Poetry Night - Chicago

Tonight is poetry night. The theme: Chicago! Mine is Carl Sandburg's "Chicago Poet."

My poem:

Chicago
(January 2008)

Beer and brats
and cold brooding
walks
cigars and thoughts
and hard drinking
bouts

my chicago!

escape from the cold
northeastern old
city
meander and smoke
and have numerous
epipanies

i'm not so happy
now
and
i can't fake it

but perhaps
i'll be transformed
and perhaps
i'll be refreshed
just perhaps
[hopefully]
i'll be naked!

(c) fprm, 12-27-07

Post-Holiday Blues

Last night accentuated for me the risk of suffering from a bout of post-holiday blues. This always happens to me, but usually after my birthday. This year, it is happening a bit quicker.

Although I survived yesterday and had a good time with my girls (wife and daughter), I kind of felt out of place in the home of my wife's relatives, like I did not belong. But then we got home to Summit Avenue, and I left there rather quickly (I am loathe to hang out at the place that once was my home but feels like it no more), went to see Charlie Wilson's War.

What a fun movie that was.

Then on Lark Street, I had a beer...there were a few bars open but the street and the scene was very desolate and to be honest, there is something a bit sad and slightly pathetic about hanging out in a bar on Christmas night. And on top of it all, the pint glass slipped out of my hand and crashed on the floor of the Lark Tavern. I went home.

First I thought I would paint, but I decided against it and just went to bed.

So, with the exception of Christmas Eve and Christmas morning and going to see the movie, I felt very alone, and just a little sad.

This Sunday, I leave for Chicago, and that should be fun.

Merry Christmas

It's December 25, and the early morning celebration of Santa's visit has passed...successfully. Everyone was pleased with what they received. Pleased and grateful...and no attitude! Not bad for a coddled 5 year old!

And the cats enjoyed the wasted gift wrap paper all over the floor.

Although the worse is yet to come: being the only grandchild on my wife's side, total attention and adoration...and gifts galore.

As for my wife and I...all went well. Coffee, breakfast, a little wine, later the rest of a Henry Clay cigar.

Chicago 2008

A year ago, I moved into 2007 while finishing the last leg of a car ride with my family after our trip to Savannah GA.

This year, I will likely be at a New Year's Eve party in Chicago, IL...at an art gallery, with my fellow traveler and some other folk. Also, a trip to a Bavarian-style restaurant, to the Abraham Lincoln Bookshop and the Art Institute of Chicago to see some Gauguins, Hopper, and other notable works of art.

I always enjoy being home in Albany, but when I get to visit Chicago or San Francisco (that's Feb 8 - 11), it's always nice (albeit a bit difficult) to come back.

Christmas Eve 2007

It is about 4 p.m., and I am at the Summit Avenue residence - the home of my wife and my daughter. A day spent prepping the Christmas Eve dinner (meatloaf, garlic mashed potatoes, asparagus sauteed in red wine and butter), making some cookies for The Man and sharing with my daughter the residual cookie dough, and watching the Simpsons movie twice (actually a very good, very sweet movie with a redemption theme).

Tonight a light supper, some wine, and we'll allow my daughter to open one gift. The girls will go upstairs, I will likely settle onto the couch and watch a couple showings of "A Christmas Story." It is funny: the older I get the more removed I am from Ralphie and the more I sympathize with the Old Man.

The girls will go to sleep, I will nod off and The Man will come through and do his work, have some cookies, drink an egg cream and be on his way.

This Christmas is special: my wife and I are trying to provide our girl with some semblance of family, of continuity, of stability, even as the world around her shifts and changes dramatically. But at least for tonight and tomorrow, the day will be hers, and I will do what I do best: suffocate any expression of sadness or remorse for my contribution to this drama and go with the flow.

Chicago Poem

sunday night, october 7

jazz and makers mark
at the hungry brain
smoke-filled and dark

time-warped the previous fifty years
a light touch on the back
to let me know you are near

as my anger subsides
and my good mood returns
here and then i'll reside

and the cigar i am smoking
and the bourbon i am sipping
while the band plays, "Shamokin."

i do not want to come back home
drinking and writing here
happy both with you and all alone.

McCain and Obama Surging....Can They Get Out the Votes?

Senators John McCain (R-AZ) and Barack Obama (D-IL) are surging in the polls right now. McCain is now tied, according to some polls in NH with Gov. Romney. Obama is either in a lead or tied with Senator Clinton in IA and SC and only slightly behind in NH.

This country would be best served if it ended up having a presidential race between these two gentlemen. It would be a tough race, for sure, but it would be tough on the issues and not the mudfest that I would anticipate with either Giuliani or Clinton or both in the race.

Americans need a good election, on the issues.

So, best of luck to both of them, and to us.

Reminder of Reading by Marcelle Manhattan Tonight!

Just a reminder to my NYC readers (if you are out there) that my friend Marcelle, author of the blog Sexegesis, will be reading at the Happy Ending Lounge, 302 Broome Street in Chinatown, NYC, beginning at 8 pm (Note: this is an erotica reading. 21 and older, please).

I don't just post any old blogger's public readings on this site, so the fact that I share this is a credit to my friend. As a reader of my site, Marcelle has also been consistent in her support of my painting efforts. So I am also grateful for that.

In addition to being a great writer with a Great American Novel somewhere within her, Marcelle is a great lady and a sweetheart!

Good luck tonight! My hat is off to you!

January 4, 2008 - My Public Debut as a Painter!

I just got an e-mail notifying me that the piece below, "The Philogynist," has been accepted for the Upstate Artist Guild show, Bedroom Community.

I post it here below for those who live far away and those who cannot make it.

This is actually thrilling! And I think very special in that this is the first piece that I started.



Last month, on December 7, I contributed a piece, along with many others, to the Sharpie Show, an interactive event at the UAG reception. Mine is the volcano in the tropics piece (just below the light, with my "fpr" and a date),a concept that was fully formed in the painting below.

Scenes from a Studio

The Painter (or is it poet? pornographer? politician?)




The Studio in the Cloister





Volcano, painted for a muse!



Sunrise with Cigar, Coffee, and Lucky Bamboo, painted for a friend with metta!



Dunes...inspired by the poem from "Antietam."

Progress with the Painting...and Plugs

So far, I have been able to get down on canvas two of the four "characters/roles," that are described in the post below: painter and poet. Both are different stylistically, but share the same pose, complete with drink and cigar. Started sketcing out "pornographer," and don't know what I want to do yet with "psychiatric."

Additionally, I have begun to paint a scene from The Moon and Sixpence, which simply has the stockbroker-turned-painter, Charles Strickland sitting at a table playing a game of chess.

It was a nice weekend, too. On Friday, a friend came up and visited, and we did a little bar hopping. Saturday, I hung out with little girl for the day, then went home and painted some, but I was in bed by 9:30 p.m. Of course, I was up until 3:30 a.m. the night before. Sunday, I hung out with my daughter and stayed over, because of the weather.

Plug for Marcelle's reading this Thursday

Also need to plug my friend, Marcelle's blog, as she will be reading at an event this Thursday, in NYC, off Broome Street, I think. Lately, she's been getting a bit philosophical about the nature of kink and "perversion," and to her credit, throwing in a good word about the need for sexual ethics. Her blog is not for the feint at heart or the close-minded. I find it fun, her funny and quite endearing. And I think she is a pretty good writer. Regretfully, I will miss the reading. So, my best wishes to her.

Plug for DeeAnne Gorman

I also want to link to my friend DeeAnne Gorman, a fellow GWU classmate, lived on the same floor of Guthridge Hall as me. We didn't know each other well in the 1980's, but I've gotten to spend some quality time with her and have read her poetry and have heard her sing. I think this Sunday, she'll be at Cafe Prudence (18th Street, between 7th and 8th), around 1 p.m.

