Saturday, 14 September 19969:55 pm
I write at Uncommon Grind, a new coffee shop at Yonge & Gerrard. First night of my new life? Yes, I bought The Artist's Way this afternoon and here I am, having decided to forego another night out scrounging around for dick and write for as many hours in a row as I can muster.
Oh dear, I feel empty. I've really run the gamut since I bought the book at 3 pm today with Lou at This Ain't The Rosedale Library. I felt disquietedly exhilarated after reading the introduction at home right after and immediately phoned Beth to tell her what I'd done and she was of course very supportive in that not quite present way she adopts when we're on the phone and her husband is at home but this was not as much of a constriction as it sometimes is.
I've been restless and determined ever since that I must make the most of this day and running scared from this haphazard resolve a lot of the time as well, never mind the pervasive cynicism I feel; I've been here so so many times before and never got past first base.
I am thinking lately that I am a master at beginning things; it's following through, closure, that I shy away from. Relationships of all kinds, writing projects, letters, whatever it is I get all squeamish when it gets to be work and I shrink back into apathy, flaccidity, and my environment moves and whirls such that the constellation of opportunity seems to have slipped away.
My bedroom, for Christ's sake, emblematizes this psychic lethargy most. Every so often I will resolve to make a home there, a sanctum, and I get an inchoate structure or vision happening and all of a sudden I freeze up and get bored and preoccupied with other stuff, with anything that takes me out of my room and before I know it my ordered world is covered over with dirty laundry and I haven't folded up the hide-a-bed for four or five days. Cleaning up my room has always been a psychic archaeological dig.
The Artist's Way is supposed to help me recognize and work through the blocks to expressing my creativity. The passage I quoted just now mentions the "shadow artist", and I winced at Cameron's depiction of me as someone drawn to artistic people, artistic endeavors, but always as an observer, an onlooker. THIS IS ME! I think of my upcoming participation in the literary seminar in Key West: will I be there only as an interested reader or will I debut as a writer in progress?
Will I ever summon up the courage to work at this? Will I? Will I? Spending the rest of my life embittered by the congealed identity of writer-wannabee scares me, but not as much as what lies ahead were I to make a move.
I told Beth this afternoon that I felt cut off from people here, ever since I got back from holidays. Specifically referred to Alex's often depressive isolation and unavailability, John's unconscious romance/trance with Larry, Mark's superficial remoteness and of course Stuart's preoccupation with alcohol. Said I felt disconnected in general—and then I gave voice to the deeper truth: I have felt disconnected from myself! I said that this was a classic projection, which Beth interpreted as meaning that all these people were not unavailable, which I don't think is true, but it certainly has a lot to do with my reaction to the seeming inaccessibility of people at the moment. I'm sure I've exaggerated in my mind the degree of their unavailability as well.
A book that looks interesting is Stephen Wolinsky's The Dark Side of the Inner Child. I saw it at The Hundredth Monkey with Lou after our brunch and he bought it. I don't much like Wolinsky's writing but he has precisely resonant ideas about healing.
Yesterday I browsed through a book at This Ain't The Rosedale Library (such a long name for a bookstore) and I can't remember either the author or the title but it was about death and dying and "soul pain" and I noticed that there were a couple chapters about the myth of Chiron, the Wounded Healer, and I've had my antennae out for anything more about this story since John gave me that prescient Tarot reading. So I shall purchase and read this book when it is time; it's written by a Dublin writer who's been involved in palliative care. His bibliography lists another book called something like The Chiron Myth from an Astrological and Psychological Perspective and the woman's name starts with an "R" [Melanie Reinhart] and it was published in 1989. So, when I am ready, more will be revealed.
The muscles on the underside of my tongue are sore from so much rimming at the Bijou last night. When I told Alex this on the phone tonight he was jealous.
There's a slogan on some TV commercial: "Tender, no-mess rim" and that is my motto. The wide-eyed British black man Philip last night was so enamored with what I'd done; he said he'd never been rimmed before and I believed him. He asked for my phone number. There's more to all this than I'm telling.
