September 2004
28 September 2004 | Blank
I’ve been trying to think of a word. It’s not mutilate but a word like mutilate. It means to alter something permanently, and in a negative sense. It’s what I’ve done to my fingernails. I’ve blanked them. Blank is the word. I was explaining this to someone and couldn’t think of the word. Then I let it go because after a certain point there’s no use trying.
I like trying, though. I like the tension of it, or I like the feeling when the word bursts through the tension. Except it doesn’t burst through, really. It just appears. It’s like when the screen goes black and you see the title in plain white letters.
I know the word is inside me. That’s what interesting. I know it’s there, hidden, or perhaps obscured, and I have to find it. I try different approaches. It’s a lot like writing, or any creative act. I feel like I’m in an enormous house with a long hall and I’m randomly opening doors.
Actually it’s a trance state. I just tried it. I think without thinking. It’s like looking without looking. My eyes are open but I’m not seeing anything, I’m not focusing. It’s like I’m floating, or lying still while everything floats around me.
It’s not really like this, but I see myself in a subway car, in a tunnel, as another train pulls up alongside. Looking at that train, it appears that only the faster train is moving, and very slowly. One train drifts ahead, then the other, and yet both appear to be floating in something which is itself moving and not moving. Also, the other train isn’t a train so much as a series of boxes filled with light. People sit in the boxes. Everyone is hurtling forward, and yet they seem so still and floating—oblivious, really, and silent.
I just remembered the word. It’s disfigure.
21 September 2004 | Pavement
Richard knocks over my soldiers. Maybe he doesn’t mean to, but his foot
hits the board and all the pieces go flying. I run after him with my tennis racket. I told him to cut it out, I said this over and over, but he wouldn’t listen. First he threw grass on the board—”To make it more realistic,” he said—and then he pretended he was a kamikaze headed for my headquarters. That’s when his foot hit the board. In three years, Lisa Rothman will agree to kiss him during Seven Minutes in Heaven, after refusing to kiss me. Thankfully this hasn’t happened yet, or else I would run even faster. When I catch him, I smash him with my racket, right in the middle of his back. It makes an awful sound, like wood cracking. I hadn’t expected this. I don’t know what I expected. Later he will die—from heroin, says my sister—but I won’t know him anymore. He’s my best friend and always has been. Now he’s lying on the pavement and I’m afraid I’ve really hurt him.
Lately I’ve been trying to figure out what politics is. I mean, what the word means. And what I think it means, or what I think it’s about, is the practicalities of power—who has it, what’s done with it, and to what end. Doubtless this definition is incomplete and possibly misguided, but I don’t mind.
When I was a kid, I was obsessed with Watergate. Though only eleven at the time, I kept a scrapbook of newspaper articles about it, including a complete transcript of the Watergate tapes, which I read obsessively and which were better than anything David Mamet ever wrote or Shakespeare ever wrote because they were real.
NIXON: The point is that ah, now if he’s going to have this pissing contest (unintelligible) all right, bring it out and fight it out and it’ll be a bloody god damn thing. You know in a strange kind of way that’s life, isn’t it. (unintelligible) probably be understood and be rough as a cob, an’ we’ll survive and some people you’ll even find (unintelligible) in Mississippi you’ll find a half a dozen people that will be for the President.
HALDEMAN: (Laughs) Be a lot more than that.
NIXON: (unintelligible) No. We do still have some support in the country, I hope. But, uh.
HALDEMAN: Yep.
NIXON: But we shall see, do you agree?
HALDEMAN: Absolutely.
NIXON: (Laughs)
HALDEMAN: No question.
NIXON: Ya, ya, that’s right despite all the polls and all the rest, I think there’s still a hell of a lot of people out there, and from what I’ve seen, they’re, you know, they, they want to believe, that’s the point, isn’t it?
Then Ford pardoned Nixon and I achieved enlightenment. It’s a bloody god damned thing and it’s rough as a cob, but there are a hell of a lot of people out there who want to believe.
16 September 2004 | Problem
I recently decided, for reasons that would take an entire book to explain, to grow out my hair. I haven’t grown out my hair in fifteen years.
The problem with growing out my hair is that it looks poofy in the interim. Sometimes it looks more poofy than other times, but right now it looks particularly poofy.
I don’t want to care how poofy my hair looks, I don’t want to be that kind of person, but I do care and I am that kind of person.
