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Wednesday, 10 June 2009 (i want to kill you like they do in the movies) 5:11pm Heading to The Garage in a while for the show. I've gone over the script, rehearsed it all the way through a few times, and I'm as prepared as I'm going to get. | ||
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Tuesday, 9 June 2009 (running to the edge of the world) 7:32am I prefer Nick Cave's original song "Hallelujah" (from No More Shall We Part) to any version of the oft-covered Leonard Cohen song, but I like Richard and Linda Thompson's "We Sing Halleluah" best of all. 8:58am Each time an agent query goes unanswered—which has been most of them—I think of it like when any other kind of flirt fails: hey, it's their loss. I know I'm awesome. It's just difficult sometimes for others to see it. 12:44pm Though I'm also the first to admit that my luck's been improving lately: the editor (from Seal Press) is interested in Bottomfeeder, and would like to see a proposal. Awesome. Now I just have to write a proposal. 3:24pm They downsized me, I still get to use their parking lot, everybody wins! 7:55pm Michelle and I rehearsed at The Garage tonight. It was only supposed to be from four to six, but we were able to stay until half past seven. Which is good, because we needed it. Mind you, the piece is pretty much ready to go at this point. If we had another week or two to work on it we could polish it even more and that'd be swell, and maybe we'll expand it for the August show, but the way it is now ain't bad at all. | ||
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Monday, 8 June 2009 (black and white) 10:03am My essay "Blood on the Tracks," formerly titled "Three-Twenty-Seven-Ought-Five," is now up on Carnal San Francisco. It's never been one of my favorites, and I wasn't too surprised when the editor of the gay divorce anthology rejected it last year—though I disagreed with her stated reasons—but it's not so bad, really. Seems to work better in the webzine format. 7:11pm Raphalea had to move our Monday appointment to five rather than the usual half past six, so I'm home earlier than usual, but more than a little blasted. 8:01pm ...and now chatting with Marta, which makes it all okay. 8:55pm as long as your heart is beating, i think you're a fox, and that's stating it lightly... 11:12pm Just got another agent lead. An editor, actually, which is even better. | ||
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Sunday, 7 June 2009 (arma-goddamn-motherfuckin-geddon) 11:38am oh, now you're just doing that because you can! honey, everything i'm doing is because i can. 5:40pm Just had my second to last rehearsal with Michelle. We ran through the entire piece from start to finish, something we hadn't done thus far, and it went fairly smoothly. I forgot a few things, mostly stage directions, but it's pretty much all there, and I think it's going to be great on Wednesday. The newly awakened muscles in my feet are doing just fine, and wrapping bandages around my knees keeps them from hurting too much. I'm especially proud of how well today's rehearsal went considering that my energy level was not so great. Marta and I got to bed fairly late after a night of dancing and rutting like teenagers (not necessarily in that order), and when we woke up this morning we did it again, minus the dancing part. So I was a wee bit fatigued when I got to rehearsal, but also still happy and dopey from the past twenty-one hours, and hey, I'm a professional. | ||
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Saturday, 6 June 2009 (four rusted horses) 7:03am Back to the gym. 10:41am The gnarly freeway offramp on Fremont between Folsom and Howard is a lousy place to suddenly recall the previous night's bad dream about being in a car crash. Thanks, brain! 4:52pm As much as I love her, Lisa Germano is not the most appropriate music to listen to while getting ready for a date. 8:11pm Pandora's Dirty Three station, on the other hand, is perfectly appropriate for the date itself. 8:44pm it's ridiculous how much fun this is. 11:03pm At New Wave City at the DNA Lounge with Marta, who has pointed out something glaringly obvious which I'd managed to miss: the average age of the crowd is mid-thirties to mid-forties. I guess I tend not to notice these things because I fall into that age group myself. Marta, who does not fall into that age group, says that most of the clubs she goes to tend to have crowds in their early twenties. Alas. I'd like to think I'm aging gracefully, anyway. | ||
