Poetry & Blindfolds

Ever since the finest Norwegian export since processed coffee, Inga, arrived on our couch last year, I have been very enthralled by the for the idea of meeting myspace people (in truth, the interest came three years prior, when I met my girlfriend, Jennifer).  The visit with Inga – and her one-day stopover months later – was wonderful beyond my expectations.  As she continued her travels and hung out with Kristin, Jeremy, the overtly drunk Adam, Jeremy, Aaaaaron, Spilt Milk and the rest of what I call The Collective, the more the idea of meeting myspacers was intriguing.  And then came New York.Colétte-Elizabeth, who was shacking up with a woman called Alexa, who I do not know but lives in NY, for a month.  We even had our very own Facebook meeting page thingy.  Erin offered some great, well-thought-out ideas.  Due to wacky misfortune, though, Colette hopped over to Boston during the week prior to the meeting and, when I pressed a bit for a definite plan to get us all together, Alexa chimed in and said she would wait for Colette’s return to discuss plans.  In short, we had to wait for the woman from Blackpool to get back from Boston to make plans in New York. 

By the time Jennifer and I were winging over LaGuardia Airport, no group plans had been made (though there was, on our Facebook meeting page thing, a posted video of the game Rock Band; for me, the only thing less appealing would have been to play a marathon game of Yahtzee).

It should be noted that Alexa and I got off on the wrong foot during this stage.  I tried to be my usual witty self on some of her Facebook pictures and notes, but, as is the case sometimes, they fell horribly flat.  “Don’t mind him,” she retorted to a comment I had left in a note, “he lives on conflict.”  Perhaps she was trying to be witty like I was trying to be witty, but sometines it fails.  Here it failed in spades.

I admit that, when we landed and did not hear anything from anyone for some time, I believed I had been the victim of an elaborate prank.  Sort of a let’s get him to New York and then not say anything tee hee kind of thing.  I am (reasonably) confident this wasn’t the case, but I have had only had chillier welcomes at funerals when I burst into song.

Nevertheless, New York being New York, it didn’t take any time to actually find things to do.  Jennifer and I wandered Times Square and had a good dinner a few blocks off of Broadway.  The following day, Friday, Jennifer’s high school friend Nick surfaced, gave us a short tour of Central Park (you respect anyone whose tour guide speil includes the phrase, ‘now you don’t want to go here after dark’) where I saw The Dakota (very mixed feelings on that one, as the link will illustrate).  We had lunch at a bizarre and delightful restaurant located in the middle of a grocery store, that, despite it being in the middle of the day, had the combustion of a town warned of an impending tsunami. 

This was followed by an Italian dinner with Janelle and her monkey, the wonderful Luis, which itself was followed by them dragging us back to Brooklyn to watch a video of her (which was brilliant) and a delightful bar, which contained not only very effective cider but the impeccable (in apparel as well as intellect) Mighty Rex.  A wildly animated discussion of life choices followed.  In couples sometimes, one can recognize oneself.  I related more to the wild and flamboyant Janelle, and I think Jennifer related more to the down-to-earth solidity of Luis.
Saturday morning found us in the Upper West Side of Manhattan, meeting my friend Melina, with whom I had performed in Chicago, and her biggest fan, Carmine George.  Melina and I had parted on not-the-best terms, and it was among my favorite moments that we were able to re-connect (thanks in no small amount to Carmine’s adoration of her, not to mention most of my female friends on Myspace and Facebook).  After brunch, we met my friend Aoife, another ex-Chicagoan with whom I had worked.  A short nap ensued (oldsters that we are). Let’s Have a Ball at the UCB Theater, and then drank at an Irish bar which bore no resemblence to any Irish bar I’m familiar with (including, but not limited to, the girls in the Lycra-purple-Halloween-fabric-stretchy miniskirts selling shots out of containers strapped on their back, like erotic Ghostbusters).

Around this time we did hear from Sophia, who flew in from Minnesota for the meeting of The Collective and who was staying with Alexa and Colette. Carmine received a text saying the gals (Sophia, Colette and Alexa) were dining in Queens; I received a text saying they were dining in Times Square.  Jennifer and I do that ourselves – aim one place, land another – but in New York, we were unsure of where to go.  So we found a slightly more authentic Irish bar and drank a bit more.

Warm hugs and cold-breath goodbyes were exchanged and Jennifer and I returned to The Dream Hotel, a boutique-y place that I adored and Jennifer — well, she didn’t hate it, but she did mention a couple of times that “I’d like to try someplace else!”

And then it was suddenly last Sunday.  Regrettably, we did not get a chance to ever meet Erin, Colette or Sophia, which made the trip less than perfect for me.  Being all project-oriented and all, I really wanted to sew up some loose threads in The Collective.  Colette left a public message on our Facebook meeting page thing, almost a eulogy, saying, in short, ‘ah well – so long and thanks for all the fish’, an appropriate lift from Douglas Adams.  I suspect we’re both a little irritated that our paths did not cross, but bad plans lead to bad executions.  When the next potential meeting comes across the horizon, I don’t think we’ll be this loose when it comes to the planning stage.

