I was looking at my blue painting last night. It's a large canvas, probably 36 x 40, midnight blue and black, with gold flecks. It's an abstract; its black swirls look vaguely like a hissing cat.

It was painted by B, a friend of mine in Colorado. I met her and her husband P in the Vegetarian group (Yes bloggies, I tried being veggie for a while. It hasn't worked out too well, I was tired all the fricken time, especially after I began working out). Anyone else who has seen the painting wrinkle their nose at it: I guess they don't think it's very good. But I think it's good and I like it. I like it because: It reminds me of our friendship; it reminds me to keep focused on creative outlets (like B does with her painting); and it reminds me of the Colorado night sky -- the kind where it's cold and deeply clear, a million stars rising up like a halo over the massive and darkly shimmering chest of Pikes Peak.

B painted it when she was high on peyote. I think it's called something like "New Years' in New Mexico".

B was attacked after they moved to Denver, and she sort of lost it. She and P lived among slowly deteriorating conditions there for a year, before moving back to their native Canada and now live in Calgary. I'm supposed to visit.

Guess what! Hairybuffolder called me last night. I had left him a voicemail cancelling our theoretical date from last week. (I also left a cancellation message with xboy.) Hairybuffolder apparently is not so easily deterred. He asked if I wanted to go see Blue Orange at the Ensemble Theater, and I said I couldn't: I'm going to Rochester. So, he's going to call me again next week.

I should have said: Sorry Charlie I'm not interested. But Nooooo, that would be too simple. I guess I will meet him, but I will have to clarify that I'm not interested in dating -- or not. Maybe I'll start a conversation out with: You know, I have Trust Issues... Then he can reject me and I can whine about What Almost Was.

Actually, I'm not being fair to myself. I already told him I'm not interested, and we've already chatted a few times in the past and he still wants to do something. So, what's the harm in making a new friend? Even though I don't think we have much in common -- well, do I have much in common with a lot of my friends?

I've been thinking about what I could do to tackle Trust Baggage. Visualize myself in a fall and having someone catch me? It's so weird, because if I meet someone as a friend, there is none of that. I trust easily.

While blogsurfing a bit earlier today, I came across a group of blogs of gay, with-it folks, located generally in large cosmopolitan north american cities. Here's a few things I noticed: Some of them don't get laid as much as I did. (Although some of them do, far more often ha ha!) Some of them obsess about meeting people (OMG, there's like this cute guy at the gym and he looked at me today!) not unlike me on certain days. And some of them have vicious little fights and jealous spats with their friends, carried out on their blogs -- which all link back and forth with each other.

I'm very lucky indeed. I can't imagine fighting with my friends, it happens so rarely. I had a fight with C in Colorado about 18 months ago: We both had dated the same guy. I had a misunderstanding with G in the spring; he didn't like our discussing Astrology, which he doesn't believe in. (Mercury must have been in retrograde that day.) The last fight even before that -- and this was years ago -- was with DJ. I ran into him at the Uintah Gardens King Soopers and we had been chatting pleasantly enough, but then he followed me out into the parking lot: "Can I ask you a personal question?" his face all squinched up in anger, "Why'd you break up with me?"
"Why did I break up with you!? Why did You break up with Me!" Ah, the webs we weave...

I'm probably due for a fight with a friend any day now. Come to think of it, why haven't B and P written me!?!?

I'm going to Rochester this weekend to visit my best friend from there, Bump, and my favorite Rochester ex-boyfriend, Dave. Things are pretty frosty between the two of them lately, and also between a third person, Brian, who joined their little group after I had moved away. In the last few months, Bump has been telling me about his latest hobby -- rolling X. And that's not all, he has a collection of viagra as well. At 43! Maybe if he lightened up on booze and cigarettes, maybe he wouldn't need these. As for Dave, he's still smoking heavily although he's tanked up on pain-killers for the cancer. *sigh*

I love them both. I don't know their friend Brian too well, but right now he's in the dog-house. Bump says that all Brian does is complain that he's fat and takes anti-depressants like Prozac. They are not presently speaking to each other.

