tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-52626392012-02-05T22:32:48.760-05:00Dandabdna's BlogNothing muchDanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09318975368674848930noreply@blogger.comBlogger1011100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5262639.post-25822922588169260482009-11-23T22:42:00.002-05:002009-11-23T23:11:03.167-05:00For about 5 minutes at around 10:30 AM on most days, shortly after my first cup of coffee has kicked in, I have a very positive and optimistic outlook on life. It doesn’t last much longer. But at that point, I believe good things will happen, and that I can make good things happen. I sort of understand the impulse, but it’s still a little annoying to me when people walk up to the urinal and Danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09318975368674848930noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5262639.post-52352964365364892352009-07-13T00:06:00.002-04:002009-07-13T00:25:15.333-04:00Things I’m listening to this week: the string quartets of Aaron Jay Kernis and Zemlinsky. Also Lamentate by Arvo Part, Ligeti’s Requiem, and a string quartet by Wynton Marsalis. It’s too early to give my impressions, except to say that the Part is a pleasant surprise. The Kernis is good, but not inspired. I’m often disappointed by modern string quartet music (not that Kernis is disappointing Danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09318975368674848930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5262639.post-79495263265548997992008-09-09T23:02:00.001-04:002008-09-09T23:06:24.740-04:00Here's something I wrote back in May.Last month Ann and I spent a week in New York City. I loved it. I love being in the city. I’m made for city living. I think I’m a bit of a snob. I like being at the center of culture and having access to things. I like being around rushes of diverse people on busy streets. I love rows of townhouses and charming neighborhoods. I like reading the Times Danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09318975368674848930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5262639.post-90149265938130402982007-11-11T02:48:00.000-05:002007-11-11T02:53:38.857-05:00Much of the time it’s true- I can’t stomach religious persons or their stupid beliefs. It’s not nice of me, but it’s true. I heard a middle-aged woman with frosted hair and a loud voice talk at work about how she loves tattoos and is planning her fifth, but she just hadn’t decided where on her body it would go. “Oh, what have you decided upon?” someone asked. Answer: A cross with the text of a Danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09318975368674848930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5262639.post-87387664291990193072007-09-14T17:52:00.000-04:002007-09-14T18:08:04.576-04:00Following are some random thoughts collected over the last couple of weeks.I haven’t been motivated to write anything for quite a while. But I thought recently that I’d just begin writing some lists, since I’ve always enjoyed listing things. It’s a way to clear the mind, of ridding the mind of clutter, instead of mining the mind, which is painful. (My mother always used the phrase “ridding up” Danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09318975368674848930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5262639.post-50808383445878793592007-08-10T17:42:00.000-04:002007-08-10T17:47:14.203-04:00I recently read the same book as Ann just wrote about—Cormac McCarthy’s The Road. I really liked it on many levels. It was exquisitely written, with poetic prose that did not get in the way of the story. That’s a very rare thing. While reading it, I was always engaged in the story, yet the language was beautiful throughout. I also really liked that the story was bare. The characters bounced Danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09318975368674848930noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5262639.post-1169788508092625772007-01-25T23:49:00.000-05:002007-01-26T00:15:08.106-05:00First a few old things I never posted:Toward the end of Sartre's novel "The age of reason" there's an exchange between Mathieu, the protagonist, and Daniel, the unlikeable gay. Mathieu has gotten his mistress or part-time lover, Marcelle, pregnant, but after failing to secure the money for her abortion, he refuses to marry her. Daniel steps in and promises to marry Marcelle himself. “Homosexuals Danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09318975368674848930noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5262639.post-1167882826802767502007-01-03T22:52:00.000-05:002007-01-03T22:53:46.820-05:00The other day in the gym locker room I watched as a young man in his late 20s undressed. By all indications he was straight. When he took off his socks, I noticed with a slight startle that his toe nails were painted with a dark blue polish. What a turn-off. Don’t do that. I suppose it’s ok if you’re gay, but please straight men, no nail polish. Yuck.******************************************Danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09318975368674848930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5262639.post-1165468175514575012006-12-07T00:05:00.000-05:002006-12-07T00:09:35.533-05:00Tonight I was in the locker room at the gym (so many of my blog entries seem to begin that way), when I noticed that one of the handsome young men who regularly frequent the gym was pulling down his underwear unexpectedly (rarely do the handsome ones show what we all want to see). So of course I was drawn to the sight. One could sense a flutter in the crowded locker room, as if the birds were Danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09318975368674848930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5262639.post-1152848645662417672006-07-13T23:41:00.000-04:002006-07-13T23:44:05.696-04:00Since I last wrote in this blog, Ann and I have gotten engaged and had many discussions about wedding plans, rings, ceremony, etc., we’ve taken a trip to New York City, and we’ve put our cat to sleep. Yet, here I sit with little or nothing to say. It’s funny what I regard as worthy of discussion.An engagement is really about the wedding, not the marriage. I shouldn’t be surprised at that, and I’Danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09318975368674848930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5262639.post-1149340465091826252006-06-03T09:11:00.000-04:002006-06-03T09:14:25.103-04:00After some discussion with Ann last week about our old, sickly cat, and the ridiculous vet costs, I thought this observation of Gertrude Stein was interesting, “No Frenchman or Frenchwoman is so poor or so careless or so avaricious but that they can and do constantly take their pet to the vet.” Well, in this I differ with the French, I guess. And here is an interesting comment by Picasso that Danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09318975368674848930noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5262639.post-1147233489323599592006-05-09T23:55:00.000-04:002006-05-09T23:58:09.336-04:00Gertrude Stein, in her book, “The Autobiography of Alice B. Toklas,” writes, “I like a view but I like to sit with my back turned to it.”I’ve just begun the book. I’m going to love it, but she does seem to be impressed with her own art collection, which diminishes my own interest in it a little. I’ve read about her Paris apartment at 27 rue de Fleurus, and its art work stacked to the Danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09318975368674848930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5262639.post-1144120835813317982006-04-03T23:20:00.000-04:002006-04-03T23:20:35.826-04:00I