Getting into Character

The novel writing process is tough...figuring out how to start, what research needs to be done, how to create composite characters out of real individuals, how to keep true to your friends and lovers whom you might reference without betraying the true nature of the relationships (especially if they are critical to the story).

Nothing is tougher however,than trying to "get into character," especially when the character has many facets, plays many roles, and yet must remain the same across time and across the different roles.

The Philogynist will be organized into 9 parts:

1. Passing
2. Psychiatric
3. Passion
4. Politics
5. Painting
6. Poetry
7. Pints
8. Pornography
9. Pilgrimage

And as this novel is a cathartic process, I will delve deep into myself - with God's blessing and a lot of courage - and of course as a writer, rev up the intensity and put some elements in a more extreme light (otherwise it would be pretty boring).

But I am now in the process of trying to find the characters/roles of the Philogynist. And the way I found to do this is to create a series of self-portraits, using the same photo, and doing a variation on it to reflect the nature of the character/role.

I will start with four: psychiatric, painter, pornographer, and poet.

Final photos of the series will be posted.

Any thoughts, feedback, constructive criticisms?

First Snowfall

Winter is finally here!

Today, we are having our first big snowfall in Albany. It's 1:30 p.m., and I've already been out to shovel a couple of inches once. I'll shovel again later.

I enjoy the snow, though, and look forward to painting tonight.

Organizing for "The Philogynist"

Painting, titled "Writer's Block."







At lunch time, I went up to the Albany-Rensselaer Train Station, had a BLT (extra mayo, please, for my heart!) and began thinking about how to move forward with the novel.

I even have a work plan:

Action Step (Due Date)

1. Create written statement of intent. (1/5/08)

2. Create list of main characters and character profiles. (1/5/08)

3. Develop plot outline. (2/7/08)

4. Begin sketching and painting relative to the novel (ASAP and Continuous)

5. Begin writing the novel (start date 2/12/08).

Those friends of mine who read the blog are kindly asked, if they don't see much writing about the novel on the blog over the next few months, to ask me about it every now and then. Without nagging! I need some sort of audience and doing this just for my own benefit is not, sadly, going to get it done.

Re-Imagining "The Philogynist"

While struggling with the painting last night, I had a minor epiphany. Partially inspired by both "The Moon and Sixpence" and "The Razor's Edge," as well as the construct for the Dylan movie, "I'm Not There," and with a little bit of influence from Styron's "Darkness Visible," I am going to re-organize and re-imagine my novel, which I started last February.

Originally, the novel was going to focus on and project a single path, which would include a local political career and different relationships and friendships with different women. Of course, that was a projection from February, when I had just started the new life.

While painting, it dawned on me that this new artistic path should be integrated into the novel...somehow. And, as I write, I might pick up a bunch of smaller canvases and paint as I write, so that both activities are going on simultaneously.

Instead of focusing on a singular path, I might structure the novel to have lives depicted through parallel paths: poet, politician, painter...possibly pornographer.

I am not totally sure, but it will be different and less linear than what I had originally planned...it will still likely begin with the death and end with the 40th birthday.

And of course, having had the virtue of time, having met new people along the way, there is much more to write about, much more to explore than there was 10 months ago.

A Challenge

Update (8:26 p.m.): It's not happening tonight. I cannot get the mouth right and the relationship of the eyes to the nose to the mouth right, and I do not want to screw this gal up...so, best to back off, let it go, move on to something else.




For better or worse, I have been putting this off for weeks now: putting a face on the "redhead in the tropics."

Eyes, nose, eyebrows, lips, cheeks! I have never done it before, and sketching is a lot different than painting. That fear of failure has caused me to procrastinate.

I can paint a volcano, a bourbon glass, an armchair, even a self-portrait, but there is that fear of screwing up something which I want, somehow, to be beautiful and almost be a tribute to that elusive red-headed muse to whom I referred earlier.

Time to just let go and move forward.

Freedom!

In a way, for the first time in a while, emotionally-speaking and specific to my relatinships to women, I am content:

* I am not in love with anyone, although there are women whose company I enjoy and whose bodies I would adore;

* I am not betrothed to anyone, not to any single person anymore; and

* Friendships of all sorts mean a lot more to me than perhaps they did when I was betrothed/married and ensconced in the cocoon of monogamy. And not just the friendships with benefits, but the non-carnal ones as well.

This Saturday I had a wonderful time, made a new friend who is a writer, and then got to see an old and new friend in the same person, as we were not really friends in college but became friends this year. In both settings, the conversations were wonderful - different, obviously - in their unique ways. The Guiness at Blue Bar was tasty and it was fun to watch the hustle and bustle in a busy hotel bar on a Saturday night, and my new friend and I talked about writing, among other things. The jazz bar (Louis 649) was a neat little hole in the wall, and my friend and I talked about our common college bonds (GWU) and about turning 40.

And then Sunday evening, my traveling buddy came over, had some cheeseboard, drank some wine, and we shared poetry (see below). Then she knitted while I painted, and it was a very good time.

So, it is nice to feel free, to explore, to make new friendships and strengthen old ones, to enjoy the sights, smells and sounds of different women and enjoy their eyes.

Poetry Night

My poem is inspired by E.E. Cummings "between the breasts of bestial marj:"

walking on top of boxcars

walking on top of boxcars
pulling switches and
inspecting the rails
your naked image

imprinted on my
brain: leaning back
tempting, taunting
teasing me to come

to you, tormenting me
for the lack of dirt
under my nails, my hands
paint-stained but uncalloused;

leaving behind my cubicle
to work on the rails
workboots on my feet and
lantern in my hand

in cold
in rain
in wind
in hail if only to lure

you in, dear marj
whom i salute and
between whose breasts
i am resolute

(c) fprm, 2007

And my poetry buddy's piece:

From one traveler to another

Come sit with me and be my friend,
And we will talk of hearts amend
From sorrows great or slightings small,
Until we've tired of it all.

And we will go and have a beer
And speak with strangers, making cheer.
We'll share a bourbon, we two friends
And flirt with friendly lesbians.

And when our funds are running low,
We won't let such things stop us- no!
You'll make a cheeseboard and I'll find
A bottle of some cheap-ass wine.

Then while you paint, I'll sit and knit
And we will trade verse for a bit,
Or read from those who came before
And then reflect, with quiet awe.

While we're at work, we'll emails trade.
We'll bitch and moan in some tirade
About a boss, colleague or lover-
But never cross words for each other!

Sometimes we'll travel, for we know
We both delight in wandering so,
And when we're weary at day's end,
Come sit with me and be my friend.

(c) hmh, 2007

Painting...Again

It has been a few days since I have made any time for some productive painting. I did get one done for my Buddhist friend, intended for her when she came up for First Friday, but she could not make it...but it's done, and I am happy with it. A second one was being worked on for my blogger friend, but I was not happy with the progress and did not want to rush it. So, I will have to wait until the spring to get it to her.

But my blogger friend asked a very good question: why do artists always seem to want to give away their work to folk?

Good question.

Perhaps it's like the cat who kills a mouse and brings it to the doorstop of its owner...its caretaker: it's a gift, a sign of love and friendship, and perhaps also some sort of desire for validation. That is how it feels...although I cannot put myself in the place of a cat (mine are indoor and they don't get to catch or kill anything and bring nothing to us but their own neuroses and needs to be petted and loved and stroked).

Perhaps the artist is the same...at least this artist.

Painting has become quite a therapy for me...but it's also another outlet...a way to sensualize my creativity that pounding on the keyboard does not provide. And I am sure a Freudian would make something out the extension of the body with the long paintbrush...not to mention my chomping on cigars!