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Friday, 5 June 2009 (leave a scar) 10:28am No gym this morning. I was originally planning to, but certain muscles in my feet have been feeling achey these past few days, so I'm going to give them a rest. And by "rest," I of course mean rehearsal with Michelle at The Dark Room this afternoon. That may well be what's causing the problem, and if so, I'll find out soon enough. 5:15pm Michelle has traced the pain in my feel back to a way that I'm sometimes sitting on stage while rehearsing, on my knees with my weight back on my feet, and the tops of my feet facing downward. And it does hurt when I do that, so there you go. She assures me that it's just a matter of new muscles being used—as a Westerner I'm not accustomed to sitting in a way (nor do I wear fetish footwear, so I don't stand in a way) which uses those muscles—and that there's no risk of permanent damage, which has been my main concern. New muscles being used? No permanent damage? I'm down. Bring on the hurt. It's all for the theater, damnit. Meanwhile, rehearsal has been going well. We've pretty much gone through the entire piece non-consecutively, and though I'm glad we have a bit more rehearsal time coming up—a few hours on Sunday afternoon at The Dark Room, and a couple more on Tuesday evening at The Garage before the actual show on Wednesday—so we can run it from start to finish a few times, if I had to do it in front of an audience tomorrow I'm confident I could wing it. All that's really left is adding nuance and detail, and learning not to stumble over lines like in keeping with the faux-egalitarian ideals of this upper echelon of san francisco sex culture... Ye gods, who writes this stuff? | ||
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Thursday, 4 June 2009 (pretty as a swastika) 9:45am Marta and I are planning on going to New Wave City on Saturday night. Quite excited about it. Meanwhile, I'm digging Marilyn Manson's new album (and, as always, it provides a wealth of diary entry titles). My pain's not ashamed to repeat itself, indeed. 2:44pm So, I made it into the print edition of the National Queer Arts Festival's catalog this year. They're listing the wrong piece, since I sent them the (much longer) info back in February when I evidently thought I'd be doing the same story in both March and June. It's far from a big deal, since I seriously doubt anyone's going to be upset when if I do something different than what's listed in the catalog. (I think "The Last Dog and Pony Show" is stronger than "Intersections and Interventions" anyway, but I'm obviously biased toward the newer piece.) I mostly wish that when editing down the original blurb, insteading devoting space to the name of the piece they'd instead mentioned that it was from my book Bottomfeeder so I could use the catalog to help sell the book to publishers. Alas. The bottom line is that as a moderately well-known local writer and performance artist, I obviously face many hardships and require a great deal of sympathy. 7:06pm She likes me, she thinks about me when we're apart, and she makes me want to listen to Nina Hynes's "This Magic Stuff" on repeat (with "He Turned the Light Off" thrown in for good measure). 11:21pm Oh, neat—I just discovered that my essay about Divas from Instant City #4 is online. It's nothing special, and I prefer my longer article for the Eros Zine, but still, it's nice to know it's available. | ||
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Wednesday, 3 June 2009 (devour) 11:28am Hit the gym this morning, then went to the library. Every time I walk out of their with an armful of books, I wonder why the publishing industry lets such blatant piracy continue. 5:33pm it's like a glow on the eastern horizon at the end of a long, cold autumn night. Yep, that pretty well nails it. I've finally memorized "The Last Dog and Pony Show." Just in time, since the show is a week from tonight. 8:55pm I'm in line outside The Castro, waiting to see Up with Kristen. A fellow just came up to me and was acting like we'd met. I have no idea who he was, but if he thinks we've met, I'll take his word for it. 11:55pm hong kong is present, taipei wakes up, talk of circadian rhythm... sometime after midnight you make me feel like i'm in high school. in the best possible way. | ||
