Vegas, LA pics, ad nauseum. I just like saying ad nauseum.

Moment of note:

"You know, you kind of look like Paddington Bear in that hat."

"WHAT."

"Damn, I forgot I was talking to a woman. I mean, you look gorgeous thin and sexy, and your ass looks great."
~~~

Obviously, since this is the first thing I have to say, Cirque did not offer me a contract at this time. I did survive the first cut, which if they made a medal for I would proudly be wearing, but I didn't get a call back. I am now in their system, under their radar. Cirque, feel free to call anytime. Just to chat, even. Really.

It's raining now, but the sun is out. Strange American city.

Speaking of which, Vegas. What the fuck. It is so fucked up. It is just SO. FUCKED. UP. It is a self-licking ice cream cone, a self-stroking cock, a fat man that eats himself and grows fatter. It is wonderful, no doubt, just so fucked up. All the glitter in the globe goes to Vegas to die, stuck to the facade of glittering depravity hiding the sludgy filth of rotting souls only two feet behind the buildings. Kristina aptly and affectionately notes that the entirety of this hideous, gorgeous machine runs on crushed dreams. People lose everything here. That's why it can stay so obese. I came away with it with a similar sense of affection. It is so fucked up. But so honest in its blatant deception. So upfront in its intentions.

I didn't take any pictures, because I left my camera at home. About 48 hours before my departure I became absolutely tunnel-visioned- the only thing in existence was the audition. It was the only way to keep from freaking out. Now, back in my little bird's hermitage in Castro, I find it has been nearly impossible to relax. I've had to force it, to convince my psyche that yes, now it can rest, now it can untie the knots it's built up to live the past few weeks in rapid succession. Finally yesterday I felt the tension give, when Luna came over and picked out a ring tone on my computer, while I stared out the window in utter contentment to be doing nothing but staring out the window. Exhale.

Healing thoughts to my wonderful uncle Bradley, who is recovering from foot surgery. That's where I was at the beginning of this week.

Club gig tonight with Vau de Vire. I know it's not technically resting but it is goodness.

Oh right, happy Valentines Day. I keep forgetting. That means I suck, but I still keep forgetting. I want to do something epic for my love, the King of All Scorpios, something other than...well nevermind I'm not saying on here. What do you wish you were doing for Valentines Day? What would you most dearly love to recieve?

Shaun, in all of his glory, has unmade my world by the following. Tuesday I am flying up to Seattle and the next day, he is taking me to a cabin at Mount Rainier for a couple of days, where if any living creature dares approach us they will find themselves removed from a body part. Mine, mine, all to myself. If anyone had asked me the questions above two months ago, this is exactly the answer I would have given. How the fuck does he do that?

Anyway. So you all won't be hearing from me unless he sleeps late, which he will, so maybe you will be hearing from me. I'm sure you can hardly wait.

And now for something completely different. Bethany has asked that I post not only the horrible pictures of myself as a retarded adolescent boy but also of my other roles, as she was under the impression that all I got to play were revolting characters. The revolting characters are the most fun, no doubt, but there is more. Thanks to Josh at www.curiousjosh.com, I have pictures to show you of Edwardian Ball in LA. I also met this guy, btw, and even though I was dressed like this:













He was totally willing to have a conversation with me. Props. That's super cross-trained Kelsey, playing one of two mean twin sisters, on the left, and Maria Ballerina as mommy dearest on the right. And, because it just wouldn't be Gorey without some dead ballerinas:

pic one, that's Shananigan Gaines, Vau de Vire's choreographer and heartbeat on the right with the ribbon.























Kelsey, T, Maria, me, and lil Becca under the vanity.


















Maria Ballerina on L.





















T, Maria, ad nauseum.

Morning, Evening, Leavening.

Morning comes in a riot of sunlight glancing out of the Bay, white touching white, touching everything white; facades, gulls, a congregation of tiny old people speaking vibrant Chinese below my window. I hate noise, but I open the window.

This is different.

This is good.



At night, walking home from Brad’s, I took Noe through the gardens. Spring has come in February, Southern smells linger unabashedly in the night’s streets. The heavy sweet gardenia smell, the thick, spiced vanilla cream of magnolias. Only two blocks from the buzzline, but these streets are quiet. I pass a man curled into a ball, sitting on his haunches like a thing in the desert, painstakingly painting his face and his blonde beard black- tiny compact mirror in hand. I follow the street until the sky opens and it surprises me, I’ve come to the park near my house. It is a soft place, one that feels safe even at night. I find myself moving over the grass, wondering at the strangeness of it. I used to walk on nothing else, now it is so seldom and special an occasion I would rather bury my face in it and breathe an breathe. But I won’t, because this is a dog park. I’ll leave it to them.

The moon on my right, Orion on my left. I turn to face them both and feel the trees behind me breathing down my hair. I feel them as surely as if Shaun were standing behind me. I stand squarely and confront the moment. This is where I live. Why do I always make it a question of whether or not the time is beginning or ending? Couldn’t we just be here, couldn’t I just be here, in this time, for this part of this life? Couldn’t this place simply be worthy of me, to house these years of my life? These months of solitude and fortitude, these months of absentee touch with too-brief intervals of relief like a flood in the desert that leaves things surviving.


***

You know what drives me crazy? When blogger won't let me unitalicize once I'm done being all writerly. (I have since figured it out, but didn't want to take out this sentence.)

On Friday, I'm off to Vegas with the ineffable beloved Kristina, for the big scary audition I mentioned last post. It's an open dance audition for Cirque du Soleil. That's all I have to say about it at the moment.

These past few weeks have been grueling...marvelously productive, but grueling. When I get back from Vegas, I'm narrowing my focus to getting as much online work done as possible, and training training training, and seeing Shaun. Those things could take up more than enough to make a life, and yet usually I'm concentrating on a bazillion other things in addition. I'm not going to be a part of the next Bohemian Carnival as a part of Project: Resting. Shannon (Vau de Vire's co director and choreographer) has been lovely about it.

Here's a question I have for all of you; why do you do the thing you do? What is the motive force behind your efforts?