I Am Here

It is a Tuesday Night. I have been invited to hear my friend play around the corner from my apartment at some "art house cafe". I live less than a block away, yet I haven't been to this locale. I didn't even know it existed. I am told to arrive at nine, when my friend tells me he will be playing. I walk in at ten to. (I am in the Rothko hanging on the walls near the stage near the upright piano.) My friend is at the back. Either they are running behind or my friend was mistaken. Nonetheless, I am here so I might as well listen. The musician is playing a tune written for saxophonist and C.D. The saxophonist blurts out melodies over the manipulated sounds of swearing inmates on death row (I am in these organized noises). It is unusual, impressive, and a completely new and unexpected experience. It is my friends turn to play with his band. I have heard these tunes before. I am almost his groupie. (I am in his Melancholy Song of Dear Departing Friends). This Tuesday evening is unique, but not special because it was unexpected and foreign. I never seem to be able to predict what a day in my life will entail.

I Heart My Toronto Life. I Find Myself Everyday Without Even Looking.

I Am Here.

Wisdom From Lucia #1

"You loose something everyday. Time, money, skin, thoughts, moments, phone calls, opportunities. I could go on. So why are you so upset?"

I Am There

I found myself in New York City.

At the Eugene O'Neil Theatre. At the Mercy of a Murderous Barber. In Strawberry Fields. With the woman playing the saw in the Subway. In Persistence of Memory. In an Angel in America. Entertaining Mr. Sloane. With Jessye Normas, the Drag Queen Opera Diva, at XL. With Geoff and John. At the Circle Square. In a Roy Lichenstein. In a mosaic inscribed with "Imagine". With Twelve Year Old Spelling Champs (and Losers). With Picasso. In LOVE. At the Roundabout on a Sunday afternoon. On Ellis Island. In my dreams...

I found myself in New York City.

An Experience

Ex Boyfriends, Subways, The United Nations, Tall Buildings, Green Money, Twelve Year Old Spelling Champs, Gay Bars, Albertan Cowboys, Swanky Hotels, Old Friends, Good Friends, Lotteries, Murderous Barbers, Opaline, Modern Art, Big Parks, the Gateway to America, Villages, Phantoms, Yellow Cabs, Piano Professors, Hot Gay Scotts, Finding Myself (HA!), Losing Myself, Faux Arches, Fun. Fun. Fun. Twelve Hours Away...

THE NEW YORK EXPERIENCE.

Who We Are (Is Where We Go?)

Everyone seems to go to Europe or Austrailia to "Find themselves". I find this false and futile. To assume that there is a pre-destined self that needs to be found, and only can be found by traversing a specific journey to a certain geographic place is foolish. The self is not "pre-destined" but is made up of the myriad of experiences we accumulate. It is foolish to assume we can put value on these experiences. A trip to Europe may ultimately less influential than not going anywhere at all. There is an inevitability to any experience being a formative force in our lives. And the actual "self" we are is constant and ever shifting. We are always ourselves, so how is it possible then to find the self that we already are. That self changes as we accumulate experience. I often think that the efforts to "find oneself" abroad is an attempt to take control of formative experience. It is choosing the experiences we desire to make up our identity. That being said, I have lost myself in N.Y.C. I'm off to find me!

Lost In New York

Start spreading the news, I'm leaving ON Wednesday on a bus on the Hudson River Line to New York New York (It's a Hell of a Town) TO FIND MYSELF.

My Romance

It's a date. It's Saturday night. I am single and looking for love. Going on a date only seems natural.

There is not go for dinner, but there is a movie. I buy popcorn, a hot dog, and a large pop. I get a coupon for two-for-one admission next time I come to this theatre. Is this an omen for things to come? I cross my fingers even though I know this means that no one can hold my hand.

The movie is appropriately "gay". It follows a transexuals women as she comes to terms with her past by accepting and loving her estranged son. I sit next to three middle age women. I offer them some of my popcorn. I have far too much.

The movie starts. I laugh. I cry. I am too enraptured in the film to pay attention to anyone else. This is the point of going to the movies.

The movie ends. I want to weep. I am afraid of being seen crying.

I hold the rest of the bag popcorn under my arm, throw my hot dog wrapper into my empty pop cup, and exit the theatre.

The night is romantic.

Despite how I am alone.

I have no lover. My Saturday nights are spent going on a date to the movies with myself.

If no one will love me, if no one will want to be with me, I will love being by myself.

But that never stopped me for wanting this strange women next to me to hold my hand as I cried.

Missing the Missing Comment

*See the Comments

Blog As Analyst

*If you have little interest in Freud and Psycho-analysis, read no further.

The process of Psycho-analysis as introduced to the world by Freud has been nick named the "Talking Cure". I propose that this method of curing and/or dealing with neurotic symptoms and conditions can be done through Blogging, as a sort of "Writing Cure".