I say to myself: There are serious problems in the world, but your hair is not one of them. I say this, and I believe this, but then I immediately wonder what’s going to happen when I meet a potential lady friend and she sees how poofy my hair is. I am going to have to find a way to tell her that my hair is not normally this poofy, I am going to have to find a way to weave this fact into the conversation, because trust me, any potential lady friend is going to take one look at my poofy hair and wonder what the hell my problem is.
I asked two friends what to do about my poofy hair, and one said to use gel, which I’ve never used nor even considered using, while the other said that gel would make me look like what she called a Euro Sleaze.
Both friends are straight women and I asked them specifically because I believe that straight women know about men’s hair.
Then three days ago I noticed again that my hair doesn’t look so poofy in the morning because, having not yet showered, I haven’t washed the natural grease out of it. The natural grease must serve as a natural gel, I thought.
That morning I didn’t wash my hair, although I did rinse it several times, and to my great surprise and delight, it stopped looking so poofy.
Like I say, that was three days ago. Then this morning, after three days of not washing my hair, I decided to wash it just a little bit, to put just a little bit of shampoo in it, because maybe it was getting just a tad too naturally greasy.
This is what I did, and now it’s more poofy than ever, a record amount of poofiness. I would take a photograph and show you how poofy it is, but I’m afraid that a small child somewhere, sitting at his mother’s computer, will randomly type the url of this website, see the photo of me and my poofy hair, and shout, “Look, Mommy, a man with poofy hair! I don’t know what the hell his problem is!”
12 September 2004 | Barn
Some part of me needs to be taken out behind the barn and shot by some other part of me.
I’m not sure which part is writing this. Perhaps that will become clear once we make it behind the barn.
What then? The ribbon of film runs out
And you think: In one sense you’ve lost yourself,
But in another you haven’t because
Who is this you you’ve lost?
Said another way, who was that you
And who is the you who feels the loss?
George Clooney wrote to me recently to ask who he
should fall in love with. I don’t know why so
many famous people write to me all the time to
ask who they should fall in love with. It’s not
like I know any better than anyone else. I can’t
remember who I suggested this time to George Clooney. No,
wait, I do remember. It was Jessica Lange. I suggested
Jessica Lange because I had just told Jessica Lange’s husband,
Sam Shepard, to fall in love with Talia Balsam, who
as you may know was once married to George Clooney
(at my suggestion, by the way). My thinking was that
Jessica Lange might fall for George Clooney as a roundabout
way to get back at Talia Balsam, who just stole
her husband from her. Lots of famous people, particularly actors,
get turned on by revenge-based relationships, I don’t know why.
Maybe it’s because actors tend to be so incredibly dramatic.
I hate to generalize, but in my experience this is
true. Anyway, I didn’t yet know how you feel about
George Clooney or else I would have told George Clooney
to fall in love with you instead of Jessica Lange.
It would have worked, too, because famous people always trust
me whenever I tell them who to fall in love
with. Sadly, George Clooney wrote to me just a few
days before I found out how you feel about him,
so this was bad timing. By now I’m sure he’s
with Jessica Lange and it’s too late. Of course I
could write to George Clooney and suggest someone different, namely
you, but I’ve never done that. Instead I’ve always waited
to be asked. Otherwise it would seem like I was
meddling. I’m sure you agree with this philosophy, despite how
painful it must be in this case. Please trust that
I will remember you should things not work out between
George Clooney and Jessica Lange. Probably they won’t, in the
end, but of course that may take many years, so
if I were you, I wouldn’t wait around for a
telephone call from George Clooney, who may be gorgeous
and all but is not such a hot actor, in
my opinion. p.s. I decided to write to George Clooney
just to ask how things were going with Jessica Lange.
I figured, who knows, maybe he thought she was too
old or something. If so, I could mention your name,
as though in passing, and see if he says anything.
I’m sorry to report he’s in love with Jessica Lange.
For two paragraphs he went on about how they’re supposedly
taking things slow, which as you know is what everyone
says when they’re in love and not taking things slow.
Anyway, this is totally besides the point, but George Clooney
didn’t ask a single question about me. I hate that.
Just three days ago, I pointed him in the direction
of the so-called woman of his dreams (his phrase) and
now he can’t bother to ask me how I’m doing.