find myself sometimes thinking of absurd crimes that I might commit, absurd impulses that one never acts upon but that cross the mind nevertheless. For example, I recently saw three beautiful young men walking along the sidewalk. They were maybe 18 or 20 years old, and each beautiful in a different way—one with dark reddish hair and long sideburns that stretched nearly to the corner of his Danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09318975368674848930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5262639.post-1141968379939293842006-03-10T00:25:00.000-05:002006-03-10T00:31:44.553-05:00Lately I have a passion for Sartre. As I’m reading about Genet, I’m learning a bit more about Sartre, as they were friends. Sartre was a genius. He was of course a brilliant intellect and an intellectual. But more than his intellect, he understood people. He formalized his understanding in Being and Nothingness, but he also understood people in a less formal way. He wrote of his study of Genet (Danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09318975368674848930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5262639.post-1140067746897156832006-02-16T00:28:00.000-05:002006-02-16T00:29:06.910-05:00There are words that I come across in my reading that I want to incorporate into my ready vocabulary, but they never seem to make there. Abstemious is one such word. Let it enter my head please. And obsequious. And sardonic.Ann said the other day that she thinks she’s opposed to hate crimes laws. These are typically statutes which provide for enhancing punishment for regular crimes that are Danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09318975368674848930noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5262639.post-1139197290675554702006-02-05T22:40:00.000-05:002006-02-05T22:41:30.686-05:00Like most people, I sometimes become tired of the routine in my life. Things that I'd normally want to do no long appeal to me. I don't want to be around people, and I don't want to do what I'd otherwise enjoy. Mostly I want to be left alone to sleep. But I never, ever get tired of the food that I eat day after week after year. In the nearly 15 years that I've been taking the same bagged lunch Danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09318975368674848930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5262639.post-1138162976901665482006-01-24T23:22:00.000-05:002006-01-24T23:22:56.916-05:00The Russians have become a burden. They write as faithfully as ever, and as voluminously, but they say less and less. At the beginning and ending of each email are paragraphs of giddiness about how delighted they are to receive “letters” from me, and how happy they are to have found me. In middle paragraphs they write that they’re convinced I’m genuine and “different” from others, as if to Danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09318975368674848930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5262639.post-1136435033189553202006-01-04T23:20:00.000-05:002006-01-04T23:23:53.206-05:00The Russian boys are persistent. Every day they write a voluminous amount of text, ticking off the details of their lives as if accounting to me for their whereabouts these past 25 suspicious years, as if reading from their curriculum vitae in an interview in which they’re clearly not quite qualified for the position. And every day I return their voluminous text with a small paragraph or two of Danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09318975368674848930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5262639.post-1135825766893779902005-12-28T22:08:00.000-05:002005-12-28T22:09:26.903-05:00In the last few days I’ve received two emails from different young gay men in Russia. This can’t be a coincidence, but I haven’t quite figured out what’s going on yet. Both found me through my profile on gay.com. There are a few different explanations, but so far I have no sense of which is closest to the truth. It could be a scam by someone here posing as young Russian gay men in the hope of Danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09318975368674848930noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5262639.post-1132634193314938242005-11-21T23:32:00.000-05:002005-11-21T23:36:33.323-05:00A few words while my stained glass cement dries. . .The other day I was reading a description of a newsletter we publish at work. It said the newsletter was published bimonthly. There was a time when my mind was certain what that meant. I was certain of a lot of things at one time. Now I’m not so sure. Anyway, I looked it up in two dictionaries, and they both give the same basic story. There Danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09318975368674848930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5262639.post-1131426395184214152005-11-08T00:05:00.000-05:002005-12-28T22:27:40.373-05:00The other day I put a small pot of water on the stove to cook some broccoli, but then I couldn’t find the lid. I became so irritated over this little problem, jumping from one cabinet door to the next, throwing things out and cursing to anyone within distance to hear, until I found the lid. At that moment I wanted to institute a new rule that the lid to the pot had to be put in the same cabinet Danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09318975368674848930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5262639.post-1129412229438576662005-10-15T17:21:00.000-04:002005-10-15T17:37:09.466-04:00I few weeks ago I was sitting at the coffee shop being frustrated that I had nothing in my head to write about, so I just decided to force it a bit and start making it up. It's important to me to write things without regard, necessarily, for whether what I write is good. I don't believe I have any talent for writing fiction, but I think it's good to write. It keeps the imagination exercised, andDanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09318975368674848930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5262639.post-1128313998256899982005-10-03T00:32:00.000-04:002005-10-04T01:15:56.153-04:00Here’s a little more on the classification of gays. Gide writes, “I call a pederast the man who, as the word indicates, falls in love with young boys. I call a sodomite . . . the man whose desire is addressed to mature men. I call an invert the man who, in the comedy of love, assumes the role of a woman and desires to be possessed. These three types of homosexuals are not always clearly distinct;Danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09318975368674848930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5262639.post-1127188804246881942005-09-19T23:57:00.000-04:002005-09-20T07:29:52.390-04:00I took last Saturday and collected some notes on Gide. I don't imagine they'll be of interest to anyone but me, but I felt compelled. . .I’ve been reading the journals of Gide. I'm now in the WWI years and soon beyond. This volume is better than the first, with the exception of several pages skipped over tonight at the gym, pages containing his thoughts on the Gospels, and his belief or not in Danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09318975368674848930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5262639.post-1126234017395848622005-09-08T22:44:00.000-04:002005-09-08T22:46:57.403-04:00A preponderance of Ann’s friends are suffering through longstanding bouts of depression. I suppose it’s merely coincidence—Ann did not somehow attract depressed people, since these are childhood friends for the most part. I’m probably not as sympathetic as I might be to their plights. It’s not that I’m not sympathetic to those who suffer from