The plans for this weekend, much like any other weekend, is to sit around drinking and smoking. The current M.O. for those three is to attend a piano bar to drink, be bitchy and not talk to each other. Oh, and sing show-tunes, which must turn the place out. Then they stumble around the corner to the dance club. Yeah I know -- it sounds lovely.

Other than that, we'll watch movies on cable. I AM looking forward to seeing my friends, but I'm kinda relieved that we weren't so much in that habit (or *were* we?) when I lived there. Bump's already offering me items from his personal pharmacy, but I really don't have much interest. Viagra? Puh-leeze!

Bump feels I should be up for a little blue pill because of our last discussion on sex. When he asked for my details, I realized I hadn't had an encounter in a while -- much to his dismay. I think it's been about a month. Since I didn't think about it until he asked, that goes to show you how unimportant it has suddenly become. Hanging out in bars for pick-ups hasn't done anything for me lately. A couple of nights ago -- and probably after I talked to Bump -- I went out to see if I felt any different. I went into one bar, visually surveyed the clientele, and turned on my heel and left. I went to a second, neighborhood bar in Clifton that was almost empty, and sat solo, drinking a Fosters (Australian for Shit). I relaxed, happy with my thoughts and listening to off-beat 80s, maybe late 70s, music, like early Go-Go's. I could see from the mirror behind the bar that the guy sitting next to me would take these side-long looks at my crotch.

So, I don't think I'm missing out on anything. I wonder if I'm turning to a new page.

D, C & I went to see David Sedaris. The lines were around the block, and a mob mentality was beginning to break out as we waited to get in through one set of doors to a sold-out performance. All I could think was: I hope the other doors aren't locked, I hope the doors open out. I hope the sprinkler system works. True Confessions: I have never heard David Sedaris. I have one of his books, unread, on my unread book pile. He's a hit on PBS, but even though I listen to PBS sometimes, I haven't heard "This American Life" where he is apparently featured. He is hilarious, so sayeth everyone.

He was pretty dark. Don't get me wrong, I let out a guffaw or three, but I didn't find him as rip-roaring as some of the hard cores around me did. If he cleared his throat, he had them rolling in the aisles. He has a rambling sort of style: Stories that begin with one vignette don't stay in that spot for long, and don't come back. (No doubt like one of these blog entries.) He had a question and answer period, and generally people asked how members of his family were doing. "Do Billie Holliday!" the woman sitting next to us shouted. Sedaris refused. It wasn't bad, but it was sort of lost on me.

And well well well, a few of those same slashers were there: Is Cincinnati really this small? I made sure I waved and said "hi". They looked at me wondering who I was. (If you've read some of my earlier posts, I've had it with that. There's talk of a halloween party, I don't think I'll go. C was invited because she's a neighbor; D was invited because he jogs with them. I would be (again) their tag-along. I go, feeling hopeful; chat with tons of people and make happy happy; everyone laughs and is very engaging; then everyone leaves -- no phone numbers exchanged, no connections made. What a disappointment. I'll read a book -- a David Sedaris book perhaps -- instead.)

After Sedaris, we stopped in at a ritzy bar/restaurant that I've always associated with Older Gentlemen and Their Young Admirers. (True enough, there were a few of those couplings there.) The service is generally bad, served by 19 year old snub-nosed skinnies with mod hair who definitely meet the criteria "Twink". C & D ordered drinks with cream in them; I ordered Rum, Amaretto and added Coke to create something that tasted like Cherry Cola (c. o. l. a. cooo-laa!) As usual when we get together, we whooped it up and had conversations that ran the gamut, staying late enough to almost close the place.

