is to size up the current situation thoughtfully and truthfully, and adjust my plans and priorities accordingly. You have to realize you either have the artistic vision or not, you can't much change that. But you can and must learn to see better, to adapt to situations without feeling you're being put out by changes or problems, or you'll always be reliving the last thing you should have done.

All the same, I should have gotten the turtle sundae instead of the regular sundae. It comes with candied pecans, and mine didn't even have peanuts.

A new Chicago theater company

At Duke and Jen’s theater benefit, the two undercover cops try to bluff their way in and at the same time find out whether there’s a rave going on. This is happening in a loft in Pilsen which is lived in and regularly rented out to such groups by an artist couple. Duke and Jen have rented it for seven hundred dollars and bought five kegs of Budweiser. They suggest a ten dollar donation—‘suggest’ because as a private home with no license to sell alcohol, they are perched precariously on the inside edge of the law.

They need about a hundred guests to break even, but expect at least three hundred. One of their ranks works in a copy shop, and has printed thousands of flyers which they’ve all been handing out for weeks, so hopes are high. Five hundred would finance the first show, some David Mamet one-act.

Duke’s appointed station is front door of the loft, at the bottom of a staircase the guests must climb. Of course he can’t require that anyone pay because of the legality thing, but they really need to make back their cash and of course earn money for the theater company.

“The worst thing is, one of them looks exactly like Serpico—all thin and swarthy,” says Ben, who prefers to be called Duke. “Other dude is typical Chicago cop—portlier, shorter. And these guys are in khaki clacks and white polo shirts. Their hair is pushed back over the side, but not with any product, you know? And they’re going, ‘It’s ten dollars, but I don’t have to pay, do I?’

“I’m like, ‘Technically, you do not have to pay technically, but you will be doing humanity such a huge favor if you choose to donate ten bucks that you technically, no, do not need to pay. Technically.’

“And the cops are like, ‘Oh, so you have beer here?’ And of course the whole time, people are walking back and forth behind me with big cups. So they think they got me, but I’m like, ‘We don’t know if we’ll offer you some or not.’ Score!
“Then they go, “So what’s the name of your theater company? and I go, ‘Heartbusters!’” When relating this story later, now, in a bare kitchen in Wicker Park, Ben says this to the other members of his company with a grin. Apparently it’s an inside joke. “And the cops say, ‘Heartbusters?’ and I go, ‘Yep, Heartbusters.’

“Serpico goes, ‘You live in Pilsen?’

“I go, ‘Yep, Pilsen,’ Then I totally turn the tables. I’m like, ‘You from Pilsen?’

“ ‘Yep,’ say the cops.

“ ‘You friends with the hosts here?’

“ ‘Yep.’

“ ‘Really!’ I give them a huge grin. ‘Which ones are you friends of?’

“Serpico is just standing there. The fat one goes, ‘Uh, John and Mary.’ And Serpico’s like, ‘Yeah, John and Mary.’ And I’m like, ‘Really! That’s crazy because I know the people who live here, and there’s not a John or Mary among them! Who are you?’
“The cops don’t back down. They go, ‘Who are you?’ And I go, ‘I’m John.’ Major pause. They are so beaten. I’m like, ‘Adios, Serpico. Save me a donut.’ ”

“Score,” says Jen.

On the downside, the company got only 57 guests at the benefit, so tonight they are having a what they call a pity party to finish off the beer and make a few more bucks. There is a bowl on the table for donations. After he tells his story, Duke is handed a class of beer. He begins to drink it, then pauses, “This smells funny. Why does it smell so odd? What is that?”
Jen says shortly, “It’s a little old. Don’t worry, it tastes fine.”
Duke drains the glass.

And that seems to sum them up. They are not complainers, whoever this new theatre company really is. They are together for some reason or other, and they will enjoy that as their natural right.