depression—I have a sense of what it means to be Danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09318975368674848930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5262639.post-1125373857989410372005-08-29T23:31:00.000-04:002005-08-30T22:25:36.996-04:00I heard from my old friend Ian from London. He says he likes Philly a lot, which surprises me. I like Philly, but I have history there. It’s not clear to me why someone from London would enjoy Philly.Anyway, I’ve been absent for a few weeks. Well, checking … It’s more like a month! Jesus. And having looked at Ian’s blog, I ought to be ashamed. That boy is diligent.It’s been an active summer. A Danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09318975368674848930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5262639.post-1122868636901659172005-07-31T23:56:00.000-04:002005-07-31T23:57:16.910-04:00I just stood for 10 minutes waiting for two little old ladies to conduct their business at the coffee shop counter. First it was the ordering of sandwiches, choosing meats, condiments, cheeses. Then drinks had to be ordered. Decaf or regular? Whipped cream? Water on the side. Then desserts. One wants the triple decker white cake, the other the mud pie. After all is ordered, the dishes gathered Danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09318975368674848930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5262639.post-1122349827163289102005-07-25T23:47:00.000-04:002005-07-25T23:50:27.170-04:00Last week I went to a little lunch hour picnic at work. Admittedly it wasn’t a good week, so my attitude wasn’t good going in. But I felt a sadness as I walked around and stood around, a sadness like I rarely feel, almost a sense of panic, as if something were very wrong. Groups of middle-aged people stood around looking bored, their hearts not really into it, as if they had little interest in Danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09318975368674848930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5262639.post-1121051014133519482005-07-10T22:53:00.000-04:002005-07-10T23:03:34.140-04:00This Friday I thought I’d go to the local gay shop and rent some porn. We have two good shops in Rochester, each filled with all the porn a man could want. Well, not that much, but at least enough to keep *me* supplied with adequate-to-good porn for months. And new porn is coming in all the time. Apparently there is no shortage of boys willing to share their sex with the insatiable gay male Danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09318975368674848930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5262639.post-1119235785874871202005-06-19T22:49:00.000-04:002005-06-19T22:49:45.886-04:00Proust died in 1922, so he never saw the Second World War. But he did write prophetically about the mentality of war: “They have long ceased to speculate upon the morality or immorality of the life they led, because it was the life that was led by everyone round them. So it is that, when we study certain periods of ancient history, we are astonished to see men and women individually good Danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09318975368674848930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5262639.post-1117504228920906942005-05-30T21:48:00.000-04:002005-05-31T23:13:16.813-04:00I walked up to the coffee shop counter, ordered my usual grande dark roast coffee. The girl behind the counter, who always comments about how she knows what I order, asks me, “Two grandes?” I reflexively reply, “Yep” before thinking. I’m so used to clerks repeating my order back to me and me confirming the order that I didn’t catch the mistake. When I realized the mistake it seemed too late. I Danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09318975368674848930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5262639.post-1114055028453307702005-04-20T23:43:00.000-04:002005-06-06T22:02:38.273-04:00I’m full of random thoughts . . .A few days ago I sat down to a bowl of raisin bran. At the very first bite I noticed that the milk was a particularly creamy white, a deep, thick white which you might see on a television commercial, generously sprinkled with fuzzy red raspberries. I ate one bite, then another—rich, smooth and delicious. I knew without a doubt this milk was not the skim milk the Danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09318975368674848930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5262639.post-1111982046090035562005-03-27T22:53:00.000-05:002005-06-06T22:10:16.680-04:00I’ve begin a new job. Well, actually it’s an old job that I’ve returned to – an old editorial job. I used to like certain aspects of this job, but certain aspects crept into it which made it intolerable. I like the publishing industry. I like reviewing manuscripts that authors submit, dealing with authors, preparing publishing contracts, planning publications, and editing texts. There is a Danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09318975368674848930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5262639.post-1110863010515298252005-03-15T00:00:00.000-05:002005-03-15T00:03:30.520-05:00I was standing in the shower the other day enjoying the hot water falling on my back. Almost involuntarily I began repeating “Yeah” just as one might during sex (not me of course, but one might). That expression of pleasure seems almost innate, as if it’s not even speech, but a noise, like a cry of pain, an ouch, perhaps a sneeze, or a shout of fright. But then once in a while I’ll see some pornDanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09318975368674848930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5262639.post-1109047686162283892005-02-21T23:46:00.000-05:002005-02-21T23:48:06.166-05:00I’ve just finished Proust’s “The Captive.” The ending was beautiful. It’s a great study in breaking up. The narrator has been in love with Albertine for three volumes, I think, but it’s been an elusive love for him. Albertine is beautiful, ostensibly devoted to him, and susceptible to his influences in all things, yet she’s a liar. She likes women, is shocking in her exploits with them, but hidesDanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09318975368674848930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5262639.post-1106111668985466212005-01-19T01:11:00.000-05:002005-01-19T00:14:28.986-05:00I’m at a point in Proust’s “The Captive” that’s been very fun to read -- dramatic, funny, revelatory. You don’t get many moments like that in Proust. Charlus, the blustery, blowhard homosexual who’s had covetous designs on Morel the musician, has finally been exposed, his plans thwarted by Mme Verdurin. Such a character Charlus is. He’s absurd in all things, full of himself, haughty, pushy, Danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09318975368674848930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5262639.post-1105679593663534522005-01-14T01:11:00.000-05:002005-01-14T00:13:13.663-05:00I don’t really write poetry. I can’t. Or I don’t. To write something and to then proclaim it as a poem is too much for me—I can’t shake the feeling that all the world is saying in unison, “It’s so amateurish.” But once in a while I have impulses to write something. Below are some scribblings towards a poem which I wrote a few months ago but forgot about until I discovered them while leafing Danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09318975368674848930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5262639.post-1104989415137092322005-01-06T01:29:00.000-05:002005-01-06T00:30:41.763-05:00What can be more irksome than the time wasted whilst waiting for the water from the faucet to turn hot?
