Moment Magnitude

So long?

Hey there. Not sure how much time I can devote to writing here anymore.

Living and working and recreating the second half of my life in the East End of Long Island, the Hamptons, has been all-consuming.

Lately, it feels like Face Book, A Small World, and company email (the latter most of all) suck my brain dry. Oh, and Thursday night karaoke at Sen Spice Lounge in Sag Harbor.

I hope to come back, and so, for now Moment Magnitude is nominally active.

Tra-la.

January First

I spent most of yesterday traveling, returning from New Mexico, after spending the holidays with Mom and Step-dad.

The trip was uneventful, despite snowy weather and a two-plus-hour layover at Chicago-O'Hare.

I have spend, oh, probably thousands of hours on airplanes and airports, but this is a first.

Once boarded upon the second flight and final leg bound for New York's La Guardia, the bursar, or head flight attendant, or whomever, came on the public announcement system with this information: A passenger, who had told the flight attendants of her "airborne peanut allergy," requested that all other passengers, if they had any food items containing peanuts, to refrain from eating them during the flight.

I raised my eyebrows, and at first, said to myself, "Only in New York." Except that we weren't in New York, yet.

Then I thought of the little white masks I have seen folks wear in Chinatown. Couldn't one with such an allergy wear one of those, instead of making such a request - to a whole planeload of people?

Okay, maybe the allergy is so bad, that this person would go into anaphylactic shock at the merest whiff of a peanut. Maybe. I'm just saying.

The words "high maintenance" fluttered across my mind.

Anyhow, once back in NYC, and back at my loft (sans automobile), I bumped into friend-neighbors, and we set off for dinner at decades-old Florent on Gansevoort Street. Half way through our meal, Ethan Hawke came in with companions. My friends commented that they see him frequently, on the street. We all live in Chelsea after all.

Later, back at my now semi-empty loft, I popped around "My Favorite Blogs," scroll down below the photo albums in the left-hand column, yep, over there (<<<).

I hadn't checked my favorites in a while, and I am so happy to say that (with the exception of one that has been dormant), they are as vibrant, witty, and as wonderful as they have ever been. Bless you, insomnia haiku. I laughed out loud many times. You rock.

I also received my first comment of 2008, on the post, Lemonade, comparing my writing to Susan Orlean (!). Except that there is no bloody way I could ever have a crush on Dick Cheney (urgh), ironic or otherwise (apologies to Ms. Orlean).

Still, that's what I call a nice start to a New Year.

A Bedroom Occupation: Love Elegies

I met the poet, Mark Scott, in Boulder, when I lived there.

He came to NYC two weeks ago, to read from his latest collection (the title is also the title of this post), at "Sip Lit: A monthly series of readings in a cafe," up in Morningside Heights, Columbia University's 'hood. I drove in from the East End to catch him and the reading.

He sent me a copy of the collection, to be published by Lumen Press. I've never heard of the imprint, but I have heard of the distributing publishing company, Consortium Book Sales, and I know too much about the company that acquired Consortium (I'll leave it at that, 'nuff said). The book publishing world is a very small one.

The cover included the words: "Advanced Galleys." Every time I look at it, I laugh a little.  "Galleys," (a term that describes loosely the preliminary printed copy of a book, usually not preliminary at all) are a publisher's typical marketing device. The word derives from classic printing practices.

But "Advanced?" I am used to the words, "Galleys," or "Galley Proofs - Not for Sale," or "Advance Galleys." No past-tense. These galleys were surely advanced to me, but "Advanced Galleys." It's so precious.

Let me say this about Mark. He is deeply talented.

Poetry, to me, is so dense. Every word has such weight. I find I have to read passages and whole poems several times, often aloud, to get a sense for the interlaced meanings, the cadences, the subtle tongue tones that punch an emotion. Mark's good.

A Bedroom Occupation comprises thirty-four prose-poems, and a slim sixty-six pages, inclusive of backmatter blanks.

And yet. it took me almost three weeks to read and re-read it.

Oh. And yes: A lot of it is hot.

I wonder if the names - for he does name first names, in a kind-of epistolary fashion - are the actual names of people he has known in his life, who are now memorialized in his poems? And if so, I wonder if they know, and if they do, how they feel about it. Lewis? Lauren? Cynthia? Mark (unless he's addressing himself)? Janet? Kathy? Is Kathy the same person as Kate? Paul? Susan? Amy? Deborah? Paula?

There are a handful of passages I will excerpt and reproduce here.

