These weeks in late January in Rochester are grim. I don't want to do anything in the evenings. Tonight, however, I forced myself to go to a concert at the Eastman Theater. An Eastman School of Music orchestra was playing an all-Russian bill. The night was soooo cold, blustery and harsh that it seemed appropriate... the harsh Russian winters. The orchestra played a violin concerto of Prokofiev. I ought to know it, but none of it sounded familiar to me. The orchestra and soloist made a good effort of it, but I was not focused. It was a chamber piece really, small orchestra, small sound, neo-classical Prokofiev, with his typically ethereal slow movement and a whirling finale. But it seemed all so sleek and restrained, more a museum piece than anything, though of course it was just my mood. The second half of the program was the Tchaikovsky Symphony No. 4. I know this piece very well. I memorized every note of it when I was a teenager. It's an inventive and utterly beautiful piece, and altogether Russian. Such a pleasure to hear it tonight. God it was lovely. The orchestra performed very well, especially the woodwinds. The bassoonist was perfect. I saw an acquaintance at intermission. He was on his way home, too tired to endure the Tchaikovsky. He assured me it would be nothing if not loud. hehehe It's not cool to like Tchaikovsky, but I love his music, especially that symphony. It was nice going alone, actually. I sat up in the mezzanine, my favorite spot, no one within several rows of me. It was warm. I brought a little something to read between pieces. I popped in before the opening piece, and popped out after the last curtain call, no crowds, no fee! So easy. Ann had thought about going but decided against it. I've always enjoyed going to concerts alone, just as I still enjoy going to the movies alone. The crowd was small. It was a very young crowd, Eastman students I suppose. It always seems a little odd to go to such a concert and be surrounded by kids. It's good, though, very good to see kids devoted to music.

I'm feeling unfocused and inadequate lately. As I was taking in the crowd, watching and listening to all of the students, what struck me was how clear and vibrant their lives seem, and how muddled it all seems to becomes as one ages.

I was at my real estate agent's office today making an offer on a house, and what struck me above all else was how top-heavy my agent was. My god, how is he able to stand erect, I wonder. He's of retirement age, perhaps 60-65. He's not fat, but he does seem to have a substantial upper body frame, an exaggerated rib cage, and an oversized head. I imagine beneath his clothes the sort of upper body many older men have who were once physically fit but who now inhabit the empty shells left behind decades of wear and tear, picked free of muscle and fat, leaving loose skin covered in a thick coat of gray hair. Picture a naked Ronald Reagan, old men lying on Florida beaches beside recliner chairs holding their nattering old wives. The most striking thing was not so much the substantial upper body, which evokes for me a hallow turkey carcass after Thanksgiving dinner, but the complete absence, even negative "presence," of an ass. He has no ass! Where is it? When he stands it suggests a hollowness that might result from a bad chain saw accident in which muscle and flesh were removed and did not grow back, a freakish indentation where flesh ought to be. And of course this entire assemblage of bloated rib cage, wagging folds of loose skin and hair, and a pumpkin head, is supported by little more than two thin puppet legs that move like stick figures in a stylish stick figure musical animation. One half expects him to pull out a cane and top hat and do a song and dance number whilst grinning half-moon smiles in a ghoulish display of campy burlesque, after which he'll retire to his leather chair and ask me in his usual tone of lethargic indifference whether I've reviewed the homeowner disclosure form. All of this serves as strong motivation to continue with my weekly regiment of heavy squat sets and lunges, this in an effort to retain my ass as long as I can. I like asses. I won't go so far as to say that the ass makes the man, but it's not far off.

I did a quick calculation yesterday of the income I need to sustain myself. I need less than $24,000 in net income. Let's say that a third of my gross income goes to taxes. That means I can live easily on about $36,000 gross annual income. That can't be correct.

While writing this I heard back from my agent on the offer I made on the house. The seller made a counter-offer raising my offer by $10,000. Not a freakin' chance in hell, I think to myself... but then I start saying, hmmm, maybe I could counter his counter... My offer was $190,000 with a seller concession of $5000. He countered with $200,000, with the seller concession intact. My counter to his counter is $190,000, no seller concession. Final! It comes to a difference of $5,000, but I have a feeling that it's enough to be unbridgeable. Funny. Should I even make the counter? I was actually quite torn about offering it in the first place, suspecting that he'd reject my seller concession out of hand. There's time to think on it. The seller, to bolster his position, cites the fact that the house was just assessed at $195,000. Somehow I don't trust these city assessments, whoever does them. Damn it all!

