The Grand Opening

Ok, let's do this. I remember hating reconstructing stuff from notes later during the NYC/Washington trip, so I'll try to keep this more or less up to date.

We arrived in San Francisco yesterday, at 1 p.m., having spent over 15 hours in transit. The flight was pretty uneventful apart from Smelly Foot Gate. Before I go any deeper into that, I should point out that I was sitting a row behind Gosia, and so couldn't really hear any of the actual conversations, so I only have body language and her subsequent account to draw upon. Smelly Foot Gate began with Gosia taking off her shoes. This encouraged an Italian lady sitting next to her to take off hers as well - but unfortunately, there was some serious odour involved, so she quickly put them back on again. The odour, however, persisted. 10 minutes later a stewardess came and asked Gosia to put her shoes back on. Gosia started arguing that it wasn't her odour, and eventually the stewardess left. 20 minutes later a stately gentleman sitting in front of Gosia turned around and asked her to put her shoes back on. Gosia started arguing again. This time the ripples spread - more and more people started turning around and asking what was going on. Finally, Gosia relented and very resentfully put her shoes back on (she claims that in the meantime she actually went into the bathroom to smell her socks and shoes and make sure that her feet didn't smell). For my part, I was happy to be watching from the sidelines and not hearing what was actually being said.

The other slightly interesting thing about the flight was the flight map - as we were nearing our destination, I saw things like Klamath Falls and Redding pop up. Until then, these were purely Fallout names to me.

The journey to our hotel was pretty uneventful as well, unless you count lugging suitcases up a series of hills. Apparently San Francisco is more vertical than it is horizontal.

Our hotel is located on Bush Street in a district called Knob Hill, so there's that. The actual name is Nob Hill, but I refuse to acknowledge that, and you can't tell the difference in speech anyway, so I just pretend I'm saying Knob whenever I talk about it.

We miraculously avoided getting jetlagged - despite only having slept around 4 hours total over the past 48 hours, I wasn't sleepy at all when we landed, and convinced Gosia to go and see the ocean. We arrived around sundown, and... well, it was pretty. Obviously. Chasing the high, we went into one of the gazillion seafood restaurants clustered around Pier 39, and gorged on crab, shrimp and mussels (seafood - check). It as pretty awesome, even if the tip alone ended up being worth as much as a good meal + service in Warsaw.

On our way back, a very friendly- and somewhat homeless-looking older man stopped us and asked if we spoke English (he must have heard us speaking Polish, or something). I followed my first instinct and defensively said "barely". He said he's a comedian and that he'd like to tell us a joke - and if we liked it, he wouldn't mind if we gave him a buck or two. We got into a short conversation, which was a bit awkward because I forgot I supposedly barely spoke English at all. Finally, he told us an "atheist joke".

- Knock knock.

- Who's there?

- Nobody.

I liked it.

At one with the moment

We watched the Simon Amstell standup, and it was actually... well, it certainly was well-crafted. You could see how much work went into breaking it down into small segments that flowed into each other pretty seamlessly, and how aptly placed the callbacks to earlier bits were. A lot of it struck so close to home though, that I found myself drifting away from the humor towards some sort of internal scoreboard, checking off whether I was more, equally, or less fucked up in the currently discussed capacity. The whole thing's on the Internet by the way:

We're running, and everyone else I think is one with the moment, one with joy, one with the universe, and I'm there, as we're running, thinking 'Well, this will probably make a good memory...' Which is living in the future, discussing the past with someone who if they asked you 'Oh what did it feel like?' [you'd go] 'I don't know, I was thinking of what I'd say to you.'

That one gave me the longest pause, because it's pretty all-encompassing, and therefore related to all my other... peculiarities. I think I'm still a bit ahead of Amstell on that front. It's not a crippling mechanism - usually - but it felt very weird when I realized that I had had the exact same thought literally three hours before.

I was at my parents' house, and as I was about to leave, my mother asked if she could show me and dad something she'd been practicing. We sat down in her room, she put on a Russian folk song on YouTube, and sang the second voice to it. It was the first time I've ever heard her do anything like that. She was visibly nervous, and off key at times. At first I had no idea how to react. And then I heard this voice in my head: stay in this, take in as much as you can. When they're gone, you will want to remember it.

So I tried, vacillating between sitting in that room in Winter and listening to my mother sing, and some vague point in the future when this memory would need to be as vivid as I could make it. Unsure whether what I felt in the moment was a direct response to the now, or a bizarre reflection of this projected, inevitable loss.

Maybe I'm not ahead after all.

Custom-made

Had a fun night out. Met a cute fetus. Went urrrrr gurrrr blerrrr at him. Then learned he's straight and charmed the shit out of him. Like a motherfucking Ninja of the Fruitless Orchard.

I'm not even surprised. I just want my superpowers WHEN I ACTUALLY NEED THEM. For once.

Pauli tells me Simon Amstell did a whole standup set about just that. We're gonna watch it on Tuesday. Because misery loves company? Bullshit, everyone loves company.

Because I've no other plans. *drops mic*

Stories

I don't really have this one mapped out... we'll see how it goes.

