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

Monday...and a Great American Playwright's Birthday

It is Monday, and I am recovering from a busy but productive weekend. The painting is going well, and I am ready to tackle the next phase of it: putting a bed and a very covered up gal in it. All in blue, with except perhaps a minor tint of red for her hair. But that might be too contrived. I'll have to think about it.

Today is also the birthday of great American playwright Sam Shepard. He's either 64 or 65. I recall fondly reading True West, Tooth of Crime, and Fool for Love as a junior and senior in high school, wishing that our drama group had the talent or the cajones to put these on stage as opposed to a "safe" musical.

Anyway, my thoughts will be all day on the painting, the redheaded muse, the kind postings by my friends Marcelle (see "Philogynist" below) and Samantha (see "...And Painter II" below) and the thought that both of those ladies are quite worthy of a good New York egg cream.

Other thoughts float through my mind, but none that ought to be shared at this time or in a public forum.

The Halloween Party

A good time was had by all at last night's Halloween Party. My traveling partner and I went as Picasso and His Blue Period. She was the tried and true good sport, attaching blue-stained feminine products to her sweatshirt, dressed all in blue, with blue nail polish, blue lipstick, blue hat, etc. I was simply dressed as I was all day: khaki pants, blue stained oxford shirt, holding a couple of paintbrushes, some canvas sneakers. Of course I am 20 years older than Picasso was when he was in his Blue Period, but that's ok. The costume pairing was an abstraction.

The party comprised a good number of people in less conventional relationship structures: mfm triads, fmf triads, polyamarous mf couples, ff and mm couples. Everyone seemingly content and at peace with themselves (at least at the party). I am a little jealous of their contentment. I got to talk about novel-writing and egg creams with one lovely lady, got to see a friend who has gotten together with me to talk about polyamory and who wrote some kind words about me when I ran for office. Toward midnight, I simply got tired and started to zone on a couch, but never once did I not enjoy myself.

So, onward into the next week. A painting break today...perhaps some sketching on the canvas of the next phase...a bed with a covered up form of the Redheaded woman. For someone who hasn't touched a paintbrush in many years, I am quite content with my progress and my patience.