Alex and I were on the phone for nearly an hour just before I came here and we had an exquisite openness and candor by the time it was over. How beautifully timed! So much is still possible. There is still so much love left to unleash, despite how I've been feeling. We're having brunch tomorrow at noon before I go into work for the afternoon.
I told him I was embarking on this journaling blitz tonight and he said it sounded cool.
Allow myself to play? What is my gut response to this gentle imperative Cameron proffers?
Playing scares me; it always has. When I'm able to break through my inhibitions and truly spout and improvise, it is like a completely new consciousness and I am no longer me. I am a new open fun being, full of mirth and spirit, and it is radical and transformative and I feel light and full of fullness and emptiness both. I have triggered this quantum leap most often through sex in my adult life and yet so much of my sexual life falls dismally short of this pervasive striving. But when it happens, when the acceptance and tenderness and prurient excitement are present in the right mixture, I do break through and metamorphose and you really wouldn't recognize me at all.
This sometimes happens in an intelligent visceral discussion also; I remember getting literally carried away over Dickens or Trollope in the undergrad seminar in Victorian novels, feeling completely energized and spontaneous and this same stimulation has overtaken me in a few of the book group discussions. But lately I feel quite quiet and inhibited at these monthly gatherings and say really very little but usually still get a lot from what everyone else says and ALWAYS feel moved to write something about the connections I make from people's comments and reactions and put together some sort of written response to the deeper understanding I have of the book after the meeting. But I never do, and those interesting questions and connections never stay intact in my head for very long; they ebb away down to nothing and this is really the whole story of my intellectual paralysis.
Which for some reason reminds me of how irate I was when, that night out at the Barn (last Saturday) with John and Larry, John said he missed having Stuart in on weekends and Larry said Stuart was very sweet indeed and then asked me if he was intelligent. I winced at the query, and was at a loss to respond and finally I did say that Stuart was not educated if that's what Larry meant, and John chortled and egged me to admit that Stuart was none too bright and I was incensed at being put in this position and I stubbornly repeated that he was not educated but I found him to be intelligent in a deeper, more meaningful sense. The subject was changed soon thereafter.
I get so furious with people who evaluate someone's intellect as any sort of meaningful index. Stuart, I learned that weekend on the drive up north, has only a Grade 9 education. He is not a reader; but anyone who can make me feel protected and looked after so beautifully, who can lay awake agonizing and processing the relevance of Boys In The Band to his own life and want to discuss it with me in the morning is wise and open and merits my love and respect.
Intellectual capability is nearly always inversely proportionate to what is that which I place value on in people. Oh my but that came out awkward!
One hour down; onto the next café.
10:55 pm
11:05 pm
I'm at the Golden Griddle now and there's a hockey game at the Gardens and everyone here is watching the game on TV, including spectators crowded on the street peering in the window and a couple dudes are standing literally right beside me on the sidewalk beside this window and could read this page if they so chose but they've now walked away so I feel my privacy restored. But probably not for long. Well fuck you all, I am here in protest against your dim-witted fascination with such macho, mainstream diversions and I think you are all fucking losers! I am a proud faggot writer-in-training and I am not going to let you impede me one iota!
There's now a gaggle of adolescent boys crowded right beside me outside but they are completely oblivious to me and my green words. They are all quite cute so I should reconsider my indifference to them, save them from a life of hetero banality.
A saucy-looking dark-skinned girl is sitting across from me with a long-haired man and I just caught her staring at me with fascination and bemusement. I'm probably one of the few in here not transfixed by the last minute of this stupid hockey game.
I feel like I'm sitting reading a book at the hockey rink in my hometown. I'm right back there in that pervasive, oppressive ethos but I feel strong and rude and only a little bit scared.
Just read a few more paragraphs of The Artist's Way and it was rich indeed. She talks about how I abuse myself by unfairly judging any early attempts at artistic output, by writing first drafts and comparing them to masterpieces and using this as an excuse to probe no further. This is the story of my life.
And then a longer section about negative beliefs and many of mine were listed.