A while ago I was shown a film called Weekend, which is a gay love story. I usually balk at calling things gay anything (why can't it just be a "love story" and all that crap), but in this case the qualifier is quite essential. More on that later.

Anyway, I thought the film was really good - especially the acting and the dialogue. Real people talking, and not talking. Meanings carried inbetween. I figured it was a cool new addition to my catalog of relationship studies.

A day went by, then two, and I realized that it didn't go away. A buzz in the back of my head, a lump in the pit of my stomach - it was still there. I got my own copy, re-watched a few scenes. Started cutting out clips, and flinging them at people. I spread the word. Finally I rested, satisfied.

Some time after, my mother asked me if I could get the movie for her. I had sent her a song that played over the end credits (it was very much her sort of music). She did some digging around on YouTube, found a couple of scenes, and wanted to see the whole thing. I figured why not, except the Polish subs were pretty horrible, so I decided to tweak the translation first. This of course meant that I had to see the whole thing again, which rekindled my urge to share it with someone.

Today I watched the whole thing with Ana, and here is where - at long last - the Thoughts come in. One of the characters in the movie is a self-proclaimed artist and semi-militant gay... activist, I guess? If you consider speechifying about the societal structure to be activism. It's even nicely played up for humor, when he delivers a drunken sermon on the inherent heterosexuality of narrative in popular culture to an increasingly confused middle-aged bar patron. The thing is, my first reaction was to roll my eyes at most of the stuff he said. And then roll them again once I realized that he also serves as a delivery system for the filmmaker's thoughts on the subject (it actually gets a bit meta at one point, with the guy musing on whether anyone will see his work, since it's just gay stuff - but the character is so well-written that I hadn't picked up on it at first).

I kept thinking that I long for the day when you don't need to have a character give the audience a crash course in Being Gay in Our Society, and highlight the suckage involved. Or preach on the importance of taking charge and making up "our own" - i.e. gay - stories. Once again: why do they have to be gay? Why can't they just be "stories"?

Well, the thing is... maybe they can't. Or maybe they shouldn't. It's been hours, and I'm still riding a wave of crushing melancholia. The thing punched right through me and pulled out a horrible, gnawing hunger right to the surface. I can recall only one other instance of me having this guttural a reaction to a film - and that was after seeing Angels in America.

I get emotional watching... my first instinct was to write "universal", but yes, the truth is "straight" stories. Stuff happens, I empathize, I appreciate the nuances, I revel in the dynamics. But I do not get fucking incapacitated. That stuff gets filtered and translated through my brain, I guess. Meanwhile, this movie bypassed all those checkpoints, and interfaced directly. And I doubt that's because it was just that good.

The sinking feeling will pass, I should have it locked and chained again in a day or two, but I guess I might need to rethink some of my kneejerk reactions towards ghettoization.

The One Where I Lose My Marbles, Apparently

Right now, I'm in the midst of a completely random Pink bender. Yesterday I randomly clicked on a YouTube interview with her (it was in "related videos" for a clip I'd watched), and that was that. I've never listened to Pink, I've never watched a single interview with her, nothing. So it's very possible that I'm experiencing a massive mental breakdown. Either that, or she is legitimately one of the most awesome showbiz people out there.

Anyway, the interview that started it all is here (the best part is around the 6:00 mark, but it's all good):

And here - around 5:00 - is a bit more background on the whole "throwing a knife at husband" story:

I've decided we should totally hang out.

Glaciers

Two days ago I saw this cute - in a slightly gangly, academic sort of way - guy dining alone at my regular lunch place, reading a book on church-state relations from the Middle Ages to the Enlightenment. I ogled him for a while (had to, really, to make out the title of the book), but I think it's fair to say that we peaked, contact-wise, when he glanced at me just in time to see a piece of cucumber fall out of my mouth.

Today I bumped into him again - this time with something Antiquity-related, though the font was too small for me to make out the specifics.

The overall set-up is pretty dismal, since we're both in our own separate bubbles, gobbling down food and reading our history books, but if I see him 50 more times, I'm totally casually dropping "So how about them crazy Prince-Bishops of Mainz, eh?" or some equally sizzling chat-up line.

In other news - I have a new passport, a new credit card, a new phone, and Esthero has a new album coming out. So let's drink to that.

Urbane

Went out last night to meet with Natalia. I was really looking forward to it, but there was some outside turbulence which tinted the overall feel a different shade. Natalia texted me that she was going to be quite a bit late, and I was already on my way, so I decided to make a pit stop at Filip's. I was clear from the start that I was only popping in for half an hour or so, and tried to be vague about my plans for the evening, but when asked point-blank, I told him who I was meeting. As soon as I did, I knew it wasn't a good idea. The room soured, though Szymon did his best to diffuse the situation. Either way, I bolted.

And then once I got to the club, I bumped into a guy who had been hitting on her and whom I thought she was avoiding. I decided I should probably let her know before ordering any drinks, in case we needed to relocate, but she said it wasn't an issue anymore. And after I got back to the bar, I found out that my reflexes were as sharp as ever in that I had actually already ordered a drink, and then promptly skipped out on the bewildered bartender to make clandestine phone calls, because I am smoothness incarnate.