Right now, at the request of a friend, I am trying to paint something that captures the conflicting emotions of peace and turmoil...joy and sadness...heaven and hell. Will I deliver? Who knows.

Justin's, Blue Bar, Bar Louis and Kerouac!

This is not an "fpr," it is a Kerouac self-portrait as a boy. One of the many neat artifacts at the exhibit at the main branch of the NYPL "Beatific Soul: Jack Kerouac on the Road." Image courtesy of the NYPL website.


New York City is a hell of a long way to go for a couple of drinks. But go I did, and there I was.

Earlier, around 11ish, I had breakfast with a friend at a local eatery...the company was good, but the service horrendous. Then around 11:30 a.m., I kicked off my trip to NYC with a Manhattan at Justins. A very good Manhattan, followed by a cigar and a walk down Madison and across the Dunn Bridge to the train station.

I always get some kind of electric charge...some rush of adrenaline...some kind of beat in my head to which I keep a fast walking pace and again I found that pace and bopped up 6th, then 5th Avenue, and decided not to go to the suitcase exhibit...why depress myself. Instead, almost miraculously, I found myself at the NYPL main branch and a huge banner advertising a Jack Kerouac exhibit. The exhibit had paintings, drafts of texts, notebooks, codes for real people and their fictional names, paintings, sketches and charts of his fantasy baseball leagues, and yes...The Scroll.

Sixty feet unrolled of his original typewritten draft of "On the Road," written in a 3 week period in early 1950s. The scroll had been on the road itself for a while, and quite accidentally, after wishing to see it...there it was before me. As a writer and a bit of a sentimentalist, it was quite a sight...I cannot even describe how it felt to see this artifact of 20th Century literary history. It is probably close to the same feeling that devout Catholics feel when they visit a shrine of their particular Saint...or when a patriot...a real patriot...feels when she or he sees the Declaration of Independence at the National Archives.

Afterwards, I meandered to the Blue Bar, which was very crowded, for my drink with a young and beautiful lady who is also a writer...and a very good one (the writer was good, the drink was Guiness, which is always good). We had a nice time and a great discussion, and I gave her a copy of "Antietam," from one writer to anotheer, and then around 8:30 p.m., walked her to the subway.

Then I met up with a friend of mine from college, who just celebrated her 40th, down at a bar on 9th Street...Bar Louis. It was a nice little no-cover jazz bar near Avenue C. My friend and I talked for a while...mostly about turning 40 and love and relationships, then cabbed up to drop her sound equipment for her Sunday singing gig and then walked up to Penn Station.

It was kind of funny...we had the slowest, most cautious cab driver ever. He was a nice guy, but he was so cautious and so hesitant on the streets, stopping way ahead of time to let pedestrians cross, not changing lanes to pass left-turning vehicles...it was quite an experience in NYC.

I slept intermittenly on the 11:45 p.m. train, got in at 2:15 a.m. and walked from the train station back to Elm Street.

Not a bad excursion.

Friday in Albany, Saturday in NYC

I love Albany on cold days, especially when the air is crisp and dry and the sky is totally blue. Of course, I prefere a little snow on the ground and love the sound of my boots crunching in it on the unshoveled sidewalks (I can do without the ice though).

And then there is Albany at night, on First Friday, when its citizenry - at least those who are interested in art or free food - bop around the galleries, meet and greet each other, enjoy the work of their fellow Albanians. That is tonight's agenda.

Tomorrow, a mellow train ride to NYC at 1, perhaps a visit to the NYPL to see the exhibit on individuals who were long-term inmates (some were there against there will) at the Willard Psychiatric Center.

The trip up to the Met to see the Gauguins may not happen. What I should do is dedicate a whole Saturday to that and do it another time.

Of course, I am having my drink at the Blue Bar at the Algonquin Hotel. I am presenting a painting to my new friend and did another painting for my friend for tonight.

First Artistic Submission

This is the first painting that I have ever submitted for consideration in a gallery showing, appropriately called, "The Philogynist." If selected, it will hang in at the Upstate Artist Guild's gallery space and will sell for $100. I will hopefully know before Christmas.

I am kind of proud of this piece, as it is the first one I started and it is inspired by the beginning poem of my novel in progress. If it does not sell, I will hang it up in my own place.

The Weekend Is Looking Good

This weekend is going to be a bit busy, it seems:

On Friday, I will have a friend up, and we will enjoy the First Friday activities off of Lark Street...this is where various galleries kick off a new theme or exhibit for the month. It will be fun to bop around - gallery-hopping - and check out what other artists are doing.

On Saturday, a train ride to NYC and a drink at the Algonquin Hotel bar with a lady who is a fellow blogger and a writer (and a very good one at that), perhaps a trip to the Met to check out the Gauguin works.

On Sunday, back home and - very likely - poetry night. I think I will do eecummings.

New Relationship Framework for the New Life

Being the brooder and over-thinker that I tend to be, I have been pondering - post marriage - what type of relationships I want to have with women. And one word continues to emerge: friendship.

I have always been a good friend to women...mostly in the non-carnal state, but that does not mean that I cannot mix the fruits of friendship...ideas, emotions, shared interests...with the fruits of play.

And I have learned that I am at my best in friendships; untethered to any monogamous commitment, but responsible for my actions to my friends...accountable but unrestrained.

So, the same passion that drives ideas can also lead to no-strings-attached play...as long as everyone is honest with each other and I am responsible to the non-carnal aspects of friendships, I should do fine.

Networking

I have decided to join the Upstate Artists Guild here in Albany. They have shown a number of Lisa's works and had her as a featured artist in the back of their gallery a few months back (she sold well).

At this point, I have no intention of taking any classes. I prefer my barbaric, unschooled ways. Right now, I just want to find my "rhythmn" or my style and then later on work on the technical aspects.

I am a people person by nature, so I join more for the networking.

I've shared some photos of my work thus far with a couple of "real" artists (including Lisa) and have gotten pretty positive feedback (or they are just being polite). That is good, to the extent it demonstrates at least that I am not a total lost cause.

Still a barbarian, though...but perhaps not so much of a hack!

Dunes

What a wonderful Sunday morning/early afternoon!

I have completed a painting, which is inspired by the following poem,

"Sand in my Sperries
As I walk along the beach;

Salt water and seaweed
drowning my feet.

And I envision you sunbathing
Smiling, tanning in peace;

Hoping and praying I'll see you soon,
While I walk and brood
Alone on the dunes.


Now, content and satiated, I sit on a kitchen chair, wearing a pair of green shorts and a tropical shirt that my wife bought for me on our honeymoon in Montreal six and a half years ago...opened...noticing how grey I am starting to get on my chest, smoking a Hemingway Short Story and drinking a Knob Creek.

An artist at rest...and almost at peace.

This Country Can Be Saved!

Good news for all Americans on two fronts:

New Hampshire

- The Manchester Union Leader has just endorsed John McCain for President. This is a very influential newspaper in New Hampshire, and they endorse McCain for his competence, his vision, the courage of his convictions. As I have said earlier, it is my hope that McCain surges in New Hampshire to beat Romney and Giuliani.

Iowa

- A recent poll in Iowa has Mike Huckabee ahead of Romney in Iowa. Now, I don't support Huckabee, because he is a big-government conservative and has limited foreign policy experience, but I like Romney even less. And cannot stand Giuliani. A Huckabee win in Iowa and a McCain win in New Hampshire could lead to a great fight for the GOP nomination. Let's hope the small-government conservative with the foreign policy experience gets the upper hand. Enough Southern Governors!

- Senator Barack Obama is now ahead of Senator Clinton in the polls in Iowa. If his ground game is as good as his polls in the state, we can finally see the beginning of the crumbling of the Clinton candidacy.