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Tuesday, 2 June 2009 (the high end of low) 2:12pm Saturday, May 30, 2009. Saturday is usually a gym morning. But I had way too much to do, mostly cleaning the Black Light District. The tricky part was keeping the right mindset, lest I jinx myself like with Bunny: even if Marta didn't come home with me, that was perfectly okay because at least I'd still have a vacuumed floor and clean bathroom and freshly laundered sheets on my bed (which is a good idea in any event, but especially because Marta had hinted at a mild cat allergy and Perdita's fur tends to accumulate in the upper right corner). I also had to get as ready as possible for the events at the LGBT Center that afternoon, the Queer Open Mic and BIG AMERICAN DANCE PARTY!, both of which I was hosting. (The name of the dance party was an incredibly obscure reference to the old Clerks animated series. Specifically, starting at 3:52 in the clip.) I'd been fussing all week over the setlist, and just to add a bit of style to what I knew to be an otherwise blank white room, I decided to bring along my blacklight lamp (the one that's been such a regular part of my work enviroment over the years) and a box of purple xmas lights. It was worth a shot, anyway. As always, there was the question of what to wear. Since the whole shindig was being put on by the Transgender Economic Employment Initaitive, I briefly considering suiting up, wearing the business-friendly clothes I'd worn to the Job Fair and would surely wear if I ever made it in for an interview. Then I decided that since I was hosting a show I should switch out the pinstripey pants (which do look good on me) for my shiny black PVC pants, and if I was going to change the bottom I had to change the top, too, so I put on a black chemise which has always felt too short to wear as a dress—at least in public—but is perfect with pants, especially the aforementioned shiny black pants. Besides, for what was our third date, I wanted to wear something a little different from what Marta had seen me in before. I arrived at the LGBT Center a little before one and started setting up shop. The building-wide event was already underway, as was the event specific to our room—Newbie Station, where newcomers to San Francisco could find out what sort of trans and genderqueer services were available. (When I'd been brainstorming with Angie about the afternoon, that was one of the ideas I'd thrown out, and it stuck.) I put up the lights, hooked up my laptop to the speakers which the Center had provided for the BIG AMERICAN DANCE PARTY!, and most of the next hour dancing to Wilco. Because I could. Marta arrived about fifteen mintues before the Queer Open Mic began. I was busy doing pre-show stuff and often talking to people I didn't necessarily want to talk to, so I wasn't able to give her the greeting I wished I could, settling instead for a stolen kiss. The show itself went well. Johanna and I co-hosted, and we had a full lineup and a decent audience. It was a tough crowd in some respects, I think a few people were made uncomfortable by some of the material—Marta apologized in advance if she scandalized anyone with her story about pr0n, making sure to point out that I'd actively encouraged her to read that particular story, which I had in fact done—but that's okay. I recited the first five minutes of "The Last Dog and Pony Show," and even though I'd already done it form memory dozens of times over the past few weeks, my brain kept fading out and I had to check the text. Oh well. I just see that as meaning I got the big Fail out of the way, and from here on out it's smooth sailing. As I sat back down, Marta took my hand and whispered nice tease! in my ear. When the Queer Open Mic was over, the BIG AMERICAN DANCE PARTY! began. The setlist, mostly laid out beforehand but futzed with in iTunes as I went along: "Lust For Life," Iggy PopAs I'd suspected might be the case, it was primarily just Marta and I dancing. Most of the others were just looking at us oddly for dancing, and I noticed a few occasionally mocking us. Whatever. That just meant we win. I'd rather be the person out there dancing than the person making fun of the dancer, because I guarantee you the dancer is having more fun and is happier with themselves. Sometimes Marta would shimmy up close to me and I'd put my arm around her slim waist and kiss her, then we'd separate, circle out and around, then do it again. The week before she'd told me over email that "Last Night a DJ Saved My Life" was her favorite dancing song ever, so I immediately downloaded it and put in the mix. I got "Hip Hop, Be Bop (Don't Stop)" from the Shaun of the Dead soundtrack, and while we were dancing to it I asked if she'd ever seen the movie. She said she hadn't, but had heard good things about it. I pretty much knew right then how I wanted the evening to go. Though it wasn't warm by any known definition of the word, after dancing for a while I started sweating like mad, quite a lot even by my usual stuck-pig