But before I do, I am in awe. Mark included a handful of words I have never seen before - or if I did (Catholic elementary school, spelling-bee practice), I couldn't call up the meanings, and I needed the meaning to understand the poetic context. Herewith:

Blazon: To paint or depict (a coat of arms) with accurate detail.

Casuistry: Specious or excessively subtle reasoning intended to rationalize or mislead. Oh, I like that one.

Intercalate: To insert in a calendar; to insert between or among existing elements or layers (the primary accent is on the second syllable, btw).

Persiflage: Light teasing or banter (v. Jane Austen, don't you think?).

Monadize (I extrapolate from a variety of definitions and explanations of the word, "monad"): To cause an epiphany (aha!), or inspire as in or with "the spark of life." Peut etre.

I have been running those words through my brain - on my daily workout-runs - or at the office, attempting to use the words in sentences. I haven't employed my vocabulary like this in a while. It's fun.

Anyhow, to the excerpts.

From "VI":

"...That age, according to my father, determined the state I'm in: aroused by danger,/doused with grief, by grief aroused, all danger doused."

From "VII":

"...I had to travel to come..."

From "XX":

"...from cumquat leaves/and blueberry, their waxen surface, gaugeless veins, that fruit bitter, this sweet,/stem-end and blossom-end, plum-seam and peach-fold."

And last, from "XXVIII":

"God's as great a bore as the French/when they say He's brilliant fire, a flaming bore, a suck-hole I serve up my big/first serve. That ace fetters me/for the next point, and makes me partial to energy, rebellion, rut -- and I fall to the net/in toil and double, lose love-love/in straights, obey -- am of rigor without pleasure..."

Holy shit - notwithstanding personal reactions, I read the last pages of A Bedroom Occupation today. That line was contained therein - today - the day of the men's final of the French Open. Rafael Nadal defeated Roger Federer, on clay, again.

Where Have I Been?

I have not vanished from this virtual world.

The real world has occupied so much of my time, that I have been left with almost no brain energy to write or update.

Okay, maybe I updated a little. Intrepid readers, take note: Some newer images in one of the photo albums. Comments management on this wildly popular post. Tweaking the first chapter on Plot Participant - heck, tweaking the entire archiving mechanism for Plot Participant. I dare you to go and hunt.

Rather than go into a lengthy diatribic/diatribical (I don't have my Websters dictionary with me; note to self: Self, bring your second copy out here) essay, I shall opt for an enumerated list of activities that have kept me from writing:

1. The IRS audit. I completed the third and final session of the first round of this damned process - the piecemeal review of all receipts and income for 2004. The next step is an appeal. I wrote the appeal request. Done. How's this for irony? The IRS agent admitted to me at the end of our last meeting, that if she were me, she would do exactly what I am doing (i.e., challenging the IRS, reviewing the tax return and receipts, making an appeal). So folks, take note. If you are an independent contractor, and you get audited, fight it. Be appropriate, but stay firm, take one thing at a time, and push back.

2. The Savior, my canny, dear friend as substitute-brother, convinced me to take the New York real estate sales agent licensing course and exam. I've been freelance writing, etc. for him since July, so... I did it, via the NYREI. I could write sitcom episodes out of those classes. Still, I took it dead-serious, studied well and diligently, passed the course, passed the state exam, and am going to work for one of the big-ass agencies, out of its Bridgehampton office. If a former Ralph Lauren supermodel from the late-197Os and 1980s works here, then I suppose I can do it too. Seems as though there are a few Mets fans in the house. That bodes well.

3. I got me a wee place in East Hampton. We're calling it the Ho-Ho House. Up in the Northwest (as it is known on the South Fork), and a stroll away from Sammy's Beach (glorious in the mornings - the Great Peconic Bay smacks of Winslow Homer), I am renting it from a British gal (mentioned here earlier), whose surname begins exactly as mine does: "Ho..." Ergo. Photos to come.

4. It's the last season of The Sopranos. I watch. I love. I am devastated.

5. I also watch Entourage. And The Tudors. These two are not as brilliant as they were (the former), or ought to be (the latter).

6. I made the mistake of watching an episode of one of the early try-out round episodes of American Idol. Let me say this right here. I have never watched that show before. Ever. I watched that one episode, and pow! That crap is crack. I am hooked. Strange, a core of my sharpest friends are long-time hooked. Go and roam here and here, by way of excellent NYC fan-based examples.