As stated before, I am praying for a McCain-Obama race. Both are good men, both solid citizens, both stand against the administration on torture, both were right in their own ways about the war in Iraq. Both can be healers and unifiers...what is needed more than anything right now.

Poetry Night - Harlem Renaissance

Tonight is poetry night with my wing gal. She read Claude McKay's "If We Must Die." I am doing Langston Hughes' "Militant."

Below is her poem.

If We Must Love

If we must love, let not the law decree
Nor society dictate with cruel glares
Which lover is fit for you or for me,
Or how we love in the moments we share.
If we must love, let us love without rules;
Let us love red, yellow, black or brown, white.
Let children not learn in small-minded schools
That two boys is "wrong," but boy and girl "right".
Oh Lovers! Go forth and love one or more
Man, woman, or one of each! Freely love!
If we cannot love, then what is life for?
Let love's limits be, when all's said and done,
Constrained only by imagination.

(c) hmh, 2007




Here is my Hughes-inspired poem:

Apartheid

Head and heart
disconnected
a world apart!

Emotions exist
and they are real
yet I resist!

A giant brick wall
between thought and feeling
my own personal hell!

And the sick sad thing is
I like it that way.
Without that wall
I might sob and bawl
letting go of the pain
and I might be free!

No control!
No restraint!
But then I could not write,
And then I could not paint!
And I would not be me!

(c) fprm, 2007

Life Ain't Too Shabby

Had a nice night yesterday:

Made NYC chocolate egg creams for my business class while they read each other's papers.

Hung out with a new friend into all hours of the night. My friend was gracious enough to bring some wonderful imported provolone and parmesian cheese and some sopressata (sic), cantalope balls, black and green olives, crackers. I supplied the wine (Wango Dango, a Jumilla from Spain...or is that redundant) and the vodka.

I also received a lovely lucky bamboo plant...which I now must try to keep alive. If I water it weekly, to coincide with my taking of my pills or my weekly phone call to Mom, I might be ok.

But overall, a very lovely evening with a thoughtful and loving lady...who also happens to be an alumnus of the same high school as me.

Next week, First Friday off of Lark Street. The day after, I go to NYC to meet another neat new friend.

Works in Progress

The Redhead in the Tropics



The Muse's Chair




The Philogynist...bookshelf is new.

Finished Products

Darth, inspired by the second part of the epic poem, "Antietam."




Writer's Block, finished a couple days ago.



The Half-Drunk Bourbon, finished a couple days ago, inspired by the poem.





Sunset, completed yesterday.

Tabula Rasa

Sitting securely in the easel is a four foot by two foot canvas...untouched, empty, devoid of any content...I bought it yesterday, thinking I might have a vision to lay upon it. Nothing. Or nothing which I feel competent painting.

One option i had was a still life of a liverwurst sandwich and a glass of beer (go with what I know!), but that seems too small a topic for such a decent-sized canvas.

Another option was to title whatever I painted "American Idyll," and do a pastoral scene...complete with animal, man and...well...the great outdoors. But I question my ability to pull it off.

So, a challenge.

A friend is coming to visit tonight,and perhaps her presence will inspire or catalyze a vision.

Or perhaps the music that I play as I paint might do the same.

Until then...

The Moon and Sixpence, Take Two

This past weekend, I just finished reading The Moon and Sixpence by William Somerset Maugham. It was the first time reading it in over 11 years. Again, I loved it.

One critique, however, is that the reader either needs to know the paintings of Paul Gauguin or take the word of the narrator that the works that Charles Strickland creates are brilliant. For some reason, even with a good writer like Maugham, the words cannot fully capture the greatness of the paintings. It is tough to write about something that must be visually absorbed.

The same thing could be said for a great sexual experience, an espresso, a cigar. Each of those appeals to senses and cannot thoroughly be captured in words.

So, The Moon and Sixpence is a great book, especially in its contrast between the greatness of the artist and the coldness of the man...even if lacking in sufficient descriptions of the paintings.

I'm Not There

Last night, I went to see the new Dylan "biopic" at the Spectrum Theatre.

What a fantastic film!

I do not know much about Bob Dylan's personal life, and this film does not necessarily help in that area. But what it does is focus on the issue of identity and the role that Dylan's numerous peronae play in his career.

What is most intriguing is how the film focuses, mostly through the brilliant portrayal of Dylan by Cate Blanchett, on Dylan's moving away from the folk scene into electric and other forms of music, the betrayal that many fans felt about this departure from folk and the frustration that the artist has in moving on or moving forward.

My favorite Dylan album is "Bringing It All Back Home." My favorite song on that album is..."She Belongs To Me"...as it has been for 15 years. Of course, when I hear that song now, I think of my future ex-wife, mother of my child, and my friend, Lisa.

Productive Day

(This photo was taken on Thanksgiving Day, but it is a favorite of mine as it demonstrates the essence of my relationship with my little girl.)

Around 1:30 or so, my little girl and I returned to the Cloister after picking up some lunch to go from some health food place (named after some Scottish guy, there are a bunch of them across the country), and she played while I painted. With the exception of a 5 - 5:30 shopping break and then a break to prep and cook for us and my traveling companion (who came over to do some Walt Whitman poetry), I painted on and off from 2:30 until just about 11:30 p.m.

Completed "Writer's Block," worked more on the "Redhead in the Tropical Setting," the self-portrait, and "The Half-Drunk Bourbon."

And with some input from my daughter, started a new piece, yet to be titled, which I will give to her and her mother for Christmas. It involves one of those funky sunsets over the water with a guy (the artist?) looking out.

Again, photos will eventually be available, but the product again is nothing to write home about.

But it sure as hell is fun.

And, again, it was great to stand and paint and drink some wine and share bourbon with my traveling buddy, who was working on some knitting project with a somewhat complex pattern.

My little girl got to sleep around 9:30 p.m.

All is right with the world.

Owl Shop Cigars

A cigar and an Innis and Gunn at the Owl Shop Cigars, New Haven CT November 16, 2007


And a half hour later, I drafted the poem posted earlier this week, "Owl Cigar Shop."

The Process

Why am I enjoying this painting process so much?

It's not as if I can revel in my mastery of the art yet.

Nor am I necessarily happy with my product...though for a guy who hasn't touched a brush in years, I am not unhappy with it either.

But enjoying it I am. On nights that I decide to paint, the process goes as follows:

I will come home and get out of my street clothes and throw on my khakis and a beat up old oxford shirt. I have a rope for a belt, because I need to keep the pants up and don't want to get paint on the belt. I have contemplated painting nekkid, but don't like the idea of wiping paint on myself...(I'm still a little too anal retentive for that)...but I am comfortable.

Then, I pick one of the canvases, figure out what I want to do and get the paint ready...mixing some primary color with others to get the proper shade.

I pour a bourbon.

I put on either a record (which of course causes me to interrupt my work to flip or change it every half hour or so) or a CD (usually jazz, velvet underground, the pogues...nothing like getting dark with some angry irish punk band!).

Then I go to town.

Usually, for efficiency's sake, I will find ways to use some similar colors, with variation on other canvases, so the paint on the pallatte kind of drives what gets addressed next...the brown of a rug in the self-portrait can then evolve into the auburn color of the gal in the tropic setting, which can then become the lighter brown of a bar in the "writer's block" piece.

Another idea I had was to link each painting with a poem that I've written...but that may limit me to old ideas.

Stylistically, it is uncertain where I am...probably a little Gaugin, perhaps some Hopper...I don't have the abstract mind yet to go nuts like Picasso or Pollack, but perhaps in time. I try not to be derivative, try not to look at other artist's work and just go with my own process.