It was Kurt Elling

I love him. I love this man singing completely. I love him and he is mine because I love him so. I’m dancing in my living room. It is my home and I get to enjoy that, right? And I do. When I can. When I don’t open the door and my heart just sinks for all we could have been where supposed to become. All I wanted and didn’t let myself want too much because I was afraid I’d end up like this.
“So what, you opted to play it safe? You really cashed in. Oh, that’s right, you were too cheap to invest your true self so you ended with nothing.”
My true self? What’s my true self? Maybe I just knew better.
“Your true self suspends doubt because it doesn’t have time to doubt.”
So maybe it was my true self, disguised as doubt, saving me.
“Okay. Do you feel saved?”

Oh, I wonder if this guy will sing just one more refrain. He is so chocolate-y Harry Connick Walt Whitman in a lounge suit deliciously good. Did I mention that he is the man I love?

Okay, do I feel saved? Well, that depends on whether I’m an optimist or a pessimist. As a pessimist I say No, I feel older with fewer choices, that’s not saved.
Or if I’m an optimist I say God Yes, I feel saved. Look at this moment I get to have, in my home dancing to the voice of the man I love, with this particular set of choices and ingredients to consider. Thank God I’m having a true and delicious moment, not faking or avoiding one somewhere else. Let tomorrow take care of itself.

Wayne Reese, Chris Heim just said, but I think she was talking about this next song, not the one they just played. Who is that guy, the man I live for and have prepared for my whole life up until this very minute? Whoever can he be?

Freedom Rider

We sit on the second floor porch of the annex at Watervale. We are drowsy and waiting for the second seating dinner bell. It’s supposed to ring at seven-fifteen, but tonight, as usual, it’s running a few minutes behind.

Dan and I went into town today. We went to an estate sale and visited the barbershop cum gun shop and men’s sporting wear store. “Which is really a good idea for men,” Dan observed.” You’re sitting there waiting for your haircut and ‘hey, there’s a few coats I might need.’” I agreed. Then we entered the place and were accosted by a blond but nearly bald or shaved head woman in a black leather jacketed who yelled, “Hey, get me a rifle in there so I can kill my roommate.”

“Okay, I’ll see what I can find,” I said, and we walked in.

Inside, it was grim. Buzzy light above the barber chairs. A stern barber who did not offer to help us. We hunted around cautiously, and Dan bought a pair of Carhardt pants. I listened to a man explain about how he hoped some box of shell casings was still here waiting for him and how he was interested in some rifle they might be getting in. “When do you expect it to come in,” he asked. “Don’t know,” said the stern barber, as he cleaned his combs. We did not linger there.

As we left, the woman loomed, “Where’s my rifle I wanted to kill my roommate?”

“They were too expensive,” I said. Dan kept walking, head ducked.

“Oh,” scrawled the woman with her sloppy, half-drunken or paralyzed speech. “I’ll just have to strangle her instead.”

“Yeah, that’s easier to hide,” I said, making the strangling motion with my hands.

“Yeah?” she yelled, and made the motion with her hands. We drove away.

Then we swam and napped, and now we are sitting on the porch with Tracy and Amy, drinking cocktails and waiting to be served a delicious dinner, one course at a time, with no wallets or purses anywhere nearby.

We are falling jerkily into a state of relaxation. We check each other’s progress, warily, like we are growing new, plaid skins.
Amy has been coming to Watervale for 35 years, since she was a child, and she knows every ritual, every family, every reason things are the way they are. She worked here when she was a teenager. She was a waitress, and the guys work as dishwashers. She tells us where the guys sleep, and that their job is easier than the girls’ jobs.

The Mumbler is a dishwasher. We first noticed him in the dining room last night. He is beautiful, with floppy brown hair and apache cheekbones, and a little huskiness to him. Last night he doubled as the wine master, which seemed to consist of holding out two bottles of wine and letting the guest point to the one they wanted. Head ducked when he sidled past a waitress, speech inaudible when a guest asked about the Cabernet.

He wore an apple red-and-white checked shirt like a guy in a James Dean movie. So we called him the Mumbler, the guy who stands by while the big talker gets the girl. The guy who saves the girl but shuffles off before she can learn his name. The loner. He is so misunderstood!