7. I started reading that Russian novel in translation, whose main character is a Sister Pelagia, and it didn't grab me. However, I read the first paragraph of Alice McDermott's Child of My Heart, and I stopped, until I realized I was holding my breath. I chose it because it is set out here, in East Hampton, and I was gratified to remind myself that Ms. McDermott won the National Book Award for her novel, Charming Billy. I dove into Child. I could not stop reading it. It made my chest hurt. I'm telling everyone to read it. I ordered a copy from Amazon and had it sent to my mother, for Mother's Day.

8. I had jury duty last week. I've been called five or six times in my life, been empaneled three times (I think), served one time, was sequestered that one time, and we sound up hung. This time I was empaneled, questioned, not selected, and then dismissed. Sprung. Clear for the next six years.

9. I had a date, egad. Maybe a sort-of date. An older gentleman. Whaddaya know, I am so not ready. I just, I just...didn't feel it. I am convinced I am still drawn to men some nine-ish years younger. This fellow is witty, intelligent, and has great stories. But I guess I still gotta go younger. The weather is only starting to move toward summer. Only starting. Patience.

10. I am re-reading Pride and Prejudice (apologies again to Sister Pelagia). It's still so fresh. Here in the country, where land and property are all, Jane Austen's novel manages to resonate - some two hundred years later.

Good grief. This has to be enough for now. I'm pooped. I want to take pictures and post them. I have not abandoned this space. I'll be back sooner.

Summer Reading 2007

I have selected - and purchased(!) some of the novels I plan to read this summer.

They are:

Alice McDermott's Child of My Heart. This looks to be the one, decent novel whose setting is the East End.

Jincy Willett's Winner of the National Book Award. Yes, that's the title, audacious, isn't it? I have had a tough time reading, much less liking the real National Book Award Winners, and this ersatz-titled volume looks enticing - New England twin sisters are the protagonists.

Jane Austen's Pride and Prejudice. After the resurgent-ongoing fascination with this timeless story, I think I need another dive back into the original.

Lily Tuck's The News from Paraguay. Speaking of the National Book Award, I've had this volume (a signed first printing no less) on my shelf for almost three years. I need to give it a solid attempt.

Last summer, I read Colm Toibin's The Master. I adored every single page of it. It was shortlisted for the Booker Prize (never mind the Man), and I am a sucker for Booker Award winners. I believe Kiran Desai's book is the latest winner - maybe I'll get to it.

I've read many more Bookers than NBA or Pulitzer Prize winners - although the summer of 2005, I read Philip Caputo's Acts of Faith (brilliant in places, and trite in others, I thought).

I did get around to reading Richard Ford's Independence Day - which is magnificent (better than The Sportswriter - to me anyhow). His third in the Frank Bascombe series, The Lay of the Land will be out in paperback in June. I may add it to this summer's list.

Right now, I've started Boris Akunin's Sister Pelagia and the White Bulldog, a suggestion from a friend. Maybe that's the first of the warm weather lot.

As I finish any or all of these, I'll add them to the list on the left.

The Real Mikhail

The whirlwind. The bull in a china shop. The non-stop chatter, the question after question, the endless phone calls. The almost impenetrable accent. The incessant need for instant gratification. The clothes, the books and papers, the light-speed topic-by-topic change, delivered breathlessly in the ceaseless, life-and-death sounding monologue.

He sucks the air out of any room, all six feet-plus of my dear friend, whom I call "The Mad White Russian," one among the litany of phrases and names I use to describe him.

Also: The generosity, the bottles of champagne, that big ole romantic heart, the sensuous love of art and antiquity, the sweetness, the intellect, the passion and curiosity, the friendship we've shared over the years.

I adore him in segments, or intervals: The various visits we have shared together, from New York, to San Francisco. to Paris. More time than that, and I would explode - or pass out.

I expect that after the last three days, a visit to Moscow will feature at some point in my future. And Surfer Girl's too. You see, he brought a friend, and I am not kidding, the fellow is a sausage magnate. Writing those two words, even if they describe one of his actual businesses, makes me chuckle. He also owns Muscovite restaurants and a bookstore chain (!). All that and he seems to be a genuinely good guy. Yes, I sensed a little energy between Surfer Girl and him, sausages notwithstanding.

The Russians have threatened to return to the city - for a more substantial stay. Right on, I say. And maybe we'll all be together for a week in the East End this summer. We'll see how and what may unfold.

Hey You

Wow. In less than twenty-four hours, I received three emailed, powerful comments on the post, Why Not Me.

And they were all from men whom I know. Goodfellas all, and I am grateful.

