An apt quote from Proust: "One can no longer face the strain of keeping up with the young. Too bad if carnal desire increases instead of languishing!" I'm not sure that desire actually increases, though. Maybe because as we age, the hope (and likelihood) of sating the desire wanes, we image our desire increases when in fact it just remains, cruelly. In another passage of Sodom and Gomorrah, Proust first acknowledges the possibility of bisexuality: "The idea of Albertine’s having relations with women seemed no longer possible since the occasion, forty-eight hours earlier, when the advances she had made to Saint-Loup had excited in me a new jealousy which had made me forget the old [that she desired other women]. I was innocent enough to believe that one taste necessarily excludes another."

Edmund White, in his book "The Married Man," writes of a gay man who falls for a bisexual married man. The lead character, the gay man, came to age during the gay revolution of the 70's in New York, a time which had a blind spot for all shades of gray. When acceptance of gays was at issue, the last thing that was needed was nuance to complicate the message. But by 2000, when the novel was published, the main character begins to realizes that it might be time to update his thinking and attitudes. I haven't gotten very far in the novel, but I hope he does justice to the subject. I've been enjoying the writing of White lately. He's writing importantly about being gay in these decades, I think. One gets a broader view of the landscape from his writings, how attitudes of gays change with passing eras and the advance of age. Maybe I'm feeling a little bit of kinship when he writes about getting older in the gay world. His character falls for a bi-sexual married man 20 years younger than him. "He wasn't like his contemporaries who felt they could reduce the [age] gap by doing three hundred sit-ups every day until their thickened waists and slack skin looked like melted chocolate bars, the hot flesh oozing over the lines between the tablets. He didn't want to dance all night on drugs, his steps an anthology of four decades of approximated wriggling." The character once lied about his age, was chastised for it, and then felt ashamed, having learned a valuable lesson: "You always look your age, down to the last minute, and friends who say otherwise are deceived or deceiving."

This week I'm having a complete physical. I haven't had one in perhaps 5 years. I believe I’m the picture of health for someone my age. We'll see. Ann has suggested that I might want to get a gay doctor. I'm thinking she may be right. When I think of physicals these days, though, all my mental images arise from porn vignettes featuring a middle-aged male doctor in pressed slacks and a silk tie presenting a rubber-gloved hand to a boy bent over a table inviting a roughly probing finger for his hungry ass. I can't decide which role I want to play.

Last week I read a review of a new production of Wagner's Parsifal at Bayreuth. It was Pierre Boulez' return to Bayreuth after his celebrated Ring production in the 70's. The stage director was also returning after the same Ring production. Apparently the new Parsifal was quite a spectacle, employing non sequitur video, odd cultural references, and other unconventional theatrics which led to much controversy. The reviewer thought it was alarming and inspiring at the same time, one of the most moving theater experiences he'd seen. The Europeans have a knack for doing very experimental things with standard repertoire operas. I'm all for it. What caught my attention was that Boulez, who is nearly 80, now a living legend and an icon of 20th century music, has once again created a great piece of art. He's been responsible for so much high art of the last 50 years. What he does matters. Why must I toil over writing instructions for lame Xerox scanning software? The gap between Boulez' work and my own work seems ... well, vast, at the very least.

I’ve taken nearly two months off from blogging. I’ve been busy moving, painting, arranging, and fussing. And of course there have been vacations, weekend trips, and general enjoyment of the summer. Sharing living quarters also inevitably draws time away from solitary activities like writing. And more recently there’s been a week-long bout with some nasty strep throat. During my hiatus I’ve thought of a million things to write about. None of it got written. It’s gone forever. But I’m picking it up again.

Incidentally, I have another pet peeve: I hate when someone begins a sentence with “Too, …” or even “and too, …” Is it me, or has this become a hip new turn of phrase which, due to its widespread adoption, we’ll soon all be forced to use, much like when FORmidable became forMIDable due to (I think) rather sudden etymological forces. Christ, such an irritating affectation.

Speaking of pretension . . . I picked up a used book of modern plays a few weekends ago at Ann’s parents’ house. I read the first play in the volume—Beckett’s “Waiting for Godot.” I loved the play. I can’t say I yet have a grip upon it, or even thoughts about it—It would take another reading or two, I think. But I liked its oddity. And I liked the language. (It was Beckett’s own translation from the French, for those pretentious enough to be concerned with such matters (I recently encountered one such person who expressed concern about the translation.) Here’s a sample that I liked, spoken by the character Vladimir:

Astride of a grave and a difficult birth. Down in the hole, lingeringly, the grave-digger puts on the forceps. We have time to grow old. The air is full of our cries. (He listens.) But habit is a great deadener. (He looks again at Estragon.) At me too someone is looking, of me too someone is saying, He’s sleeping, he knows nothing, let him sleep on. (Pause) I can’t go on! (Pause) What have I said?

Today things seemed to be in rare harmony. Actually, over the last couple of days this has been true. Yesterday, as I was driving home, three different drivers either cut in front of me or made other reckless maneuvers, and then realizing their errors, each waved his hand generously, signaling his apology. One sees that so rarely. Today I worked quietly all day, beginning early and being productive all day. I was engaged and not bored. I did not become hopelessly sleepy in the early afternoon. I did not surf the Internet and find a thousand other distractions. Even the very difficult music I was listening to—Ligeti concertos—seemed to come into focus. I could use more days like this.

I must post this and move on.