The Analyst in the Blogging circumstance is the reader. Unlike a jouranl, which often has the intention of remaining secreat and unread, the Blog is public, but anonymous. Like the analyst, the reader on an anonymous blog has no biased or direct connection with the material.

The Blog merely provides a structure for the purposes of communication. The patient/blogger is able to talk freely and openly without fear of reprecussion, as the analyst is outside of the life of the patient. The Blogger is able to rant and rave without implicating any "actual" person, only the "virtual" reader.

The Blog also provides an outlet for the patient to superimpose themselves into the world. Once they have transplanted their issues through narrative into the world, they are able to reread and perceive themselves from a metaphorical distance. Through text and narrative, the patient/blogger is able interpret and analyse with the ease and freedom they would obtain with any other subject outside of themselves.

Of course, such an assertion would take more examination, but, as I finish this post, I have dealt with and come to understand my neurotic need to Blog.

Apparently the "Writing Cure" works!

How I Want You to Want Me

I want you to want my body. And not just my body, but I want you to want boys with similar bodies to mine: slim, smooth, waifish, white, small. I want you to desire celebrities because their bodies exhibit these characteristics. I just want you to want my body more than you want anyone elses.

I want you to want to know what I think, how I think, and why I think it. The mysteries of my mental processes should fuel your desire for me over other boys with similar bodies: They may strike your sexual desire because of their slim, smooth, waifish, white, small bodies, but my mind is a mystery that is more enticing than the conquering these mere bodies. And my mind is held within the body, my body, you desire over all others.

I want you to want my laughter. I want you to want my pain. I want you to find pleasure and happiness in my pleasure and happiness. I want you to find sadness and sorrow in my sadness in sorrow. I want our emotional beings to be so connected, so entwined, so entangled that, like siamese twins, separation would result in death for each of us.

I want you to want me. I want you to want everypart of the gestalt that makes up my being. All the ineffable things in between, that exist beyond understanding and language, all the things you see in me but can't describe. I want you to want me in my entirety.

I want you want me to be someone who will want you.

If you want that then I will want you.

I want to want.

I want to be wanted.

Traces of Yesterday

I indulge in the smell of my finger tips. Lead from a pencil, coffee, buttons from elevators, onions, my own crotch, keyboards, cinnamon... The traces of everything I have come in contact with throughout the day remains. I carry the existence of my experience with me. Small particules of where I have been and what I have touched cling to my physical being, my body. Only to be washed down the drain in the shower the next morning. Not a trace left... We never remember such little details.

Audience

I Know You Are Reading This.

The Replacements

I have been replaced.

My ex has found a new love, a new fuck, a new boyfriend, a new romantic interest. Whatever you want to call it, he has found my replacement.

I often mentioned that when he left to Korea, as we would inevitably grow apart, he allowed for the possiblity of replacing me. He, in his pseudo-philosophical non-commital ambiguous way claimed he could never replace me, he would merely find someone different to explore existence with.

What is behind this polarity?

Do we merely replace those that we love but loose, or, as my ex supposes, do we keep our lovers in our hearts forever despite nurturing new relationships?

Maybe all of our relationships are merely Freudian sublimations of our desire for our Mothers. As we grow older and sexually mature, our friendships and romantic entanglements are simply an effort to divide our intense love for our mothers to socially acceptable objects. Once we loose one object that was an outlet for, in this case, romantic and sexual intimacy and love, we replace it with another person. If this is the case, the object of our love and desire is not consequential. Our objects of love and desire fit certain characteristics that make them suitable as an outlet to sublimate our intense feelings toward our Mothers. Their personalities and identities are secondary to their fundamental purpose. In a Freudian context, I think all relationships are merely replacements for the relationship we desire for with our Mothers. My ex, the Freud expert that he is, should probably agree.

I have been replaced, but then again, I was merely a replacement to begin with.

This doesn't make me feel any better.

It does explain why he found it unnecessary to continue communicating with me though. If that isn't a sign of how I have been replaced, I don't know what is.

The Truth About The Truth

The truth is knowable despite its ever changing face. We are feeling, thinking creatures. If we strip away pride, fear, and our insecurities, difficult as that may be, the truth is there, in our hearts and minds.

Missing the Missing Posts

If you read my Blog between 3pm and 5pm Eastern Standard Time this February 11th, you would have been privy to a Post that no longer exists. For reasons that will remain mysterious, that Post was deleted. The Post only exists in the minds and memories of myself and those fortunate enough to have been reading my Blog at the right time. So, those of you whom did not have the happenstantial privilege of reading that Post, it will remain unknown.
Nothing is more enticing than the unknown. Everyone loves a mystery. This Post is not a singular occurrence: It is only unique because I got to the point of writing it, posting it, only then to delete it.

There is so much that is missing.
There is so much that will never be said.

I want to share everything with everyone.
I want everyone to share everything with me.

This is not possible.
But it doesn't keep me from trying...

The True Nature of Love

The only way I could ever want you to be happy is to be happy with me because I could be so happy with you.

An Offer

I have been offered to join a couple. Not just for sex. But to be a part of their relationship.