The topic I'll type about here (me! me! me!), was the epiphany I had on Trust Issues -- baggage going deeper and further back than I thought. I told them it was so immense that it was easier to consider being single rather than dealing with it. "Get yourself to a shrink, man!" D said. And what for? I said back, I want to solve it; not mull over challenges in potty training. ha ha ha.

Well, I AM thinking about making a call. But I want to think about it some more. And now... it's time to get happy.

It's a warm, sunny Sunday here at my apartment. I have the windows open, and Grace is sticking her snoot under the curtains and out the window, breathing it all in. In the distance, I can hear the chords of the Tall Stack whistles every now and then. I'm listening to The Doves and Coldplay, and now some opera. Could life be any better?

Well, well. My weekend activities snapped me back from a vaguely hostile funk (see last few blogentries). On Friday, D and I went to see "Lost in Translation" at the Esquire. I'm not generally a Bill Murray fan, but man he was excellent in this. Scarlett Johannson was great, too. I really enjoyed it, but as we were leaving, I was surprised to see D holding back tears: He said the two characters had no roots, and only connected briefly before blowing their separate ways with no direction. But the experience was a good one and, at least for Scarlett's character, made her a stronger person, didn't you agree? Well, I think D's a much more sensitive person than he might let on, more of an idealistic romantic. Silly boy! Not that I held a misanthropic view of the movie -- I thought it was a great story. Rather, I thought it was "realistic": People meet, people connect (sometimes briefly) and then go on their ways. It's not good or bad, it just happens. (And in this movie, I think the connection was "good." I might go see it again.)

Last night, C, D & I drove up to a Dayton party, the guests all know each other through a loose connection with BIPC. A lot of my favorite work people were there, including KL. She's always a little out of water at these events, since this crowd is not a suburban meat n potatoes crowd. It was a Tiki party, meaning the guys wore hawaiian shirts and the women wore muu-muus (ha ha ha!). I borrowed a straw polynesian hat from C. The host had tiki torches, and I joked that whether or not the hat got caught in the torch, I might burst into flames. (aah ha ha haaaaa.)

Three newly-hooked couples were there. They looked so happy, it's a mental snapshot that I want to remember. B met his friend J on vacation, and even though his divorce hasn't finalized, they are hitting it off pretty well. I really like J: She's funny and down-to-earth. T and M both work at BIPC, and he was kind of hyper before they started dating: She's really calmed him down. Finally, D brought his new friend D, someone who he met on-line and who lives in Dayton. I'd never met him before, and gosh I hope it works out. D wants a boyfriend and this guy seems decent and likeable and, at least last night, really into D. So, love was in the air. And hope is renewed.

This morning, I finished reading Ann Patchett's Bel Canto. I was having trouble in the middle; seemed like it took forever. It won the Faulkner Award, but I hadn't seen what made it so great. It really picked up at the end, but I'm not now sure if I liked the reasons why. If you plan on reading the book, then pretend I didn't tell you ... The characters in the book start falling in love with each other and then -- in the very last pages -- they're all gunned down. Just like that. In a way, I'm irritated: True Love can't last seems to be the message. Kind of a cop-out because the reader will remember and sentimentalize the love that takes up the middle of the book (see the reviews in the link, for example). I would have thought it an optimistic book, but now I think it's not so bright.

When I called D today to gossip, he said: What did you expect? They're all taken *hostage*, how did you think it would end? True. But it's also a work of *fiction* and the author could have chosen a different route. The plot and character choices she made here reflect a state of mind that sends a message. Because I disagree that "true love can never last", perhaps there's still some hope for me yet...!

Even though I'm preoccupied with the Dayton move and have taken myself off the dating market, I'm (suddenly?) a little more optimistic: The movie, the party, and my reaction to this book have me wondering about possibilities. I wonder if D's new friend has any available friends? hee hee.

Well, the music has ended and I'm going to see if I can slog through traffic to catch a glimpse of Tall Stacks before they toot out...

Cheers.