Posted by: facetothewind | June 8, 2004

Crabby in San Francisco

To Dave Gori
June 8, 2004

Dear Dave,

Bummer about the scheduling of your hernia operation. If there’s one thing that’s primally frustrating – it’s healthcare management. SO much is at stake and you have so little control.

I ran myself afoul today. Got into a terrible snit with myself. I think the series of only 2 hour parking available near the latest house I’m housesitting (which is near the Saturn steps – in a BEAUTIFUL setting overlooking the city), the major construction noise going on – don’t these people know about the invention of the nail gun? Banging all day. Then the house keeper came and used some lemony fresh cleanser on everything which sent my allergies into a tailspin. I’m airing out the house now hoping it will convert to its base organic matter soon and disipate.

Needless to say, Mrs. Gilmore’s precious nap was hammered away. It was almost a Xanax day. But the hammering has stopped now and my nose is clearing up. And I got some work done on the book I’m designing for the waste management people on bay friendly gardening.

I’ve been having thoughts of home. Reflections, I guess. Missing certain aspects of my “other life.” You. The pool. The warmth (can you believe that?!). THe piano. THe high speed internet and the not having to negotiate for everything. Tucon is a very easy, if dead life for me. I feel so out of place there. But comfortable. Here it’s nearly all gay men. I find myself smiling at people and just cheerful about most things (except today!) and happy to be here. Happy to walk and bike most places. I got cruised several times on the way to a film pre-interview today. That was fun. It made me horny. Now not sure what to do with that. Everyone meets on line these days – Craig’s list. But I HATE on line cruising. The park is an option. but it’s so windy and cold that when I roll out the old penis, it’s shrunken from the cold. And people go to touch you with their cold hands?? It’s like being in a witch’s coven. SO that’s what goes through my mind each day.

I think about you. I wonder if we can ever spend a night together. I wonder if we’ll ever have butt sex. These are my two favorite things in lovers. Longing for them is good. It will make them special when they happen.

I think about this film project. How fun it is to be doing my first one. There are only so many times in life when one knows one is creating something great. This is one of those few moments. I knew it when we started the radio show, too. The first show that we finished, as stinky Scott hit play on the computer of the final cut…after weeks of learning, interviewing, transcribing, editing, picking out music, finally we were ready to play the piece. I laid down on the editing room floor and sobbed while the thing played. I don’t know if Scott ever knew I was crying. Maybe he thought I was laughing.

Also this creating – going into the creative pace that I’m in now – it makes me very emotional. I find myself spontaneously joyous and then in tears. It’s a wild and manic process for me. I wish I had someone to hold at night to ground me. It makes me sometimes feel very alone to be creating like this and then say goodbye to the crew and go home alone.

God, I’m sounding manic, self-indulgent and pathetic. Yep. That’s Mrs. Gilmore on a creative high.

TO answer your question about Patrick. YES I did send it to him and talked to him extensively about your suggestions and others.’ We found someone to donate $1,000 toward his health care. This whole fear of losing Patrick of course, has not contributed one bit toward being grounded. It makes me think of all the ghosts here in the Castro. I stay at men’s houses who are in their 40’s and 50’s. The halls are lined with pictures from a decade or two or three ago. I can’t help thinking it’s like being in the holocaust museum.

And everyone is fucking celebrating Ronald Reagan’s stupid life. What a dumb stump he was. What a dumb stump of a nation we have. At least I’m in the best possible place. Far from anyone who shed a tear over his death. I did a little dance, myself. I shouted for joy in the middle of an art show when someone told me. Everyone was silent for a second. Then when they found out, guilty grins came over everyone.

No one has lowered a flag here. In fact, yesterday, all the rainbow flags went up the length of Market Street. They’re flapping in the wind now.

I stepped out after my nap to run an errand. I hit the pavement still sort of in a dream. Shadows raced up the hill to meet the puffy clouds casting them. Wind chimes on the porches of the old lady Victorians clanged in a frenzy. Ripe plums falling from trees littered the sidewalk. San Francisco is a city as pretty as they get. And when the cool, moist air from the ocean whips around the corners it taps me briskly on a scrunched shoulder. It’s Sky. For a moment it’s that afternoon we spent on LSD wandering Noe Valley like holy men for the day. Another tap and it’s the day I met Patrick on the beach 13 years ago. Apple pie and champagne and a night of making love on Alvarado Street await us. One more tap and I’m an old man, fighting gravity to climb the Saturn steps. And the pink and yellow pastels of this city, tucked in with all the ghosts and the broken dreams of loves lost and found here on these toy streets…a smile washes over me as I realize that I never really left.




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