standards. The chemise was sticking to my body, and Marta ran her fingers through the sweat above my breasts, reminding me of nothing so much as Coma White playing with the blood. I tend to forget that most people need to get drunk before they have the courage to dance (or sing karaoke, for the matter), so as the afternoon progressed more people joined us as their inhibitions were burned away by booze. One girl, however, had been dancing alongside us almost from the start. I think she was very much new in town, and I heard her tell Angie earlier that she'd just started on a testosterone blocker. I could tell she was keeping an eye on me as we danced, not in the mocking way of some others but trying to pick up on my moves, and I got the distinct impression that she wants to be me when I grow up. We danced until they took away the light (which is to say, for about half an hour), then started packing up. Since some of the Transgender San Francisco people were there, I decided to go for broke and throw my hat into the ring to host the Cotillion. It's been on my mind for some years now, since while TGSF mostly represents male-to-female transsexuals—it's open to all, but numerically speaking, M2Fs are the majority—and when I've gone the hosts have tended to be drag queens and/or female impersonators or leathermen, and I'm told that the most recent host isn't even from the Bay Area. I mean, really? That's the best we can do? I wasn't drunk, but I had been dancing and generally performing for the past few hours, so I was a bit manic and wasn't at my most articulate (I tripped up hard on the words second Cotillion of the Obama Administration). I'm fairly certain I got the brushoff, and at least one person all but called me a bigot for suggesting that drag queens and female impersonators aren't part of the transgender spectrum (they are, and that's not the damned point), but at least I tried. It occurred to me later than I should've pointed out that I'm willing to do it for free. Marta and I headed out on foot to find food. We wandered towards The Castro before deciding to go to an Indian place in The Mission, where we ran into some friends of hers. We joined them at their table, which was nice. Meshing with the other person's friends is so very important, and that Marta wanted me to mesh with her friends—it was her suggestion that we eat with them—felt even more important. In spite of all the positive evidence, I still wasn't quite sure where I stood with her. I've been wrong before. After dinner, I asked her what her timeframe was, and she said I could have her as I long as I wanted her. (A nice tease, indeed.) Unfortunately, there was a very real time limitation: she had to be on a plane to Vegas at eleven on the next morning. It was pushing seven, it was cold and gray and chilly and we'd already been to a show (a show I hosted and which we both performed in, but a show nonetheless) and danced and gone to dinner and all of that, and yet I still felt very tentative and nervous when I said: well, i was thinking we could go back to my place and watch a movie and cuddle and see where nature takes us. As soon as it was out of my mouth I realized the sentence went on twice as long as it should have—and if there's anything I've learned in this world, it's that there's little more dangerous than stating your desires (though there's also little more powerful)—but Marta said that sounded perfectly lovely. She added: i can meet perdita! I nearly stumbled, then righted myself and said: someone's been reading my essays page, huh? Marta replied: well, yes, but i also just know how important she is to you. So we drove back to the clean and tidy Black Light District, where the first thing Marta did was make friends with Perdita. We made tea and decided what to watch, with Synechdoche, New York coming in close—Marta said they'd just gotten it at home on Netflix, and her boyfriend would be perfectly happy to be able to watch it while she was out of town—but we decided instead on Shaun of the Dead, once I assured her it was silly-gory rather than hide-under-the-blankets-gory. That was very much the correct choice, since for as much as I love Synechdoche, New York it's not a date movie, unless you're planning on killing yourselves afterward. And that would have been the wrong mood. I sat on the couch and Marta reclined, her legs bent over my lap, me hugging her legs with one arm and holding her hand with the other. Sometimes she would kiss my hand or run her hands through my bangs and smile, and I'd turn to her and return the smile and want to just go at it right then and there, but, no, it felt stupidly important