Three way Fucking. Three Way Loving. Three Way Relationship.

Is this possible?

Why is this necessary?

Why would this couple desire to persue this?

Why would I want to join them?

If everything goes according to plan, I will be on a date on Friday with TWO MEN AT THE SAME TIME.
Maybe then I will be able to answer one or all of these questions...

Show Someone You Care

Our world is too convenient. Between Cell Phones, Email, and Online chatting we can connect to each other with such immediacy. I concurr that this convenience at times can make life easier, but, at the same time, we are taking our relationships for granted.
Would we chat to our dear friends from our hometown if it wasn't for MSN? Or would we just forget about them because we don't have the time to write a letter? If it were not for cell phones, would we just give up trying to get a hold of an old colleague or high school buddy?
Because all these convenient methods of communication are right at our finger tips, an effort to go beyond what is immediately available shows signs of caring. I am guilty of having relationships with people, that, over time have become indifferent, but I maintain them simply because of their convenience. Taking the time to actually call someone from the quiet of your own home instead of on the way somewhere on a busy street on your cell phone when it is difficult to concentrate, or writing a well thought out email instead of gabbing on MSN shows that you are willing to go beyond what is easy, and take the time and effort to go out of your way for someone whom you care about.
It is always best to actually spend the time with someone together, not merely talking using cell phones or MSN. But when that is not an available option, effort is always a welcome sign to let you know that you care.
Take your time, you thoughts, your effort to go out of your way to show someone you care. Don't take them for granted!

An Email: An Effort

To: ciao_anthony@hotmail.com
Subject: An Effort

This takes effort. It does not come conveniently. I could wait patiently until you happened to be online the same time I was, but that's safe. Or it could come to pass by mere happenstance. It could be coincidence that we just happened to log in around the same time. No. It would not be an active act, but one born of passivity. It would not take effort. It would be too convenient. I would rather take the time, and thought, and effort, and put myself on the line, possibly making myself seem too eager or anxious, by writing you an email.
Unprompted. Unasked for. Unexpected.
Romance isn't dead. Romance merely requires effort. Romance requires breaking free of the convenience of our modern methods of communication, of thinking, of living. If I had your address I would write you a letter. Email is the best I've got.
I had thought about calling, but it is late and I wouldn't want to wake you.
But I needed to say something to you. To let you know that you have sparked more than my interest. But the desire to take the time, and thought, and effort to let you know that I have thought about you today. More than once.
If I manage to spark even merely your interest, you can call me anytime.

Yours truly,
Stephen

Buddies, but not with Beyonce Knowles (a.k.a. Drunk Post #3)

I was invited to a party that Ms. Beyonces Knowles would be attended this evening.

I DECLINED.

I had already made plans with a Fabulous, Stylish, Beautiful Pair of Lovely Ladies. I could not refuse them. I could not object to a guaranteed stellar time with two beautiful intelligent women at a consistently amusing night club.

We went. We danced. We were fabulous.

They left early because one of the pair needed to work early the following morning.

After the pair of lovely ladies were left, I continued to flirt. By the end of the night I had fooled around with five possible lovers, and acted upon the advances of two of these potential lovers.

Making Out is satisfying only itself only on the dance floor. If it were in any other local, I would want to pursue things right to the (my) end.

The night is coming to a close. It is time to rest my eyes. I can do so with a smile and dream of the romantic consequences of an ideal evening.

Critical of Criticism

I am a critical person. I think it is important to be critical. It nurtures thought and the intellect. I think many people think that criticism is negative.
As an artist, I am especially critical of work in my discipline. Often, I happen to be very critical of works of colleagues and friends. . I feel that if they heard how I talk about their work and what I say about their work that they would be offended. I am sorry for them because I do not mean to offend. My aim in being critical of the art and theatre I see, is to continually clarify my own creative voice. How do I see art? What do I think art should do? In what ways would I execute a project? I am not critical to "put down" other artistic endeavours and other artists. Art in itself is valuable. My criticism will not change that. My criticism is to articulate and understand my reactions and understandings of the art I am exposed to.
Please understand this. I hope you are as critical of my work as I am of yours. I hope that my work influences and clarifies your artistic voice as much as yours has done for me.
I thank you for the opportunity for criticism.
I am also very critical of myself.
For example: This was a badly written, badly structures, badly executed blog post.

Taking a Stand on Being Stood Up

I am angry.

There is no reason for this.

I am a good person.
I am a talented person.
I'm an attractive person.
GRANT ME GRACE!

There is no one I want to call. I don't want to sound pathetic to anyone I could call. Those who whine about their pathetic circumstances are wasting their time and the time of whoever they are whining to.

STOP READING NOW!

If you think that you would listen to a friend in such a position, you are only listening to their pathetic story so you can feel better about yourself.

You didn't get stood up!

This is a problem.

What is the solution?

Any possible remedy seems bitter and jaded.

Conclusion: SUCK IT UP!