God, I love reading the Rorem diaries. I’m currently in the middle of the Nantucket Diaries. It’s such a wonderful assemblage of gossipy reflections on all things dear to Rorem—music, art, the French, gays. It’s all that I love in one place. At one moment Rorem reports on trips made, concerts Danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09318975368674848930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5262639.post-1104528712199151482004-12-31T16:27:00.000-05:002004-12-31T16:31:52.200-05:00The following are some things I wrote over the course of a few days, but didn’t post until now.
I have never been too concerned about compromising images of me floating around out there on the Internet and available for public consumption. After all, I have lots of photos of me, naked me, available on a web site I created a while back. But those photos are at least somehow tasteful to me, or Danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09318975368674848930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5262639.post-1103519172998799252004-12-20T01:05:00.000-05:002004-12-20T00:06:12.996-05:00I saw a play recently called “The Crumple Zone.” It was OK. It didn’t have any big ideas, which I think is good. Big ideas rarely make good drama, or at least, only a truly great writer can pull off something that is both good drama and has big ideas. This play was mostly about the lives and relationships of four gay guys on Staten Island. But even this playwright understands that although the Danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09318975368674848930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5262639.post-1102303166367767372004-12-05T22:12:00.000-05:002004-12-05T22:19:26.366-05:00I’ve started to read Gide’s “The Counterfeiters,” which I quite like. There are lots of characters, so I’ll need to read it through quickly or it’ll be difficult to put it down for a while without returning, utterly lost. His writing has an odd feeling to it, which may simply be a reflection of the time when it was written. The ideas and themes seem modern, but the setting, the world, seems a bitDanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09318975368674848930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5262639.post-1101268715253689382004-11-23T22:56:00.000-05:002004-11-23T23:05:46.873-05:00The other day at work I sat beside a woman I had never seen before. I had an immediate and negative reaction against her. She was a woman of perhaps 50, poorly dressed in jeans and a t-shirt of some kind covered by a larger frock which she would take off when she got warm. Her hair was draped from her head like a clump of tangled weeds pulled from the field by earth and roots--long, unstyled Danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09318975368674848930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5262639.post-1100145527758508692004-11-10T22:54:00.000-05:002004-11-10T22:58:47.756-05:00Today at the gym I was sitting at the preacher curl rack minding my own business when a guy (a complete stranger) on the cables machine turned to me and asked, “Have you ever seen the movie ‘Dodge Ball’?” I had, so I said so. Then he said, “Doesn’t that guy getting a drink at the fountain look like the Ben Stiller character?” He did, dressed in black gym pantaloons with gray tiger stripes, shinyDanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09318975368674848930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5262639.post-1099270224320037052004-10-31T19:48:00.000-05:002004-11-01T16:03:31.993-05:00Twice in the same day, at different cafes, I’ve walked up to the counter and ordered a coffee: “A grande coffee to go,” which was immediately followed by “For here or to go?”
The missing page of Sodom and Gomorrah has shown up later in the volume, actually about 15 pages, most duplicates of earlier pages already read, placed out of order, as if to emphasize their importance.
Yesterday I was in Danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09318975368674848930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5262639.post-1098249394295594322004-10-20T01:59:00.000-04:002004-10-20T01:16:34.296-04:00Proust —
“It sometimes happened too, however, that the habits which bound me were suddenly abolished, generally when some former self, full of the desire to live an exhilarating life, momentarily took the place of my present self. I felt this longing to escape especially strongly one day when … I had gone on horseback to call on the Verdurins and had taken an unfrequented path through the woods Danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09318975368674848930noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5262639.post-1097612739205576802004-10-12T16:22:00.000-04:002004-10-12T16:32:12.840-04:00Last weekend I was driving east toward Albany on the NYS thruway. It was Friday evening, around 8:00 PM, and we were passing through a populated area, one of the towns between Utica and Schenectady. This entire region of upstate New York, from Buffalo to Utica and beyond is disparagingly called the rust belt of New York. In many ways it *is* a rust belt. You can see and feel the decay as you Danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09318975368674848930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5262639.post-1097461353453978092004-10-10T22:18:00.000-04:002004-10-10T22:22:33.453-04:00I've noticed some things about my work habits and writing/editing style lately. I've been thinking about these things as I've worked on different writing projects and have interviewed a bit for various jobs, answering questions regarding my strengths and weaknesses. Above all, I enjoy the broad efforts of clarifying complex topics, ideas, and software. I believe this is the real challenge in Danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09318975368674848930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5262639.post-1095647410136442802004-09-19T22:29:00.000-04:002004-09-21T16:43:15.950-04:00An 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, Danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09318975368674848930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5262639.post-1094783975260745792004-09-09T22:36:00.000-04:002004-09-09T22:39:35.260-04:00I’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 Danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09318975368674848930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5262639.post-1087880297134681122004-06-22T00:49:00.000-04:002004-06-22T00:58:17.133-04:00Lately I've been unusually motivated to write, all the more unusual because I've not been motivated for anything else. This blog being a sort of diary, and me reading Rorem's diary, together make me wish I could write as engagingly as Rorem. I'd allow him his charmed and famous life, brimming as it is with the artistic elite of the times, if only I could write as well.