And there is something more sensual about standing before the canvas, the brush an extension of one's self, looking over in the chair to see if my muse is there (and sometimes she is), the music, the bourbon...the moment or two of sitting and taking stock of what is painted.

Will I ever become disicplined? Will I ever create my own sense of discipline to do this right, stay with it?

Who knows?

But as long as the muse stays with me, I shall press forward.

5 Canvases

Tonight, after my wonderful dinner, coffee and pie, I returned to the Cloister, stripped down, threw on my painting khakis and shirt and canvas shoes and began tackling some of my work. I have five pieces in progress, and tonight I touched on four of them (all of these are "working" titles):

- The Self-Portrait

- The Half-Drunk Bourbon

- Writer's Block

- First Attempt at Redhead in Tropical Setting.

A fifth canvas, "The Philogynist," remains untouched in over a couple weeks, as I am unsure how to proceed. It is the first that I started.

Originally, the plan was to paint a little, make a turkey sandwich, go have a beer at the local dive (a can of PBR) and come back and work, but I never got to the sandwich and never left the Cloister. It was a good few hours that I spent working on my pieces.

Photos to follow next week.

A Lovely Way to Begin the Holiday Season

Tonight, I spent thanksgiving at the home of a long-time friend, who cooked a turkey, home-made stuffing, mashed potatoes, green beans and gravy. Flawless! We spent more time hanging out and true to form ate in a tenth of the time it took to prepare the meal.

I brought a bottle of red for myself...a Don Juan Temperanillo. Tasty. Finished the whole bottle.

I am not proficient with power tools of any sort, but had the thrill of slicing up the turkey and did well for myself with her father's electric knife...and all digits and limbs still attached.

Dinner was followed by a cup of coffee and slice of pumpkin pie from Cardonna's. Excellent!

Best part...beyond the dinner and the company, I got the leftovers! Turkey sandwich later tonight.

Time to paint!

Quote for the Day

From "The Moon and Sixpence"

"There is no cruelty greater than a woman's to a man who loves her and whom she does not love; she has no kindness then, no tolerance even, she only has an insane irritation."

An odd quote for Thanksgiving Day, but none ever truer.

On a positive note, each of us should be thankful to have that capacity to love...and the strength at times to sustain such love in the face of such indifferent cruelty. On the flip side, the woman would hopefully appreciate that, despite such cruelty, she is still redeemed in the eyes of the aspiring lover. It is foolish, it is masochistic, but it is real.

Happy Thanksgiving!

The Moon and Sixpence

After an 11-year hiatus, I have decided to pick up and re-read "The Moon and Sixpence" by William Somerset Maugham. It was published around 1919, after the First World War, and tells a fictionalized account of the life of Paul Gaugin. The main character, a 40-year old stockbroker named Charles Strickland, leaves his wife and children, his life of relative comfort, his business, goes to Paris, because he wants to paint. He has to paint.

There's something about the creative process that lures us in...that makes us feel a need to create in some medium or another....writing, painting, sculpting. I enjoy writing, but I also enjoy the process and the sensuality that comes with painting.

I think that this book is what inspired me to pick up the brush 10 years ago. This time, someone encouraged me, but I took the initiative to start up again. I have five canvases going at once...but I have not done much with them lately. Need to focus.

It will be good to read this book again. And while I would not go as far as to abandon my daughter or my family, I appreciate the freedom that Strickland does...in abandoning his middle class life and his obligations...to paint.

Letting Go...and Giving Thanks

Yesterday, I had an interesting discussion with my therapist, a decent guy who seems to show an interest in my well-being. We discussed the issue of control, of learning to "let go," of finding a way to tear down some of the walls that keep my head and my heart separated.

It is a huge chasm between my emotions and my ability to express them...or is it my willingness to express them? After almost 40 years, castle walls and moats and iron gates and more walls have been built around myself. It is a wonder at times that I actually got married, that I was able right after knowing the marriage was ending to engage in another relationship (which, as we learned, I contributed to immolating), that I am capable of having an open and honest friendship with anyone, including my poetry pal/wing gal, or my pal at the Ginger Man.

Another word that emerged as a theme, a motif, was "paradox." The desire to reach out and the ability to reach out is often thwarted by a need to close down, to shut off, to destroy relationships before they are ended. All I can do is find my way out of this paradox to be thoroughly content...to break down the walls, cross the moats, venture out like Don Quixote...with some armor and a helmet. To not be afraid of failure and to go forth and faced it! To be willing to march into hell...

Tomorrow is Thanksgiving, and I am thankful for a lot. I have developed a decent support system, having good friends, a great future ex-wife, a great little girl, my family in Georgia and other places, my long-time friend (who is making me thanksgiving dinner tomorrow, despite the fact she is under the weather), my wing gal (who is one of the few I am willing to open up), plus some neat new connections.

And I am writing, painting, walking, going to find a way to reach out and let go...not of people but of those walls that keep me from truly being the loving person I am.

Control

One of the major issues which I have to address if I want to move forward and be healed is the issue of control. Perhaps due to my deep-seated fear of loss, and due to my desire to try hard to keep close those whom I am afraid to lose, I need to feel as though I have some semblance of control. It's a side effect which has lasting repurcussions.

Another issue of control is worrying about whether or not others believe that they have some sense of control over me. Because if they feel that way, then it must mean that my perception of control over myself and my ability to move independently is a delusion.

But, the key to this whole thought exercise is in two small words: let go.

I need to let go, not necessarily of people but of the idea that I have any type of control, that I can make people stay near me, that I can make people want me or desire me, and I need to also let go of the idea that it matters whether or not someone feels that they have control over me. If someone feels that my emotional behavior allows them a sense of control, then perhaps I should be happy if they feel empowered, instead of resisting. The resisting the notion is what causes the friction.

And I need to let go of the idea that what had come before needs to exist in the same form...people grow, relationships change, sometimes for the better and sometimes for the worse. Part of letting go is the understanding that these changes, however painful in the short run, are not necessarily bad. They just are. And I can't control how they happen. I can impact them, but not control them.

This is not easy to do. I come from a family of control freaks, but I don't think that I can ever be happy in any relationship or with myself if I don't learn to let go, to breathe easy, to give up the notion that having control is so important.

And I need to start soon, if not now.

Flowers and Birthdays

Yesterday, I went over to Justin's, had a flank steak and a manhattan, wrote a bad poem, listened to some piano, and had an o.k. time. There was some nice gals at the table next to me (I was right up front), and they were sweet and gracious and liked musicals and I told them about my LP collection of musicals from the 1960s. And the pianist played some good songs.

But my usual piano bar buddy was not around, as she had to work, and it was a bit lonely. After another bourbon and beer, I left and went home to sleep.

But, early on, I went to the flower shop and bought these lovely pinkish/orange roses, most not yet opened, for a friend who works there...whose birthday was the day before. I guess she appreciated them, but in a way it was a selfish act...I felt the need to buy a woman flowers, as I hadn't done so in a while, and I enjoy the glow on a woman's face when she looks at her flowers. And my friend showed her flowers proudly.

It wasn't totally selfish of me: I did think of her and was opting for a card or flowers and went with the flowers, but a part of me just enjoyed doing it for the sake of doing it and to see them and admire the complimentary beauty of the roses with the recipient, who is a beautiful young Scorpio gal!

And it did make me feel a little better after a slightly melancholy weekend (see poem below).

New Poem: Owl Cigar Shop (November 16, 2007)

The wonderful thing about writing a poem is the ability to express various emotions and to help cleanse the soul of some level of pain...pain caused by guilt, by remorse, by sadness, by a wounded ego, and lastly by feelings of loss.