I can't be a successful creative artist because:
-I lack talent
-I have no depth
-I don't describe things very well
-I can't even tell a story, for crying out loud
-if I don't remain there for the people I love, they will forget about me and I will be lonely
-tonight being an important exception, I am too preoccupied with sex
-I'm not open enough
-I experience things too unconsciously—I don't pay enough attention
-I could never render vivid characters
-I have no ear for dialogue
-I freeze up when I'm asked to describe what someone looks like
-I'm no good all by myself; I can't focus or concentrate when I'm alone
-I don't know to talk about what I'm reading or a film I saw, especially if I really loved it
-I'm too scared to
-I refuse to do anything I have to work at; if it doesn't come naturally, why bother
-I simply cannot endure criticism
-someone may dislike what I write and I need everyone to like me
I've just figured out that the hockey game is on TV but not across the street at Maple Leaf Gardens; it's a Smashing Pumpkins concert there.
I'm starting to consider paying a visit to the Bijou again tonight; if I write for one more hour after I leave here that will take me to 1 am and I could freshen up and be at the door by 1:30. Seeing these pubescent beauties stroll by is lighting my fire.
I finally bought that Dexter Gordon saxophone CD that I heard at Bill and Dave's in Ottawa 2 ˝ years ago; got it at Tower Records yesterday when I bought my tickets for Angels in America. It is sumptuous and I've had it playing at home ever since.
I can't get over how much I love Alex.
I meditated this afternoon for perhaps 20 minutes and again it didn't really work. But I hope I keep trying. My life depends upon it.
There is a throbbing emptiness at my core; this is what I fear being ridiculed were I to actually write. All I seem to know about is how inarticulate my pain is, and that isn't particularly interesting, is it?
Lou read me a couple lines of Rumi's about passion as opposed to confusion and I said this made perfect sense, that when I am passionately engaged with what I'm doing, be it sex or conversation or reading or writing, I am anything but confused. Lou seemed struck by the force of my agreement with Rumi's ruminations.
I am feeling much less focused, more controlled here than I did at the Uncommon Grind. I notice that my handwriting is neater. Is that a bad sign?
Jon phoned from London last night and what a timely delight it was to connect so deeply with him in the midst of this ongoing fragmentation. I am perpetually bamboozled by the depth of his love for me, the effusiveness with which he expresses it. Oh Jon, you have no idea how much I needed to hear this last night.
He said he was doing great but his tone of voice was not convincing. I made some remark or other about prostitution (likely in reference to Stuart) and Jon blurted out that he was seriously considering getting into that and then the conversation really opened up and after giving myself a push I took the risk and asked him pointed questions about what this was really about. I said I imagined we all struggled with relating intimately with other people, that selling one's body didn't move one any closer to being capable of it. Jon agreed, and admitted he felt very disconnected over in London and didn't really have anyone he could talk to, certainly not like he could with me.
We melted into true openness with each other and I was invigorated by my love for this man. We could relate to each other and continue to do so much for each other. His feedback authenticates that part of me that I felt was shriveling up these past few weeks. I love him for that.
Beth wondered today why Jon chooses to stay over there if he's unhappy and lonely. I said I imagined that he somehow needed to be far away from all that is familiar to grow, to individuate, and that this individuation was also what he was endlessly postponing. Both. Then I said this was probably another classic projection. But then I said it possibly was not JUST a projection.
So much of what I do is avoidance. I am so rarely here NOW. I am usually so encumbered, so entranced. So stuck.
I think I'll write at Starbucks after this, which will be interesting because it's non-smoking. These cigarettes don't taste all that great today again so it won't be that difficult to forego them for an hour.
Beth told me a cute joke today. Q. What do Saddam Hussein and Little Miss Muffet have in common? A. They both have Kurds in their way.
Cameron writes that the key to artistry is seeing the underlying patterns. I feel oblivious to all this. Especially visually.
I am running out. What am I not saying? I am not saying that my neck is stiff with resentment at how difficult this is; my tummy is acting up at the prospect of working further on this, going farther and deeper than I've gone before.
I am NOT an artist! Is that not just the reality of me? This book keeps asking, "Why not?" and I'm squirming.
I shall squirm and squirm and squirm until something wonderful leaks out.
Or else I shall shrivel up and die.
12 midnight
12:15
Yep, I'm at Starbucks with a cup of decaf coffee and it's really quite neat upstairs here; too bad it's non-smoking although it's good for me not to smoke for the next hour because I feel so yucky from all the cigarettes I've had already. But it's indeed odd to be writing without smoking.