I spent the early Danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09318975368674848930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5262639.post-1087447090801651662004-06-17T00:33:00.000-04:002004-06-17T00:38:10.800-04:00Tonight I watched a special 1.5 hour show on the San Francisco Symphony Orchestra playing the Tchaikovsky Fourth Symphony, Michael Tilson Thomas (aka MTT) conducting (and hosting). MTT is in his mid 50s by now, no longer the young Wunder Kind that he once was. He's even reached the level of one of America's great conductors, and to be sure, he's at his peak, and he gets a great sound from the Danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09318975368674848930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5262639.post-1087360727543183962004-06-16T00:32:00.000-04:002004-06-16T00:38:47.543-04:00Gay volleyball tonight—the first of the season. It was fun, though a bit swampy.
I'm now reading the later diaries of Rorem, 1986-1999. He's in his sixties and seventies. His writing is more prosaic. There's more recollection and less reflection. He's become more stridently political, which I don't like—I liked the Rorem who proclaimed how he cared not at all for politics. He's also lost his Danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09318975368674848930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5262639.post-1086930769845766452004-06-11T01:07:00.000-04:002004-06-11T01:12:49.846-04:00A few nights ago I met a young guy for coffee, having chatted with him earlier online. He approached me online, not I him, so I thought I was in the driver's seat. I guess I was in some respects, but not entirely. We chatted for a little while about our daily pursuits, the sort of breezy chatter that one forgets immediately, as I have by now, and then he suggested we meet later for coffee. As Danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09318975368674848930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5262639.post-1086671465122725152004-06-08T00:58:00.000-04:002004-06-08T01:22:52.570-04:00I've been bogged down all evening in Rorem's agonizingly long (40 pages!), self-indulgent woe-is-me letter to his lover, who, it seems, broke up with him unexpectedly and left him in considerable pain. But the moaning of the recently dumped, though inspiring sometimes poetic fulminations, quickly grows tiresome. Christ, Ned, pull it together and move on. Rorem's a first-rate writer, even a Danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09318975368674848930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5262639.post-1086234529909183142004-06-02T23:46:00.000-04:002004-06-02T23:50:30.253-04:00I've been cleaning out my apartment in anticipation of moving at the end of the month. In the sifting through of junk I've found a few interesting things which I'll share here in lieu of actually writing something. (I'm tired... and lazy.)
First, here are a few personal ads which I put in the local City paper years ago. I met many people through these.
Reticent, jeans-and-t-shirt SWM, 32, Danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09318975368674848930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5262639.post-1085978889315554972004-05-31T00:39:00.000-04:002004-05-31T00:48:09.316-04:00There are several things concerning the Rorem diaries that I want to mention. Perhaps they’re of interest to me alone, but nevertheless, I want to write them down.
In 1970 Rorem writes about caustic references to "fags" on the same page of the Village Voice as a compassionate report of a "Gay-In," whatever that was. He also writes about reading comments of distaste regarding Andre Gide’s "Danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09318975368674848930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5262639.post-1085293932558451802004-05-23T02:27:00.000-04:002004-05-23T02:32:12.556-04:00Ann is gone for the weekend, a change of pace for us both. I imagined dozens of things I might do, things I should do. Mostly they are things I don't do alone much anymore. I thought of going to a movie alone, going to the market and wandering through the fruit stands alone, going dancing, renting some porn, spending a stretch of time going through accumulated junk in my apartment, inviting a Danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09318975368674848930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5262639.post-1084943326994356752004-05-19T00:59:00.000-04:002004-05-19T01:08:46.993-04:00The day was not exactly productive. It's good that I have no work to do, because I have no desire for work. I suppose I have no desire because I have no work. Anyway, much of the day was passed shopping and fantasizing. The first, and really only, accomplishment of the day was to buy shoe strings for my sneakers. The current strings won't last another week. (I've been saying that for weeks nowDanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09318975368674848930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5262639.post-1084853488055322212004-05-18T00:06:00.000-04:002004-05-18T00:11:28.056-04:00Ned Rorem spent the summer of 1967 at Yaddo in Saratogo Springs, NY. (I checked out Yaddo's web site at yaddo.org, and Ned is pictured in the 2000 group photo, looking pretty good.) Diamond spent some time there as well. He speaks about it in taped interviews I have of him. He was there after the war, in the latter 1940s, I believe he said. I'm not sure of that though—I'd have to go back and Danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09318975368674848930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5262639.post-1082690555531293082004-04-22T23:22:00.000-04:002004-04-22T23:26:37.293-04:00First a few corrections. David Diamond is only 88 by my calculations. And he lived for 15 years in Italy after the Second World War. Paris was before the war.