Another couple joins us, Steve and Sarah. They are staying downstairs, in the suite of rooms called the Post office because that’s what it used to be, back when this resort was a logging town. They are Hyde Park intellectuals. They spent the day reading, on the white Adirondack chairs on the post office porch. They consume big, thick books about politics and history easily, and are intensely interested conversationalists. I suspect they will like the gun shop story, and I’m right. When we tell it, everyone laughs. Amy and Tracy spent the day on the big beach. She knitted and he collected stones, for the rock faces he makes. “It’s amazing how little you can get done,” smiles Amy, “when you have all day to do it in.”
Everyone laughs, me included, and suddenly I am filled with self-loathing. How smug we are, recounting our days and sipping our cocktails. Have I just appropriated the Americana mini-bite, as surely as some journeyer to Paris who visits the Louvre and has lunch at the Eiffel tower and thinks she’s done Paris? Am I a fraud? Is Dan? Is this all a test?

Or is it that we don’t belong here, Dan and I. We haven’t been coming here for years. We don’t know the owners by name. We don’t even have the kind of income that makes vacations a normal routine. A clown and a writer, teetering on the edge of a breakup, without a stock option between us. We don’t even have a favorite table in the dining room. If it weren’t for Amy putting us with her and Tracy on the side porch, we’d probably be stuck in the big dining room with all the families. How dare we?

Suddenly the Mumbler rides by, along the path out front, on a strange-looking bicycle. The wheels are very small and the handlebars are very large, and the whole thing is painted red, white and blue. As he passes our porch, the Mumbler raises one fist in the air and shouts, very clearly, “Freedom!” We all stop and stare. Dan yells back, “Freedom!” and everyone laughs.
Freedom! I grab my book and leave the porch without a word. The Mumbler is gone. Freedom!
I stride down the path toward the inn. I cross out onto the terrace over the lake. I find a lovely chair at the front railing, and sit down with my book. But immediately I am up again. Freedom!

I run to the end of the long pier and contemplate jumping in, clothes and all. Why not? Freedom!
Just then, the second seating dinner bell rings. I run back to the inn, so as to get there first and get the best seat at our table, the one with the open window at my back. And feel no shame.

Not exactly an ad for Crate and Barrel

Today I went shopping for an armoire. I do not need an armoire. As a point of fact, I do not like armoires. I do not approve of the whole idea of using a piece of bedroom furniture in the living room and hiding your TV in it. They’re too big and they’re not hiding anything. It’s like, you’ve gone from a 27-inch TV to a 72-by 72-inch-everybody-knows-it’s-in-there. Let’s stop kidding ourselves! But that’s what I was doing. Looking for an armoire. I suddenly realized that I need one. Desperately. To hide my TV in.

I had to go to the post office to send out a baby gift to my brother, and as soon as I finished there, I started driving. I tried every store where I could get it and take it home with me immediately, today! Because I can’t wait for delivery. At the same time, I don’t want anything that looks like pressed wood. I’m depressed enough as it is. Why else would I be shopping for unnecessary furniture?

So Target was out. But I tried World Market. And Pier One. And Crate and Barrel, where they had lots of fake antique stuff with long descriptions, as if to justify the steep prices. I noticed that some word was used a lot in those descriptions. Rustic? Can’t remember now, but it made me sneer.

And all the huge fake antique mirrors. Catching views of my misfit self. Tinted glasses, faded jeans, wrinkled shirt, sweaty bare feet in nubuck clogs, hair too long to be short and too short to be long and uncombed and untinted or highlighted like everyone else at Crate & Barrel, with their wedding registry giggles and happy, normal lives. You say no one’s life is normal and happy but I’m telling you, these people were smiling. And not just because they were coming up to another mirror and wanted to try again. Like I was.

The first time I was unprepared, and the deep furrows in my face stunned me. I looked like Al Pacino in a Woolrich shirt! A slight smile improved things, and standing up taller. Not looking directly at my face was also a help. I remembered that I hadn’t had a bath today either, and hated the bride for her squeaky clean shine. What’s wrong with me? Don’t I have the sand? Can I get the sand? Is the sand returnable?

Everything in its place except me, wandering fitfully through the place wondering what last piece of furniture I could rearrange to make myself finally fit. If I break down and go to Ethan Allen, will they let me crawl into the armoires for size?