But we had an energetic, activity-filled, friend-filled, conversation-filled weekend away from Chicago and it allowed me to make great use of the camera Jennifer bought me – as well as meet and re-meet some delightful people. 

And, most important of all, I didn’t have to play Rock Band once.

Could it in fact be as simple as this?

I am reading “Bambi v. Godzilla” by David Mamet. Instead of a two-act play, this book is a multi-chapter description of screenwriting, and more deeply, why the hell there are screenwriters. Among Mamet’s theories is this paraphrased nugget: things do what they do. The huskie in Alaska has one thing it loves doing: running in packs. It really does – you never see the guy on the sled brandishing a whip, because there’s never any need to. The huskie is all about the run. Similarly, our cats are all about the hunt. No matter how dull we make their lives – through kitty treats, cat trees, petting, etc. etc. – they always revert back to being hunters. To extend this to people: our core is drama. Love thy neighbor all you want, but it is impossible to get away from drama.

Thus, we have screenwriters. They are the journalists of the heart (which itself sounds like a bad movie title).

Recently, I’ve been feeling pretty lousy. The New York trip, as mentioned, was frustrating; in the months following my (successful) play, “The Tearful Assassin”, I’ve written no less than four full works, but none have had that extra thing that made them mine (I thought more than a few times I was chanelling the wrong muse and was actually transcribing someone else’s play); those closest to me – and now you – know that I’ve been going to couples’ therapy for the last few months (heartily recommended, especially if you like being an emotional pinata); I have felt the people I admire wouldn’t want to work with me, and the people who are coming up now wouldn’t want to work with me, either. I’ve felt isolated for a few weeks now – it is almost a pity I didn’t make it a resolution for 2009, as I would have been able to chalk up an overwhelming success.

Almost as a side note, but worth mentioning, is that I haven’t been able to quite get on the I-Hate-Rod-Blagojevich bandwagon. It is not that I have heard the Tale of the Corrupt Politician long enough to not be impressed anymore; it is rather that I have empathy for the guy. I work in a law firm as an administrator (in that grey area above secretary and below paralegal) and one of my group’s biggest functions is outsourcing: that is, fucking you out of your job for fun and profit. And I do it without blinking an eye. Like a veteran in a slaughterhouse, I merely zap the cow in the head, step through the feces and cut it up like Norman Bates while thinking about what my next purchase on Amazon is going to be. And I’m small potatoes. I’m not running a state. I can only imagine what bizarro deals and side deals and backdoor deals go on at that level.

So you’ve gone through these four paragraphs like a good sport, so let me tie them together for you now. I think it’s possible that, because people love drama, that the end result is the chaos we see around us every day. And it isn’t because of *those* people and *their* drama; it is our own versions of drama, our own versions of being like the huskies (all about the _________ [insert your favorite thing]), that, when multiplied by millions, equals the world as it is. The incompatability of individuals gives rise to insanity on an epic scale. Witness the current war on a feeling we are raging throughout the world.

I’ll put myself back on the intellectual chopping block here: I cannot think of anyone I dislike when I first think about it; however, when I review events in my past, I can pick out people that I refuse to talk to anymore. That’s pretty close to “dislike”, surely. There was one woman I knew last year who I felt a bond with on an artistic level – I envisioned working on bizarre, creative, challenging projects together, maybe even reinventing the opera into a postmodern equivalent – but then she hooked up with a married guy. That’s it. Cut. Snip. Can’t have that in my life.

Ah, but wait a minute, I think to myself.  Back in the day, Married Woman was one of my four major food groups. One such particularly unhealthy dalliance lasted three years. It feels odd for me to now say ‘can’t have that in my life’ because (a) it’s not really in my life, it is in hers, and (b) see (a). And, when I really, really think about it, I don’t bear that person any ill will at all. In fact, me not talking to her anymore won’t accomplish anything other than – and this is a stretch, admittedly – reinforce her own level of self-worth. People who see married people are a sad breed, no matter the gender. I know. So why not talk to her? Because I’m punishing her for resembling an aspect of me that I’d rather keep hidden. End result? Drama!

As I play with this theory of “the huskie is all about the run” and apply it to people and situations in my head, I find it fits just about everywhere. The older lady who works near me who swears all day, when she’s not talking down to her printer or other inanimate objects – is she miserable because she actually likes to be miserable? Hmm! There is something to that. If you’re miserable all the time, no one can really piss you off – you’re already there. I think of Janelle, a kindred spirit who lives in New York. I was glad to see her perform – though I did not see her on the stage. She was “on” most of the time and, personally, I loved that, as that’s where I am most of the time as well. She likes being “on”, and, like me, has chosen a partner who is quite happy with not being “on.” And the examples and lists go on and on.

Let me really tie this in with one more quick reflection of your humble blogger. I mentioned above that I was feeling isolated. That I fear people don’t want to work with me. That, worst of all, I am a law firm administrator (in that grey area above secretary and below paralegal, just to remind you of that important bit). And where is my favorite place to be, as a writer? On the outside looking in. Observing. Commenting.

Ah, I think. Maybe I shouldn’t be feeling down about being isolated. Maybe I should say, ‘whew — made it!’

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