I've been listening to his 3rd Symphony lately, and his Kaddish and Psalm. They're not easy. I'm finally beginning to get them. I particularly like the Kaddish. I want all of his works, just as I want all of Ned Rorem's symphonic Danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09318975368674848930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5262639.post-1082178248453982792004-04-17T01:04:00.000-04:002004-04-17T01:08:02.530-04:00I've just bought the "The Later Diaries of Ned Rorem, 1961-1972. " I couldn't wait to jump into it when I arrived home. I found, upon opening to read the first entry, that it begins on April 16, the same date as today. This is what he says (in part): "Wondering about those three things (and there are only three) we all desire: success in love, success in society, success in work. Any two of Danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09318975368674848930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5262639.post-1081666507509041822004-04-11T02:55:00.000-04:002004-04-11T02:58:53.030-04:00I just did my state taxes. It wasn't so bad, but state taxes are never good news. I think this is because state taxes are not as politicized as federal taxes, so there aren't as many breaks. I always end up paying something, whereas with federal taxes I'm occasionally happily surprised. I learned this time that NY State is now collecting unpaid sales and use taxes on the income tax form. Danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09318975368674848930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5262639.post-1079674804678725232004-03-19T00:40:00.000-05:002004-03-19T17:57:11.310-05:00Today is my father's birthday. He's. . . oh, maybe 62? He wasn't home when I called. I was told he was out having dinner with his wife and a few friends. Very unusual for him.
My outlook today sucks. The world seems brutish, difficult, and dull. It's gray and unpromising as far as the eye can see. I don't like the world or myself. Hahah How is that for a bad attitude? Everything is an Danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09318975368674848930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5262639.post-1078551486945093152004-03-06T00:38:00.000-05:002004-03-06T00:41:05.106-05:00First, Proust on (not) writing:
"If only I had been able to start writing! But, whatever the conditions in which I approached the task (as, too, alas, the undertakings not to touch alcohol, to go to bed early, to sleep, to keep fit), whether it was with enthusiasm, with method, with pleasure, in depriving myself of a walk, or postponing it and keeping it in reserve as a reward for industry, Danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09318975368674848930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5262639.post-1077685715173220962004-02-25T00:08:00.000-05:002004-02-25T00:11:20.483-05:00People are still paying for cups of coffee with credit cards. Christ! Why do we even have currency? Well, so my two hours of quiet time on a Sunday afternoon at the coffee shop is not starting as I'd like. A loud checkout girl who expects that everyone else in her path can match her donut sugar high is not helping my mood, nor are the piles of used dessert plates and coffee cups that surroundDanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09318975368674848930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5262639.post-1075526391129740872004-01-31T00:19:00.000-05:002004-01-31T00:22:03.153-05:00These 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 Danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09318975368674848930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5262639.post-1074383212001871032004-01-17T18:46:00.000-05:002004-01-17T18:48:46.170-05:00I 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 Danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09318975368674848930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5262639.post-1073860173106731602004-01-11T17:29:00.000-05:002004-01-11T17:42:15.060-05:00I 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 Danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09318975368674848930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5262639.post-1072049244683094232003-12-21T18:27:00.000-05:002003-12-21T18:38:42.903-05:00Now that I'm able to work on my laptop within coffee shops, I've decided that they are not exactly optimal for . . . well, work or thought. I can't think here. The idiotic chatter beside me, inane Christmas songs piping through the sound system which the Saint-Saens playing on my CD player is unable to drown out, the visual distractions of people coming and going… how is one to get ANYTHING Danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09318975368674848930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5262639.post-1071202696190069382003-12-11T23:18:00.000-05:002003-12-11T23:19:22.326-05:00Tonight I’m taking my new laptop on its maiden voyage to Spin Café. Truth be told, although there are legitimate reasons that justify the $1100 I spent—reasons that will remain unenumerated to protect the aura of their legitimacy—this is the real motivator…the ability to sit in a café while being productive at the keyboard. Nearly all of my goals center around activities at the computer — that Danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09318975368674848930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5262639.post-1070250625814358992003-11-30T22:50:00.000-05:002003-11-30T22:51:17.780-05:00I’ve been rather absent from the blog lately, not for lack of things to say—I’m rarely so lacking. I’ve been busy with my job, more interested in reading than in writing, preoccupied with thoughts of house shopping, fantasies on resurrecting a legal career, and starting a business venture, and of course forever chasing my wiley libido with endless porn surfing, insipid chatting with nameless Danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09318975368674848930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5262639.post-1069741288978455282003-11-25T01:21:00.000-05:002003-11-25T01:22:12.840-05:00I was just reading Proust and came upon a little scene in which the protagonist, the narrator, enters the room of a girl he favors, Albertine. At long last he's gotten her alone. After some pleasantries, he leans in to kiss her, or, as he more pointedly describes, "flings" himself upon her to kiss her and she shouts, quite unexpectedly, "Stop it or I'll ring the bell." And she does. Of courseDanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09318975368674848930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5262639.post-1067699309325931922003-11-01T10:08:00.000-05:002003-11-01T10:08:41.340-05:00A few days ago at work I had a moment of the absurd. I was speaking to my new boss about my future there, and the state of my contract. I expressed doubt that my services would be needed any longer. He looked at me with all sincerity and said, "You're invaluable here." hehehe! Ummm . . . no, I'm not even useful there. Yesterday I spent the morning reading through the little piece of Danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09318975368674848930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5262639.post-1067408121147319912003-10-29T01:15:00.000-05:002003-10-29T01:15:28.653-05:00Why does anyone care whether Carrot Top is gay? It seems to be news this week—that Carrot Top was seen recently at a gay club wearing eyeliner. Oh, please. I read that somewhere online this week, in the gossip section of some news page, and then again it showed up tonight on Rome’s sports talk show on ESPN, a vehicle for some lame joke and an excuse for Carrot Top bashing, as if we need Danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09318975368674848930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5262639.post-1066705545258924272003-10-20T23:05:00.000-04:002003-10-20T23:05:45.440-04:00Tonight someone at the gym, a nice fellow but one I have spoken to only a few times in my life, walked up behind me and said, “Hi Dan.” I turned around and said, “… hi…. “ I couldn’t remember his name until the moment had passed. And then when I arrived home I saw my neighbor. She told me her name once. It was a little odd—Kit, or Kitty. I’m not sure which. How could I risk either one? I Danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09318975368674848930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5262639.post-1066193967782823092003-10-15T00:59:00.000-04:002003-10-15T00:59:27.123-04:00I was racing around on Saturday morning this past weekend to leave on a road trip and wanted to quickly grab a few things from my CD collection to listen to in the car. What to listen to? Well, I thought perhaps some classical piano--Haydn or maybe Mozart. I opened my