to finish the movie, that we'd waited this long (a whole month and a half!) so we should at least make it through to the credits. Which we did, and when they started to roll we were very much in the mood. Marta climbed on top of me and we began to make out. Taking our time, not rushing anything, our tops only being removed after a while and our pants not at all. We eventually move from the couch to the floor. Sweat, elevated heartbeat, flushed face, tongues fully engaged, Marta straddling my lap, the tingling in my hands as my blood is diverted away from my limbs, the long-lost thrill of discovery, of clicking. Sometimes holding her as she leans back, enjoying the feeling of the strength that I've gained from working with Raphaela. We were probably going against every rule in terms of consent and discussing things beforehand and signing everything in triplicate, for the most part we figure it out as we go along, and for me that's the most fun, experimenting, discovering what your lover likes, what you can do to and for them or what you can let them do to and for you. We've already been observing each other very closely in the briefish time that we've been dating, and it's sometimes eerie the little things she picks up on. Looking closely now at her blacklit face (strangely unreactive to the blacklight, actually—something about her skin tone?), nose to nose, her thick glasses off for the first time, my hand or ear to her heart, our foreheads nuzzling, our sweat mixing, deeply inhaling her scent (oh, I am such a pheromone junkie); this is real, this is happening. How long it lasts and how far we go is impossible to predict, but that doesn't matter. It simply is. That's what's important. Occasionally hearing Perdita scampering about elsewhere in the apartment makes me think of Prince's "When Doves Cry:" animals strike curious poses, they feel the heat, the heat between me and you. I briefly consider playing the song—on repeat, no less—except that would mean pulling myself away from her, and I'm completely not ready to do that. Not every moment needs a soundtrack. Indeed, most don't. (Then there's the fact that even though it's incredibly sexy musically, it's ultimately a breakup song. No.) Besides, it's quiet upstairs, there's nothing to drown out, no loud footsteps or barking, no sound except for the ambient hum of my many electronic gadgets and the sound of Marta and I breathing, louder and heavier all the time, and perhaps the sound of my shiny black pants crinkling underneath us. But, no, the atmosphere is perfect, with no light except the the blacklights and the bluish glow of my DVD player's menu on the teevee, and when we move into the bedroom, I put on the blacklights in there and the lava lamp and the flashing xmas lights over my desk, but I don't turn on the white noise generator or the Buddha Machine and most importantly, not the heater—although it's cold outside it's warm inside, and the environment that we've created, the heat between me and her, is perfect. This is so much what I'd been craving, what I'd been desperately lacking, this sort of extremely intimate, one-on-one contact. And I know I'm finicky, there aren't many girls that I want to be this intimate with, and lordy, is she one. When exhaustion finally got the better of us, we just lay together for a little while, long enough for her to ask about the pattern of the blinky xmas lights above my desk, and that was wonderful, too. I wish she could have stayed over, we could have fallen asleep so easily in each other's arms, and I think we did both doze a little, but she categorically couldn't stay the night—that whole "plane to Vegas in the morning" thing, so we pulled ourselves up and got dressed and I drove her home. Every moment is a gift, I know that as well as I know anything, and now, as if on cue, the longing begins. | ||
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Monday, 1 June 2009 (my reference point) 8:33am And, yeah. June once more. I'm feeling a lot better about this one than last June. Awake, showered, dressed, and gossiped a bit with Rimma. Now a quick walk down to the mailbox, breakfast, then sit down and write write write. Today's soundtrack will be R.E.M.'s Up on repeat, I think. It's 1999 again! 1:11pm I wanna write about Saturday. But I have homework to do—typing a lot of notes from rehearsals and working on blocking and stuff—so I'll be responsible instead. 10:34pm Worked out with Raphaela tonight, as usual for Monday night. Sometimes it's tougher than others, and damn, it was tough tonight. But that just means it's working. | ||
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