A lot of famous people are like this. I think
it’s because they come to believe that the world revolves
around them. After all, that’s their experience. They have assistants
who run hither and yon, making sure there’s toilet paper
in every restroom they may possibly decide to shit in.
That fucks their heads up. There are exceptions of course.
Charlize Theron, for example, is a sweetheart. She sent me
a bouquet of flowers right after her first date with
Stuart Townsend. Okay, maybe one of her assistants sent them,
but still Charlize always takes the time to ask how
my work is going before getting down to the business
of who she should fall in love with. Of course Charlize
Theron probably doesn’t know what kind of work I do,
nor care, but still she has the decency to ask.
Most of them don’t. Keanu Reeves has never addressed me
by name in his emails. He starts right in with
the question. I realize this is a convention in emails,
to skip the salutation, but I still think you should
address the person by name at least one time first.
To spite Keanu Reeves, I suggested he fall in love
with his own mother. Well, no, I didn’t. I wouldn’t
do that. But holy fuck did I ever want to.
- 8:30 a.m.
- I’m kissing a beautiful blond woman. One second my eyes are closed, the next her lips are on mine. Can’t believe it. It’s like butter on butter. Then the alarm rings.
- 9:10
- Finally give up trying to finish the dream. Get up from bed.
- 9:15
- Delete twenty spam messages.
- 9:20
- Pad into the kitchen for water and thoughts.
- 9:25
- Jump in car.
- 9:35
- Start lesson with F, though despondent about my instrument.
- 9:40
- Try desperately to get my chords to approximate. They are ornery and swollen.
- 9:55
- Weep a little over the sadness of it all.
- 9:56
- F says he feels my pain.
- 10:30
- Head for the car again via Starbucks.
- 10:50
- Park at the gym and sit in the car while listening to NPR and drinking coffee, unable to leave vehicle.
- 11:25
- Enter gym.
- 11:30
- Check my email. C writes she finally has a date with K but doesn’t know where to take him. I suggest the circus.
- 11:35
- Waylaid by longwinded nutritionist who imparts no new information.
- 12:00 p.m.
- Begin rowing.
- 12:30
- Stop rowing.
- 12:50
- Emerge from gym.
- 1:10
- At home, eat salad while watching Shaker documentary by Ken Burns. Try to phonate.
- 1:25
- Though somewhat better, still crappy-sounding.
- 1:30
- Check email. No circus in San Francisco. Instead they’re going to a bar and C is bringing scrabble board. Bad plan.
- 1:35
- Call B about harpsichord. While talking with B, wash dishes, gather laundry, straighten up room.
- 1:50
- Call V about harpsichord. We decide on Thursday morning. V says Freud was right: civilization is inimical to happiness.
- 2:05
- Change voicemail greeting because V said old one was too optimistic.
- 2:40
- More abysmal phonation.
- 3:00
- Pack up everything and head to dentist.
- 3:30
- Wait for twenty minutes while reading about Eminem in 2002 copy of The New York Times magazine. He’s white, it turns out.
- 3:50
- Hygienist begins cleaning.
- 4:20
- Hygienist finishes cleaning.
- 4:45
- Land at Ozzie’s.
- 4:55
- Earl Grey tea served.
- 5:00
- Start to memorize songs for Earth Be Damned.
- 5:40
- Call R on cell. Talk for way too long about problems of the heart and R’s paranoid visions.
- 6:30
- More memorizing.
- 7:00
- Head home.
- 7:15
- Two sausages and some salad.
- 7:45
- Revamp website, lifting design from another.
- 9:35
- Get on hands and knees to plug in a loose plug. While down there, with head under desk, look behind, upside-down, at apartment. Have never seen it this way. Remain in this position a long time, looking.
- 9:50
- Realize changes to stolen design ruined it. Make additional changes, ruining it further.
- 10:40
- Think of masturbating but don’t.
- 10:41
- Ice cream.
- 10:55
- Check email. C reports on date. They didn’t play much scrabble because bar was too loud. She put down fry for 18 points and that was it. I tell her fry was a decent word, although I’m really thinking it closed off the board. C says K confessed to eating seven mangoes that day, all in a row. C was impressed, for obvious reasons. I’m jealous. Why can’t I meet someone who’s eaten seven mangoes in a row?
- 11:25
- Do bills while listening to Joseph Campbell in ecstatic philological rapture.
- 11:55
- Lights out.