collection of Mozart piano concertos, 1 through 9 CDs in a boxed set, a very fine, and satisfying complete set, full and Danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09318975368674848930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5262639.post-1065502165826323922003-10-07T00:49:00.000-04:002003-10-07T00:49:25.300-04:00I sleep so much more in the winter time. I’m not saying it’s a bad thing. It’s just a fact. I have this tendency to begin playing the piano, say around 10 PM. By, oh, 10:05 or so I begin to become a little bored with it. Heheh Soon I long to crawl upon the couch and pull my electric blanket over my head. Eventually I do this. I want nothing more than to lie there under the warmth of the Danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09318975368674848930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5262639.post-1064376527578306782003-09-24T00:08:00.000-04:002003-09-24T00:08:47.603-04:00I have such enormous amounts of free time at work. It's an odd tale of corporate waste, fiefdom building, and flying under the radar, none of which I'll get into now. I try to use the time for my own enrichment, furthering personal goals and bettering myself, etc., having long ago abandoning the ideal of doing company work on company time--there IS no work, do you understand that! But such Danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09318975368674848930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5262639.post-1063858507845997052003-09-18T00:15:00.000-04:002003-09-18T00:15:07.813-04:00I’ve been going to gay volleyball on Tuesday nights. Does that pairing seem odd to you? A sport… a SPORT… requiring quick feet, coordinated hand-eye movement, athletic prowess, and skilled ball handling – that paired together with a large cross-section of gay guys. It seems an unlikely, and frankly, ill-advised coupling. But it’s been some of the most fun I’ve had in a long while. Every timeDanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09318975368674848930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5262639.post-1062646735465933472003-09-03T23:38:00.000-04:002003-09-03T23:38:55.370-04:00"We are all of us obliged, if we are to make reality endurable, to nurse a few little follies in ourselves." -- Proust
I don't know why I include this little quote, except that I read it tonight at the gym and liked it. I intend to include some passages from the volume of Proust that I'm reading now, as every time I sit to read Proust I think to myself, wow, that was a wonder passage. But Danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09318975368674848930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5262639.post-1062472562925353702003-09-01T23:16:00.000-04:002003-09-01T23:16:02.926-04:00I have a pair of shorts which I wear around my apartment at all times. They've been designed such that you can't tell which is the front and which is the back. There's no tag, neither side is larger than the other, and the pockets seem to work either way. Damn them. Every time I put on my frickin' pants I feel like I have to solve a mystery. Surely there's a right way and a wrong way to put Danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09318975368674848930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5262639.post-1061956799837422732003-08-26T23:59:00.000-04:002003-08-26T23:59:59.640-04:00Gosh, this is the time of the evening when I vent my unhappiness to the great unresponsive ether out there. And unresponsive is just what I want at the moment. Please, thank you, no responses. Really, no people. There, I've renounced all humans. I feel much better. hahah Well, no. Danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09318975368674848930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5262639.post-1061341190711634942003-08-19T20:59:00.000-04:002003-08-19T20:59:50.690-04:00I thought first I'd write about a dream I had a few nights ago. This is not the sort of material that thrills my vast readership, I know, but since I so rarely remember anything I dream, I thought I'd commit it to writing in some fashion, if only as a cursory mention. It'll be painless, I promise.
My dream was a morbid one. It was straight out of a horror film, or perhaps a Steven King Danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09318975368674848930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5262639.post-1059321010349601882003-07-27T11:50:00.000-04:002003-07-27T11:50:10.196-04:00I stopped at the grocery store after coffee tonight, 11PM. When I left to return to my car, it had begun to rain. It's raining now, starting and stopping, fits of summer rain. What could be finer?
Answer this: Why does the grocery store block entrance to the aisles late at night, forcing shoppers to walk through the register aisle and around? What could explain this silliness? I have Danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09318975368674848930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5262639.post-105884562360708182003-07-21T23:47:00.000-04:002003-07-21T23:47:03.566-04:00I came out to my mother tonight, quietly and without fanfare, as I figured I'd do someday, as I could only do. It seems like a good day's work. So I think I'll leave it at that.Danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09318975368674848930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5262639.post-1058231955250916472003-07-14T21:19:00.000-04:002003-07-14T21:19:15.213-04:00I have two topics to cover tonight but not enough patience to cover them both adequately, I suspect. First, I'm giddy with excitement, as if I'm in the first weeks of a new romance, but my lover is one of Rochester's oldest coffee houses, Java Joe's. It's not as if I haven't been to Java Joe's before. I have, a handful of times. Yet I guess it never caught the sparkle in my eye, or somethingDanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09318975368674848930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5262639.post-1057629266975740252003-07-07T21:54:00.000-04:002003-07-07T21:54:26.816-04:00First, a brief sidenote. I was in the locker room tonight at the gym, toweling off after a good workout. Some guy of about my age was also preparing to leave. An old Paul Simon song came on the radio... god, what is its title .... "When I was just boy (When I was just boy), my mother would call my name. She said now who do, who do you think you're fooling... Anyway, it'll come to me. But Danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09318975368674848930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5262639.post-1057113303739081782003-07-01T22:35:00.000-04:002003-07-01T22:35:03.650-04:00For the last two consecutive nights I've dreamt that I was dying. But I wasn't dying a normal death, as if from a debilitating disease, perhaps cancer or some other such disease. I was dying at a specified time, as if being put to death. It didn't seem like I was being executed, exactly, but it had the same certainty and foreknowledge. I was lying on a table, perhaps a surgical table, coveredDanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09318975368674848930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5262639.post-958482402003-06-19T22:34:00.000-04:002003-06-19T22:34:38.160-04:00When I was a student in Philadelphia, I was always impressed with the fact that I wasn't home, that I was in a major city seeing new things, being out in the world. I think it comes from growing up in a small town and coming from a family of farmers, people who never strayed far from home. No one in my family went to college really; no one left home to move to a new city. It wasn't as if it Danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09318975368674848930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5262639.post-956476282003-06-13T21:12:00.000-04:002003-06-13T21:12:49.830-04:00I had an interesting conversation at the gym tonight. I ran into this guy I've spoken to a few times before. I had seen him a lot at the gym, and I sensed that he might be someone I'd like to get to know. It's hard to identify why that is, why we target certain people we don't really know. I guess in this case he was both attractive to me and quiet, soft-spoken. That combination will always Danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09318975368674848930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5262639.post-954889162003-06-09T23:32:00.000-04:002003-06-09T23:32:21.760-04:00I haven't written in a week or so. Too long. And too bad, because I have lots to write about and the inclination to write. I think it's because I've not been very happy the last few months or more. I tend to like to write and whine when I'm not happy. I actually like being unhappy sometimes. haha Anyway, unhappiness is a topic for another day.