I haven’t been very diligent about my blogging lately. I’ve been unfocused, shall we say. Really I’ve had little on my mind that I’ve cared to mull over. The holidays, house hunting, the ongoing hem and haw of my work life worries… none of this is very interesting. I’ve had a cold, and then a sinus infection of some sort, all of which has worn on me for nearly three weeks now. I’m tired of not being well. But I’m nearly back, I think. Nevertheless, I need to get back in the routine of writing, even if it’s not interesting. I’ve felt very uncreative lately.

A few nights ago I watched a documentary on the life on Degas. Images of the Paris Opera, ballet dancers, and a bluish gray afternoon in a quiet Paris are enough to stir something in me. Paris has become for me shorthand for all that is worthy of the effort, tedium, and drudgery of everyday life. It is beauty, the hallowed past, strange places, and new experiences that fill me with energy.

I’m such a cautious person that sometimes I seem incapable of action. But it usually feels good to finally take action. This week I actually made an offer on a house. In the end I didn’t get it, but it felt good actually DOING something. Well, it didn’t feel good at the time—mostly just a little scary—but after a little while it felt good. I made a good decision, even if I didn’t ultimately get the house. I think I usually make good decisions. I wonder, though, whether I’m actually capable of taking risks, real risks. I’m not sure. Maybe well considered risk, which is not so risky. I don’t know.

Below is something I wrote a week or so ago but never posted. I thought I somehow wasn’t hitting a groove. But I’m still not, so I screw it. This week I’ll post more, hopefully something that is more to my liking.

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Today is New Year’s Day. Last night was New Year’s Eve. It was an odd time, not good, not bad. More of that later. Vacation feels as though it’s winding down, and I haven’t done much, or at least not much that I can point to. I hope to have my CD database nearly completed, which is something. I’m not sure what the point of it is, though. Lately I’ve been pre-occupied with finding someone, some guy, to have some satisfying sex with. A couple of months is about my limit, before I find myself needing it, unable to brush it aside. It consumes too much of my time and focus. I’m a gay on the prowl—a role I’m not really comfortable with. It seems, somehow, dishonorable, unworthy of the image I have of myself.

I have no new year resolutions. I do believe there are some things I should be doing this year, however. Last night I hung around with several people who are either unemployed or under-employed. I don’t want to be one of them. It always alarms me to talk to people who seem bright and able, in my age range, and yet are regressing rather than progressing in employment status and financial stability. I need to continue to work on gaining a stronger financial (and employment) position. Doing smart things now will pay off later. And I need to push myself this year to branch out, and to truly pursue the law and Oracle, two areas that I believe hold the most promise for me. This all sounds like advice from an astrology reading.

I spent last night with Jason, Ben, a nice transsexual whose name I’ve forgotten, and the occasional coupled lesbian/bisexual stragglers. I liked them all. It’s the sort of group that I enjoy, a hodgepodge of sexual orientations and appetites, and an openness about it. I felt somehow out of place, as if I were the straight, stiff button-down one, the sensible adult among them. It wasn’t the sort of gay crowd that I’m accustomed to, and that I enjoy—you know, the crowd of gregarious, well-put-together gay men full of pithy chat and endearing flirtation— but it was good to be exposed to something different, to be reminded that the gay world is not all smartly dressed gay men with wandering eyes and hors d’ doeuvre breathe. For christ’s sake, there was a transsexual dominatrix in attendance! So cool. I’d like to get to know her. The evening was rife with geekiness. Ann (I went with Ann, of course) thoroughly enjoyed the geekiness. It’s her sort of crowd. I enjoyed watching her enjoy it more than I enjoyed it myself. Loosened by wine and a few beers, she laughed and engaged everyone. At one point during our viewing of the Talking Heads’ "Stop Making Sense" video she blurted out in glee, "Oh, my god, that’s my favorite song of theirs." That was sweet. After a short while I realized I’d rather be alone reading Proust. So often in such group activities I realize that I’m not so much into communing with the hip, with interesting people.

There’s some guy reading this over my shoulder. Damn him anyway.

Someone in Java’s restroom has written on the wall, "You’re all a bunch of coffee-drinking wankers. Go to a bar like a real man."