The guy was amusing, but completely hammered, and kept popping by to share stories about his CRAFT (he's an actor), And then about an hour into our meeting, Filip called Natalia asking if they could come by. She replied in the diplomatic (and stilted) negative, and thus the whole thing became "an issue". All in all, too much drama for a late night catching up. And none of it mine.

And today - an hour-long breakfast at my local cafe, with Harold Nicolson's diaries.

August 13, 1941

[Dorothy Thompson, the American journalist] says that we must always remember that America is composed of many millions of people who left Europe because they hated it, and that there are many millions of Italians and Germans whose hearts go out to their mother countries. Although these emotions pull America apart, they feel at the same time a strong longing to remain together. What we don't filly understand in this country is the actual dread of the American soul at being split. There is always the fear that they will cease to be a nation.

I teared up a bunch of times. I still find it hilarious that nothing makes me bawl harder than grand geopolitical narratives.

And once again, I regret I've stopped writing things down. Maybe the solution is a private diary?

No moleste

This has been making me laugh for 4 days now:

Her delivery on the actual phrases is flawless. Gotta find me some more of her.

Blink and you'll miss it

I've been meaning to write that life is really good, that I'm content and mellow, perhaps even - dare I say - happy, and have been for quite some time now, but I kept putting it off (partially for fear of seeming bipolar, given the last entry), until finally it became no longer 100% accurate.

Nothing's changed in the land of real, I'm still content etc., but I got bells and whistles going off and upsetting my general sense of zen. As usual, there's nothing I can do about it, but unlike before - I'm not in the least pleased with this development, and wish it never occurred in the first place.

Looking forward to this non-starter fading away, and me getting back to enjoying all the little things.

Speaking of bipolar, I don't think I'll ever find a more accurate depiction of my... me. Sans that final imploration, that is, which mars the song a little bit for me. A very little bit though.

Fragile states

I'm exhausted, and there's still 3 weeks of work left, followed by ultra-intense work during the festival itself. I'm coping, but it's not terribly fun.

Found this picture on the Internet today:

Something about that critter's face does a number on me. I know it's supposed to be smiling, but all I'm getting is sad, scared, lost, and alone.

Ginger Beer

I usually manage to write something here when I'm traveling, but this time there didn't seem to be any social downtime. Plus I didn't bring my laptop.

Now things are winding down, and I have arrived at the "closing of doors" state of mind. I like it here. It's kind of nostalgia meets smell the roses - people appear warm and lovable, the couch is extra comfy, and even the still unopened plastic bottle of Ginger Beer on the counter seems like good memory snapshot material.

No epiphanies though, just swirling mood magma.

You fucking meatball

I don't quite see him building an intercontinental ballistic missile anytime soon, but I feel like my absolutely uber-shallow crush has been somewhat validated. Seems like a genuinely nice guy, and even has a few funny moments.

Several muses short

Today, I found myself vaguely wishing that I were more creative. I've been listening to this song...

...and the first thing I latched onto was the line "I will stay for this last transformation". For some reason it connected, and I got a little story going in my head about it being a farewell song to a mercurial and possibly self-destructive friend. Then I read the lyrics, and it doesn't really seem that way, but I've grown so attached to the previous reading that I almost considered trying to write something of mine, with that line as a starting point.

Except I wouldn't even know where to begin.

I wonder why the image of this particular type of farewell clicks with me. I think it's the emotional disconnect, or emotional compoundness, rather - playing along one last time because you want to milk these last moments for everything you loved about the person, but already knowing that it's over. On one hand you want to be in the moment, to make it real, but on the other - you're already having a completely different experience, informed by your awareness of the endgame. I guess it's a bit like telling the dying guy that yeah, we won, even as the world burns around you - except without the cumbersome pathos. Which would make it a close cousin of my absolute favorite: the calculated and resigned (as opposed to determined/heroic) last stand.

And there we go, resonance mapped. I guess this sort of psychobabble is the closest I'll ever get to writing a song.

Sprung

* woke up
* read some Internet
* pedaled all the way through an episode of Downton Abbey (I did not see the Ottoman anal sex coming)
* fixed a minor crisis caused by my co-worker
* did the laundry
* went out for lunch
* bought some anti-clothes-moth hanger thingie, as well as several other household items
* and stuff for breakfast (I haven't eaten any for the past 5 days, holidays are horrible)
* shaved, sort of
* noticed the bananas are getting way too ripe, so made a smoothie out of them
* with a dollop of honey, as I ran out of milk and no one likes a sour smoothie on pure natural yoghurt
* noticed the windows are filthy, but no way am I cleaning them now

Feeling very accomplished. Time to get some work done.

Also, this is a pretty decent album:

Tile unlocked

So apparently one of the key questions in life is: How hungry are you, exactly?

Which is bullshit. I want to be instantly launched head-first into places beyond questions. Wham. End of story.

Except my whams are all ker-splats.

Enlightenment pending.