Today I thought I'd write about the major Danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09318975368674848930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5262639.post-950648592003-05-30T00:02:00.000-04:002003-05-30T00:02:02.096-04:00Before any more times passes I want to recall the things about Paris and my
Paris trip that stood out for me--not ideas, impressions, and the like, but
things, events, moments. Here are some. These are things that stuck
out--not necessarily all good nor all bad. Just memorable. (Forgive the misspellings--I haven't the energy to look these things up.)
I loved walking around in the Louvre. Danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09318975368674848930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5262639.post-949658962003-05-27T21:16:00.000-04:002003-05-27T21:16:35.610-04:00I've recently bought cans of unsalted peas. I saw them at the grocery store the other day and it occurred to me that yes, I should buy those. Who needs all that extra salt that's normally added to canned goods? Yes, well... I'm sure it's just a matter of getting used to the taste, but for now the peas really seem to need ... salt. So I've taken to salting my chicken generously, and then Danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09318975368674848930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5262639.post-948091942003-05-23T20:56:00.000-04:002003-05-23T20:56:04.916-04:00I've just returned from a trip to Paris. The experience has made me almost contemptuous of the U.S. I'm sure that will pass, but for now I hold tightly to still vivid memories of the charmed city, and of the life lived by Parisians. With so little time to gain perspective, it's difficult to separate the virtues of Paris from the inherent excitement one feels for all things new--new Danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09318975368674848930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5262639.post-936928562003-05-03T01:55:00.000-04:002003-05-03T01:55:50.186-04:00I'm a bit drunk right now. But I had the best time tonight. Let's see, where to begin.... Well, not at the beginning--too boring. I just got home from a night out with my two friends, Gerry and Brian. I got a call at about 8 from Gerry saying that they'd like to go out to Java's for a coffee before they go to a concert at the local music school. I'd already spoken to Brian at lunch about Danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09318975368674848930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5262639.post-935000102003-04-29T20:58:00.000-04:002003-04-29T20:58:41.070-04:00There is no greater creature of habit than me. I like routine, stability. I need security. But the odd thing about all of this, the irony of it, is how bored I get by it all. I'm always craving something new. I need routine, but it bores me to death. I'm not sure what it is about my current state, but the days and weeks seem to fly by like the yellow dashes of a passing lane. I'm feeling aDanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09318975368674848930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5262639.post-934329022003-04-28T20:40:00.000-04:002003-04-28T20:40:47.473-04:00(Aside: The Prokofiev piano sonatas are wonderful, contrary to what I was led to believe. Not immediately accessible, but worth a little work.)
Tonight ... things that happened at the gym.
Lately I've been getting out of work early (I have nothing to do there, afterall) and consequently I've been arriving at the gym earlier than usual. You see different faces.... and bodies. Upon checking Danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09318975368674848930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5262639.post-932221302003-04-25T00:46:00.000-04:002003-04-25T00:46:34.480-04:00Yesterday I was sitting at my usual perch atop a stool in Spin, one of my regular coffee shop hangouts, watching the crowd walk by through the window. A man sat down a few stools away and muttered something pleasant. I recognized him as someone I'd met before, once or twice, through my friend Gerry, though it took me a few moments to remember where I'd met him. A friendly enough conversation Danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09318975368674848930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5262639.post-928543932003-04-18T16:04:00.000-04:002003-04-18T16:07:08.000-04:00(Prokofiev piano sonatas again)
I see the same two guys at work walking the halls at the same times each day, never apart. One is a tall African American fellow with a mustache; the other is an Indian guy, average height. They're always walking with apparent purpose, that is, toward a goal, and always talking with earnestness about non-work-related issues. Their predictability is so annoying,Danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09318975368674848930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5262639.post-926942582003-04-16T00:02:00.000-04:002003-04-16T00:02:05.246-04:00Sometimes I can't think, or rather, I have no interest in thinking, while music clatters away in the background. Prokofiev and those manic piano sonatas. Turning it offf.... Anyway, I was just thinking about my favorite times of the day. What do you look forward to, what things about facing a new day make the prospect appealing? Here are a few of mine. I've always really enjoyed that span ofDanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09318975368674848930noreply@blogger.com0