I accidentally erased one (apologies), but I extracted the salient components from the other two. Herewith:

The first:

"Just read your post. Hey, that's a sad one. You show fortitude and honesty, and all that, but it's still a raw one. Sorry, not for the TP thing, but for the glimmer of mortality and uncertainty it reminded you of."

And the second:

"Why do you torment yourself with TP? He obviously does not consider you a high priority. Stupid man! Methinks that you should cut the cord and start anew. I know, easy to say and hard to do. I found it quite hard when I was single (before marriage), but a divorce sure puts it into perspective. It always happens when there is a different level of interest by each of the parties. If I was not such an old fart, I would try and win you over. You should have the good life thrown at you by the perfect significant other. As long as you can say 'no regrets,' then you are okay."

My responses, I hope, were as straightforward as I could write them.

For the first, I wrote back to say, I (or it) was not so sad. I chose to put myself in the situation, and I not only experienced a strong emotional reaction (one whose root cause is deep in my past), but I also paid attention to it, and invoked a behavior modification exercise I learned years ago - when I was in therapy. That brought me around. I expect that I will have to divulge further and perhaps write about the handful of such exercises so-learned and so often practiced. I know now, and I am happy for it every time, that to experience my feelings, and to be present in them is good for me. I find too, that even when I am made or make myself anxious or angry, it is better for me to be aware of those feelings, and to understand why they rear their nasty little heads. The added benefit is that those kinds of emotions inform and fortify my writing. It may not feel pleasant, but oh my, they do open the floodgates. I'd rather experience the discomfort - it acts, and my artist-friends aver, as inspiration. My muse may have thorns, but better that she is there, hovering over one or the other of my shoulders.

As for the second, I wrote back to say that the torment was short-lived, and (maybe more important), I do not cast a judgment or dispersion on TP. He is whom he presents himself to be. I doubt that he is a bad person, nor would I render such a criticism. I take responsibility for the risk(s) I took, and I think I dealt with my momentary topsy-turviness pretty well. I added that I am curious-as-hell about people and what motivates them, and I am not shy about exploring that, often among the men in my life or in my past. I do wonder why some men seem so very definite about having me in their lives - especially when it's really and finally about their own self-aggrandizement. I am better at recognizing those cues anymore, but I am sometimes astonished when I see it for what it is. Surprise, even unwelcome surprise, reminds me that I am not the smarty-pants for which I am habitually taken.

Smart people know what they don't know, and the best of the smart people I know, know that, they ask questions, and welcome new experiences, new things to learn.

A ditch digger knows more about digging ditches than I do.

Another thing about evolved pointy-heads is that we are open to being disabused about our ideas. I can be persuaded, dissuaded, and convinced otherwise, provided the argument is compelling and well-thought out.

Heck, I could be wrong about that friendship-neediness-as-narcissism-self-puffery thing. But I think I would need to be grabbed by the shirt-collar. I would need some hard evidence and one helluva counter-argument.

And that has an equal likelihood of happening as not.

Six Weird Things

Throw down.

Okay, I have been challenged to write six weird things about me (see the source here). I know my closest friends would say there are many more than a mere half dozen, but I'll try for six. Herewith:

1. I balance all hand-writing instruments on the ring finger of my right hand (instead of the middle finger). I have a dent in that finger, and the nail grows in a slightly bent-to-the-inside, flattened way. When I write, my hand curls slightly inward, making my hand look somewhat crabbed.

2. Sweepstakes. I enter almost every offer that comes in the mail: from Publishers Clearing House to American Express. I have never won a thing, but that doesn't stop me from licking, sticking, and dreaming about a million dollars - okay, after taxes, $600K and change.

3. I am not domestic, but I love doing laundry. Like magic, clothing goes in soiled and comes out bright, warm, and fresh. Especially white, fluffy towels. Out of the dryer, and folded symmetrically, I love to push my face into the stack, and inhale.

4. My mother still asks if I press each nostril and blow my nose one side at a time. I guess that's weird, but that's what I do. For me, anyhow, it seems the only way to clear my perpetually rotten sinuses. Maybe I should stop inhaling the laundry.

5. I never wash my face. Well, I never use any kind of soap or cleanser. Just warm water, and no rubbing or scrubbing. I won the genetic lottery when it comes to skin. It's been called peaches and cream, and has been mostly blemish free my whole life. In fact, when the occasional zit popped up, I found that moisturizing, and leaving the blemish alone (no touching!) made it heal and vanish fast. I find it unfair nowadays when a small pimple appears. Pimples and laugh lines? That's not right.