If this is the beginning of something (the writing, not the non-smoking!), it makes sense it would happen now. All the amazing work I did in therapy has helped me to wherever the hell I am now.
I still have so much to work through, AND I imagine that writing would deepen that process. I'm thinking now of this whole trance I have about excitation and quieting myself down. This was really one of the biggest issues I was probing while I was drinking—the expansiveness that makes me so vital and wild, as compared with the lethargic, clamped-down space I so usually inhabit.
But I feel that the point here is that a more genuine openness did precede my summer's binge and in fact made me vulnerable to falling back into booze. Oh, I must admit how confused I remain about all this. Tanya [therapist] commented when I talked with her about it that she imagined (from what I'd shared with her) that I drink to make myself feel open when I'm actually feeling contracted; this makes more sense than what I was just blathering on about. But also, I feel that once I get a whiff of that authentic, visceral openness (as I did so powerfully this summer and spring) I easily fall prey to anything stimulating enough to sustain it. In other words, I don't feel self-sufficient, unable to generate anything on an ongoing basis.
I have an explosive sexual connection with someone, for a germane example, and almost always I get fearful and obsessive and deeply needy (primal stuff comes up) and I usually don't get a repeat of that electric carnality with the guy and so lapse into hunting for impersonal sex right away. Witness the opening (and, it seems, final) chapter in the T.J. story back in May. Never have I described this psychic pattern so precisely and powerfully as I did in my journal that time. (Robbie was powerfully affected by that paragraph when I read it to him.)
See, now, in this moment I have just acknowledged I've had occasional potency as a writer. Hear hear!
To follow through on anything; this is the uncharted part.
I would someday like to write a book about queer self-invention, a sort of "self-help" book for gay men. I have a lot to offer. I probably have more than enough experience to write a lot of it already. But not the chapters on "following your dreams" or on "following through on opportunity".
I told Alex I'd really been feeling lonely the past few weeks and his voice was supple and soothing as he encouraged me to call him oftener, that yes he has been preoccupied by trying to find balance in his life but he has more time for me than I'm taking.
What exactly is it I want to share? I find all these resentments accumulate in my relationships and while it is hard for me to feel entitled to any sort of interpersonal resentment, I do see much of this as projection.
Interesting, this is the 3rd or 4th time I've written about projection tonight.
Good example is the day Father Tim died and I was so disappointed in John's perfunctory reaction and then Alex didn't say anything when he came over supper that night and I was positive John would have told him the news either on the phone or when I went down to get my laundry. I felt unsupported by both of them and I barely said "boo" the whole night, eventually going out and buying two oversized cans of import beer to drown in. They had both expressed concern about my drinking previous to that night, and so I guess I felt I'd rub their noses in it as they were both so unhelpful and uncaring.
So, I ask myself, what would I have wanted them to say or do? I can't really fathom what would have drawn me out at that point. I was completely shut down and would have done much better being all alone. Had one or both of them tried, gently and lovingly, to draw me out it may have helped. But this is the crux of my projection: I put all the responsibility for me expressing myself onto them and resented them something fierce for not making me open up, for not holding me until I cried my tears! What utter nonsense. Sure; it would have helped had they been more open to what I was feeling but let me be clear: it would have helped all the more had I been open to what I was feeling!
So, there that's out, if not resolved.
Rick and his friend Marty are here so I've been chatting with them for a few minutes, then said I had to get back to this and that I'd rejoin their conversation in a few minutes. Rick's got a new contract position doing the kind of computer work he's being trained for in his geography courses and also working part-time at some restaurant at King and John. Such a sweetie.
Oh, well, I have now written for nearly three hours and a lot of gunk has made its way onto the page and perhaps that is the point. I am supposed to write three "morning pages" as part of this 12 week program The Artist's Way prescribes, as well as go on an "artist's date" weekly where I do something or engage with some activity that's supposed to nurture my inner artist. We shall see how all this goes.
I am feeling a little weary and I have to pee. I may be able to forego the Bijou tonight, but I make no promises.
I make no promises! I make no promises! Do I make myself clear?
1:02 am