I do not care if the subject of this piece ever sees it...that's not the point. The point is, I took what I had and from it, created something that can last forever.

This was written in New Haven, while sitting at the Owl Cigar Shop, the night before The Game.

Owl Cigar Shop

(November 16, 2007)

Most women on a pedestal would bask in the light,
would drink up the glory,
would glow naked in the night.

But you defy convention, you buck the norm,
you resist any such diefication,
you refuse to go with form.

And in your unexpected rebellion, my spirit was momentarily crushed,
you mistakenly suffocated my passion,
you unintentionally invalidated my lust.

Yet all I wanted was the connection we had at first write,
yet you needed to break away,
and you chose flight over fight.

So, here I sit where you once did in this leather chair,
cigar at the ready and bourbon so tasty,
and scents of soap and water and memories of auburn hair.

And I do lament that I failed you, that I drove you away,
but mostly, I miss the beers, the e-mails, the quiet talk,
and in the vacuum of our "thing," our passionate play.

(c) fprm, 2007.

New Poem: Song of Bourbon

For my fellow traveler, bourbon buddy and poetry pal!

Song of Bourbon

my eyes gaze longingly...the hand gently extended
my eyes gaze longingly...lips lightly kiss the rim of the glass
my eyes gaze longingly...the sip slow and satiating

bourbon sweet brown nectar
bourbon our mutual friend
bourbon one motif in a trinity

my look, chin down, eyes straight ahead
my hand, once holding brush, proffers the glass
my smile, standing and watching as you sit in my chair

when did this become such a sacred rite
this ritual of sharing the drink
as sacred as the eucharist in the church of us

poetry as liturgy
painting as prayer
the communal creative process transcends

this song of bourbon never ends

(c) fprm, 2007

New Poem: Blue Bar

This poem was written in honor of my new friend, Marcelle, and posted in celebration of her first signed publication agreement. This was actually written before I learned that she would be published, in honor of her body, her mind, her writing, and our future meeting at the Algonquin Hotel.

So, my favorite Harris tweed hat's off to you, Marcelle!


Blue Bar

- Algonquin Hotel, New York City, December 8, 2007

Often i am torn by thoughts of you: split in two different directions,
reading your very public blog and reading our very private e-mails;
uncertain which way i would go...

I imagine the contours of your body; i am attracted to the online image of your legs and your eyes.
And I am drawn in by your experimentations, jealous of those you encounter, and wishing,
like a faith healer, to lay hands on you..

Yet i am also lustful of your mind, wishing equally to explore that interior self:
that sweet soulfulness that i savor, that soulful sadness, that
searching, yearning, and longing for redemption...

Here at the Blue Bar i wait, my chapbook on the table, your poem handwritten and sealed.
My hands shaking, spilling some of my very dirty martini,
wondering, brooding, pining...

And realizing upon meeting you,
that those two worlds in which i encounter you
will become one...

And perhaps, if but for the duration of a couple of drinks,
a few stories and a few good laughs in a new friendship,
we can both seem whole.

(c) fprm, 11-9-2007

Harvard 37, Yale 6

If you look in a future dictionary and find the word, "hubris," you might find a photograph taken from the November 17, 2007 Yale-Harvard Game (affectionately known as "The Game") where Yale was expected to win handily and easily over Harvard after a 9 and 0 season. Both teams were undefeated in the Ivy League, and Harvard lost only two games outside the League. Well, everyone expected Yale to win and win well, including - I think - the Yale team. Sadly, it turned out otherwise.

Harvard won and won well...Yale could not move the ball, could not cover the receivers, could not sack the quarterback and could not, or would not, throw the ball. Harvard did all that and did it well, and once Yale fell behind, first by a touchdown in the first minute and a half of the 1st Quarter, then by a second and finally by 27 by the half, it was just hard to catch up. I read that Yale had never been behind in the whole season, so the team had no experience in playing catch-up, no method or strategy for making a come-back.

It was a devastating loss and for the team and a blemish on a brilliant season. People will not remember the winning season, with 9 wins and 1 loss. They will remember the one loss, to Harvard, on a cool November day.

Now, I don't mean to beat up on the Yale football team...I've been a victim of my own hubris: the loss of an election that I wrongly thought I could win; the end of a marriage I thought could withstand anything; the rise and fall of a relationship where I had thought I had done everything right and turned out I was wrong all along...so I am sympathetic to Yale. But perhaps in my sympathy...or empathy...I was quite sanguine about the loss. They expected to win, they got killed...been there done that. I was not as traumatized as fans or alumni, nor was I angry at the team...I was almost intrigued - sadistically perhaps - to watch an otherwise good team go down in flames at the point that should have been their moment of glory.

Moving On...and the Game!

OK, time for self-flagellation is over. Time to move on.

This weekend is the Yale-Harvard game. Yale is 9-0 and will hopefully complete their season with the big win at home. This will also be my first trek to the Game as a single guy and I look forward to the freedom that brings.

Sadly of course, the undergrad gals are twenty years younger than me. God I'm getting old!

Should be fun nonetheless.

Boola! Boola!

Detour

Last week...Friday, I think it was...I took a bit of a detour off my path to better health by indulging my dark side and feeding the pain and anger that I have over the less pleasant aspects of my life. Unfortunately, the punching bag in this case turned out to be someone who actually may have meant well, and because of prior incidents and past miscommunication I misread this person and overreacted.

I destroyed the last two pages of a letter I had mostly burned before. Then got in a somewhat painful e-mail discussion with the author of the destroyed letter.

It is only today...five days later, that I realized that aspects of what was said to me were accurate. I do have a dark side, a tendency to leap before I look, to not just euthanize but to immolate, to cast individuals in rigid archetypes...good and evil, truthteller and liar, friend or foe. Which is ironic, because I actually thrive in nuance and shading and appreciate that the world is not black and white and is not even gray, but bluish-gray, silver-gray, charcoal gray. I am trying to be a painter, dammit, I better recognize that nuance!

I have probably sadly and singlehandedly destroyed a relationship that need not have been destroyed.

[And were it not for the faith and desire of another to reach out to me, might have let go another relationship...which, thankfully, is not destroyed but was in fact strengthened last night.]

And anyone who reads this blog will notice that I go back and forth in moods...from extreme joy to despair...it can't be helped, that is where I am and what the blog is for.

I know that I am a somewhat decent person, but when I receive criticism - constructive or otherwise - its echo is magnified and all I hear is the criticism. All I sense is the loss. And I dread it. And, as far as the loss of a loved one is concerned, as much of a great (albeit intense) communicator that I think I am, I try to beat that loss to the punch and destroy it myself than have that loved one pull away from me.

That fear of loss, and my reaction to it, is my fatal flaw. Maybe now, five days after I destroyed a letter and possibly any chance at connection with someone whom I did value, I can begin to learn my lesson and let go of this fear.

Or learn to just let go...

Progress on First Painting

OK, if you are a serious artist with lots of talent, this is no big deal, but I am quite happy with my progress...artistically and spirituallly. It is a good beginning.



The Studio (11/12/07)

Shelley-Inspired Poetry

My poetry buddy's piece:

Gone

She left us right before Thanksgiving,
that wretched feast day for the living,
and as it nears again, I dread
it, for I fixate on the dead.
In fact, I hate all of November
since she died, also December.
Holidays merge with each other;
all are days without my mother.

She was not the best of cooks,
nor was she well-versed in books.
But she always kept us fed
and saw to it that we read.
Though her paycheck was quite meager,
you could not find one more eager
to invest in her girls' pleasure--
our smiles were the greater treasure.

Her voice was loud, her laugh was louder.
She made it clear to all: No prouder
parent could there ever be,
so high was her esteem for me.
And her belief that I could do
anything that I put my mind to
somehow morphed into a truth
(at least, I felt so in my youth).