6. The non-contents of my fridge. Seriously. Even for a New Yorker, I get the occasional WTF-disgusted look from visiting friends who open the fridge door. Right now, I have coffee (Garden of Eden's Italian and French Roast beans, ground together), skim milk, a bottle of Campari, and jars of condiments. That's it. Oh, and a gel face mask. The around-the-corner deli is open twenty-four hours. That's my fridge. You want something? Go out and get it. I'll buzz you back in. 

Surfer Girl keeps pairs of shoes in her never-used oven, but that's a whole other story.

How'd I do? 

Almost The Last Single Woman

Wow. This just-announced book deal popped up on Publishers Lunch/Publishers Marketplace list (the paid-subscription service newsletter to the publishing industry) last night:

NON-FICTION: GENERAL/OTHER

Former New Line executive Cindy Guidry's THE LAST SINGLE WOMAN IN AMERICA, humorous true-life stories of her often painful personal misadventures in Hollywood and with her wacky family, as the author -- in her forties, single, childless, and careerless -- explores the complicated state of affairs of the modern woman and our culture at large, to Julie Doughty at Dutton, in a pre-empt, by Gillian MacKenzie of the Gillian MacKenzie Agency (world). [email protected]. Film/TV: [email protected].

I expect that the book will be available within the next twelve months, assuming nothing goes haywire.

And I think to myself, this sunny, chilly, city morning: I am not alone.

Over on Plot Participant, Chapter One of the novel has been posted. I plan to post Chapter Two (enter Paris) and maybe Three by the end of the weekend.

Indulgence to Diligence

This week tested me. I started the process of a full-blown refinance on my loft. It's the one way, right now, to reorganize my personal finances, to get myself square by the end of the year, and to provide a fiscal cushion for the first six months of 2007.

My business partner and I plan to have initial funding in place for our company within the the first half of next year. We've been building the plan all this year. I'm ready, and I know the people who are depending on us are past ready. Breathe, two, three, four.

At the same time, I am in talks this week with an executive firm, possibly to go back into the workforce, functioning at a monetary level close the that which I left two years ago. Full-time.

All of this, plus a wicked, pernicious, head-cold-body-flu virus, put me into a funk. That deep kind of funk, where just thinking exhausted me. I've been falling over onto the sofa, prone, remote control in hand, watching anything On Demand.

I lost the ability to fantasize, much less write.

Once, someone said something to me about losing the ability to fantasize, losing the creative motivation. It was Dale Launer. I had dinner with him over ten years ago. We had just met, and if I recall right, we met a couple of times over as many days and talked and talked.

Given the unreliability of memory, I think he said something like, "When I'm depressed, I can't fantasize." He might have said, "I can't fantasize when I'm depressed." Either way, that statement stuck in my head.

I think he was right.

("Ruprecht, do you want the genital cuff?")

The freedom to accept creative inspiration, for me, means the elimination of money worries. If that were true, then the world's richest would be the world's writers. That blasted worry nearly shut me down.

The indulgence of creative writing, that indescribable urge that takes hold and requires the creation and assembly of words into phrases, sentences, stories, and more, it's like a drug. When it takes hold, it is a privilege and a pleasure. The goose bump kind. I cannot ignore it, it has to be addressed, and in that process, I take on a kind of diligence, striking a delicate balance between the torrent of inspiration and the subsequent rounds of editing - an iterative refinement.

I fell off the log for the past two weeks.

And then, mid-last week, my partner and I went to see a screening of the documentary film, God Grew Tired of Us. For the first time in Sundance Film Festival history, a documentary won the Grand Jury Prize as well as the Audience Award. The film traces the history of the "Lost Boys" of Sudan, focusing on three from among the thousands of boys displaced by the twenty-plus years of civil war in that ravaged country. Their families annihilated or forced into refugee camps, these boys flee, many perish, the remaining boys come together in a Kenyan refugee camp, before many are taken in my the United States, and given the opportunity to start anew. These boys, who grow into young men, who have suffered unspeakable horrors, somehow manage to convey a love and hopefulness that transcends the evil, and frightful hardships they have faced. They are beatific. I met one of them at the screening, John Dau, now in his twenties, who is doing the good work to help his homeland and his people. He is luminous.

The film was picked up by National Geographic. Everyone, go see it. 

My money troubles pale in comparison, and I am reminded again that living in the here and now is most important, and that life is a gift.

I'm not out of the weeds yet. But I will be. It's a small thing.