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.

Progress!

With the exception of a break around 12:30 p.m. for a beer and a bourbon while tried to figure out what to do with the disaster I created, I spent most of the day inside, re-doing the base coat, listening to the Velvet Underground and other tunes and painting. Thinking about the art I saw last night, the detail, the passion, I feel very much like a caveman (and if you are out there, my neanderthal friends, I mean no offense...you invented graffiti, and street art, so for that I am grateful) in my style and utter lack of detail.

But, baby steps!

Here's a status report: a pint glass full of the magic elixir chocolate egg cream, with white foth dripping over the side, an ashtray with a lit cigar,with smoke heading toward the egg cream glass, which splits the trail of smoke into two, a book (title to be determined). Can't say I am not pleased with the progress for a day.

And my muse, my redhead with glasses and poetry book...she was with me in my armchair all along!

Off to a post-Halloween party, where I am going as the painter and my fellow traveler is going as Picasso's Blue Period. Although, based on my recent epiphany about the depression I have been fighting, it could very well be McLain and His Blue Period! That's at 9ish.

Time now to step out for a quick beer.