But now she's gone, and with her went
the joys of winter holidays spent
with family, that, and too the drive
I had to create when she was alive.
For she was parent, friend and muse,
and no one else can fill those shoes.
No comrade, sibling, child or lover
could move me like my gentle mother.

(c) hmh, 2007


PAINTER AND DOMME MEET AT LAST

for D.

with your whip held loosely in hand
you take a drag from your cigarette;
paintbrush at the ready, i naked stand
to capture a moment i won't forget;
(but i sought a moment to transcend,
not take your lashes and regret!)
remy and cigars, a moment quite grand!
and your pleasure i do not neglect.
kissing, i taste my blood on your cheek so smooth,
and with my hands all over, your pain i soothe.

(c) fprm 2007

Scenes from an Evening of Poetry and Painting

As promised, some scenes of creative explosion!



I have no idea how this picture happened...but I kind of like it!





My fellow traveler...poetic and mathematical.





The Philogynist, as of yesterday.





The Portrait of the Artist as a Middle Aged Man

Painter's Progress

Tonight was another poetry night, with my wing gal/fellow traveler/poetic comrade...Shelley was the poet this time. Poems inspired by PBS will follow. Again, the highlight of the night was the simultaneous creativity...poetry and painting...she writing, me painting. One poem, inspired by Shelley...another, with each line having 7 syllables. My friend is more mathematical in her poetry than me...I am all over the place...although I did try a rhyme structure 4(ab)cc.

I now have five canvases going at once. I am in a bit of a block with The Philogynist, perhaps afraid to capture the woman with her red hair in the bed. I have a 30" x 40" canvas with an orange base,an 11" x 14" with a blood red base, an 11" x 14" with a blue base...but it is likely to be a self portrait (I wonder how good-looking and godlike I will appear in the a painting!)...and lastly, a painting of the half-drunk bourbon for my fellow traveler.

A little wine...a little bourbon (Knob Creek)...a cheese and fruit plate.

Again, a wonderful early evening.

Off to Justins.

Reflections on a 1970s Film

This morning, I woke up at 3:00, to find one of my favorite representative films of the 1970's on Turner Classic Movies: Shampoo, directed by Hal Ashby, with Warren Beatty, Jack Warden, Julie Christie, Lee Grant, Carrie Fisher and Goldie Hawn. What a great movie. Takes place on election day 1968, as Beatty - a hairdresser and philanderer - prepares a number of gals for a party that evening. Two of them happen to be involved with the guy he's trying to get to support his business, played by Jack Warden: one is a mistress, the other a wife. So, somehow in the course of a day, Beatty beds down with his future business partner's wife, mistress and daughter (played by a very young, pre-Star Wars Carrie Fisher), gets in trouble with his girlfriend, wants the mistress but loses everything...except maybe the business, in the end.

But the key to the whole movie, to me, is this great monologue where he tells Goldie Hawn how he got involved in the business, of being a hair stylist, for no other reason than the women.

It is a very dated film in a way...pre-AIDS, pre-safe sex, drug parties and Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts club band playing in the background at said party. And for a film of the times, it does cast a wonderfully dark message about the non-commital life that Beatty's character lives. He screws his way through the whole film, but inthe end, he has nothing...or he doesn't have what he wants, which I guess was Julie Christie.

I guess for me it's kind of timely to see that film. A bit of a warning as far as my own new bachelorhood: be careful for what I wish, I just might get it. But the reality is, I have never been one who is in it just for the sex. There has to be conversation before at after. There needs to be, in any and all relationships, intimate and otherwise, a life of the mind. And how you treat people, as I learn for the better and the worse, has repurcussions.

I've had a pretty mellow bachelorhood, thus far. I do seek more fun and thrills, but not without the added dimensions, not without the accountability - on my part and the part of others. Friends with benefits are fine and probably would work with an Aquarian and an ethical slut like me, but the key word is "friends."

So endeth the sermon!

Sadness

Perhaps my father is right. Perhaps this is a bit of a sad blog. A pathetic attempt by a man to rediscover himself, reconnect with the world after cloistering himself in some two dimensional idea of marriage, ultimately cloistering himself from his own family, from his wife, his friends, and himself.

A few have noted that this blog goes from one extreme to another...from enthusiasm for life to depths of sadness, perhaps even anger.

The activities discussed do occur and are enjoyable; the issues are not forced...they are genuine events and issues which I am engaging to keep moving.

But sometimes I stop, sometimes I pause, and sometimes I think. In this blog, you will get both the excitement of writing a poem and getting good feedback on it; and you will also get quotes from Styron on loss and abandonment, along with linkages to my own situation.

I don't know how else to function.

There is an undercurrent of sadness which runs under everything I do, think, say, feel...it is there, and I cannot shake it. It has been with me for as long as I recall...at least back to my high school years...that's over 20 years.

I can stay active and stay moving and stay positive, and will try to keep the depression to myself...fake it to make it, I guess, but my countenance cannot always be glowy and shiny.

That's just the way it is.

McCain for the GOP, Obama for the Democrats!

This blog has not really delved too much into politics, because lately I have not been satisfied with the direction the nomination process has been going. Too much handicapping based on fundraising and national polls, too much interest in what the media talking heads think, and we are going to end up having to choose again between the cleanest of our dirtiest shirts.

If the media are to be believed, the front runners for their parties nomination would be Rudy Giuliani, the supposed hero of 9/11, and Hillary Clinton, whose husband's infidelities earned her a seat on the U.S. Senate. I find neither of these candidates acceptable to a country that needs to be unified and requires a leader who can rise above the politics of the moment to lead us out of the 9/11 mindset and into a progressive 9/12 mindset. We need a leader who half the country won't hate and the other half won't just defend out of blind loyalty to the party. Clinton v. Giuliani would simply be more of the same...a clash of the baby boomers...a divided country. As I once heard them described..."Nixon in a pant suit" and "a small man looking for a balcony."

So, I am going to pray and advocate to my Republican and Democratic friends that they vote and support the following candidates for their parties nomination: John McCain for the GOP, and Barack Obama for the Democratic Party.

A McCain-Obama face off would guarantee a few things: 1) we would not have a baby-boomer in the White House; 2) we would have a president who has proven he can work across party lines to get results and would have a better chance at unifying the country; and 3) we would have a president who would be able to restore this country's credibility in the world by undoing the current U.S. policies (secretly made and implemented) on the use of torture in the gathering of intelligence. And although McCain supported the war (with many caveats) and Obama opposed the war (but is not afraid to both engage our enemies or take the fight to them), the debate about the war would be vibrant and honest and would give Americans a real choice.

So, in Iowa, New Hampshire, South Carolina and the states that follow, let us pray the country gets what it deserves and has a contest between McCain and Obama, and no matter who wins, this country won't lose.

Norman Mailer: 1923 - 2007

I sadly learned this morning that writer, activist, provocateur, poet, director and journalist Norman Mailer died today at the age of 84.

I have read a number of his works, including "An American Dream," "Death to the Ladies and Other Poems," "Tough Guys Don't Dance," "The Deer Park," and one of my favorites, "Harlot's Ghost." And I mostly enjoyed his work.

So, I hope wherever he is, there is bourbon and boxing 24/7 and plenty of bars and dead writers with whom to pick his fights.

New Poem

Yesterday, I wrote a new poem for a new friend, who has been quite encouraging of the painting and writing. The poem is called "Blue Bar."

E-mailed it to this friend yesterday and woke up at 3 a.m. to find a wonderful response.

In December, I will be in NYC, and we will meet for a drink and talk writing and painting and southern kinky-gothic romance at...where else...the Blue Bar.

Receiving her e-mail in the early hours of the morning made my day. I can coast on the fumes of her message all day long.

Existential Funk?

It is Saturday a.m., around 11:20, but I still have not gotten out of bed. Just hanging out at my old home...my wife and daughter's home....upstairs, watching Spongebob Squarepants with my little girl, IM'ing with a new friend, thinking about the post I deleted.

Probably suffering a minor existential funk, one that will be relieved only with activity, reading, new poetry, painting tonight perhaps. I should probably get out of bed.

Why a existential funk? I thought I was doing well, combatting the depression, reaching out to new people, trying to make peace in my own heart with those whom I might have alienated (not intentionally, but alienated nonetheless). Coming to terms with my limitations, trying to be aware of my talents and strengths and build on them.

And sometimes I get in an e-mail conversation that puts me in this funk...and gets me thinking that I have not progressed as far as I thought. Am I deluding myself? Is the fellow conversant and I so far apart that we can't communicate anymore? I don't know. I value outside perspectives, because they can offer a view that someone who is too emotionally close can't objectively provide.

I've made my mistakes in friendships and relationships, and I have certainly contributed to the failure of my marriage...both in terms of my rigidity and in terms of not taking care of myself to the extent that I could not tend to the relationship.

I don't know. And therein lies the existential funk. I don't know.

Poetry Night - Baudelaire

Tonight again is poetry night. My friend read "Wine of the Lonely." I read "Crowds." No painting tonight, as I needed to step away from the canvas.

I have posted my fellow poet's below, and mine follows:

Charlie, Can You Hear Me?

Baudelaire's works all wax tragic
Themes of loss and grief and death
Permeate each page, while magic
Thoughts round out this poet's breadth

Images of dying faces,
Touched by a cadaverous hand
Gamblers, madames, vagabonds stand
In sephulchral urban mazes

Island orgies seen or dreamt of
Cannot soothe a life without love
Or fill the coffers of a once-rich poet

Charles, if you peer down from above
You see that your works are well-thought of
Though in your time, few would dare to show it

(c) hmh, 2007


The Half-Drunk Bourbon

In the grayness of the night, reflected in the blue-grayness of my art, there sits a solitary bourbon glass, and in it, about half the amount of bourbon usually consumed.

On my canvas, I have painted walls and floor and bed, and I have sipped some stout and written notes and sketched and occasionally looked over at the bourbon glass, which sits on the coffee table in front of the armchair, which is where you would be were you here.

I will not finish the bourbon, because what is left belongs to you. I poured religiously, almost unconsciously, the right amount for us to share and sip - drunk almost with the same rhythmic pace that we received our kisses from the dark lady that one warm September night.

But you are not here, and you won't be for a while. And your absence in my cloister, where I paint and where you once wrote, is painful, almost unmeasurable except by what remains in the neat glass of bourbon.

(c) fprm, 11-7-07

New Haven 2007

Next weekend, I will be at the Yale-Harvard Game, with a handful of friends. This will be the fourth trip this year to New Haven, and I am finding that this town has acquired real sentimental and spiritual meaning for me.

In February, I was here with Lisa, and we discussed the future and promise of our new and redefined relationship, dinner at the Playwright, an intended Last Hurrah that did not happen, due to both of us being so darned tired. And a nice drive back, with a stop at the Donut Dip.

In late April, I was there for some quality time alone and to do some reconnaissance on nightclubs and bars for the Yale-Harvard trip coming up. What happened is I ended up spending the whole evening at the Owl Cigar Shop and Lounge.

A drive, a dinner, drinks, cigars, and a nice time took place in New Haven on July 21...an enjoyable moment in a bittersweet...and short...affair.

And next week...football. My first Game attending as a bachelor, alone and unattached.

Three Months

In three months - February 7, 2008 - I will complete my 40th year. I will be 40 and will be moving into my fifth decade on this planet.

Wow!

A couple more trips precede this occasion:

- Yale-Harvard Game in New Haven, November 16 - 18, 2007;
- New Year's in Chicago, December 30, 2007 through January 2, 2008; and

then the big trip to San Francisco.

In some ways, it is hard to contemplate the idea of being 40, since I still feel like I am 5 years old...or 18...or even 30...but I do feel as if this age, 40, is really my true age...that at 5, 18, or 30, I've always been 40 years old...that I have grown into myself, spiritually.

Of course, I also feel a bit out of time, like I belong in 1957, in the Eisenhower Era, the age of Sputnik, the age of the Edsel...the age of bebop jazz and beat poetry.

My gorgeous redheaded muse sits at home, in my armchair, awaiting my return tonight. I shall pick up the brush and paint and and continue the first painting in 8 or 9 years; photos will follow, once I use up the film in the cheapo camera I bought at the supermarket across the street. I shall look forward to the days and nights when other, more corporeal muses take the redhead's place in my armchair. But until then...

The Creative Process

Last night was the beginning of the poetry sessions, shared between myself and my fellow traveler. The goal is to stimulate creative thought through the shared expression of great poetry, resulting...hopefully...in a poem of your own. The first poet read was W.B. Yeats...specifically, "Adam's Curse," read by my fellow traveler and "An Irish Airman Forsees His Death."

I had written mine, posted below, while my comrade had not. So, while she wrote, I painted and listened to the mad crazy jazz on this CD which I had referenced before, "Shamokin," which was picked up in Chicago.

Both poems are posted below.

There is no more beautiful experience than shared moments of simultaneous creativity...both separate projects - painting and poetry writing; both different styles and approaches - my wing gal is more serious and measured in her approach, whereas I am more instinctual, definitely less measured. The poem she wrote and read was beautiful,and the walls and floors of the room I am painting are almost complete. (Photos to follow.)

And the jazz, followed by the Velvet Underground's eponymous third album, played on.

Afterwards, my friend departed and I went over to Justin's for a beer and to enjoy the presence of a bartender and a couple of friends who are waitresses there...then came home and crashed...but not before e-mailing my friend and thanking her for the experience.

Not a bad night.

Poems Inspired by Yeats

My fellow traveler and I began our poetry night on Monday, November 5, 2007, inspired by the writing of William Butler Yeats. Her poem, below, was inpsired by "Adam's Curse."

A Few Lingering Thoughts

Along the lake we stretched our legs and sat,
having taxi'd, trained, and walked so far that day.
Your animated tone had become flat...
I sensed what it was you were going to say.
I steeled myself, quite stoic, knowing that
a stronger love would not have flit away.

I felt that it was doomed, for from the start,
you spoke of thoughts, ideas so beyond me.
And though your charm and wit had won my heart,
your mind and soul craved more than I could be.
Fool that I was, full knowing we would part,
I rushed ahead, guileless, mind set on "we."

The years have shown me more than I knew then.
I've grown into a self of which I'm proud,
if prone to some self-doubt, now and again.
Sometimes when I am weaving through a crowd,
I think of braving El throngs with my friend
and wince to hear I've said your name aloud.

A decade's passed--more--since that final kiss,
with few words spoken save a rare hello.
What brings me now to think and write on this?
I needed to admit that this is so:
there are some parts of you that I still miss:
the laugh, the smile, the voice so sweet and low.

(c) hmh, 2007

This poem was inspired in part by the W.B. Yeats poem, an "An Irish Airman Foresees His Death."

The Redeemed Matador

i stand inside the bullring
the lonely matador;
my sword raised above my head
facing deadly horns;
i have killed many of your brethren
their meat sold to the poor;
and i feel old, tired at thirty, hateful
of all i've done before;
but i stare you down as you stand ready
your death i abhor;
i begin my approach, and then i stop short
lowering my sword;
today, i await your justice, redemption at last!
my friend, the day is yours.

(c) fprm, 2007