Fusing Narratives

I've been tempted to delete those last two entries, but I'll leave them there. Whatever intense (and somewhat necessary) selfishness has passed. I think that kid stomping up and down going 'What's in it for me?' has decided to be quiet. As I was expressing to someone in my life late last night, I trust the circumstances evolving in my life (or at least, I really should) So you may hear less of the angry young man and a little more of the calm, assured, and meditative (at least I truly hope so) It's early in the morning and I am returning back to work today. I will be going door-to-door once again (getting into many adventures, no doubt - being in Roncesvalles for the next couple of weeks should be quite a treat, I hope) I remember working that particular neighbourhood for ACT (AIDS Committee of Toronto) and the community response was marvelous (so I hope it is for this campaign, fingers crossed) It will be quite interesting to see if I can now balance work with what is to come, so I'm looking forward to returning. I see the sun shining and god I wish it was hot, really. You have no idea how weary these bones feel at wintertime, and the fact that in the last nineteen days I got into this kind of shape with the cobwebs hanging upon me is a great thing. Greater things though, lie ahead. I have to do a better job of keeping that in mind over the next month, and I'm glad that I've decided to wait just a little longer to perform (Hey, trust, this body needs springtime) As the narrative of work and art will fuse, so is the actual narrative itself, between word and body, and stanzas are starting to collapse, and this is really just a 'fade in, fade out...' show now. I am glad it is, really. I am glad I found a way to end things. Hell I'm glad that in this economy, I actually have a great job for the now, and that if this studio is to be built in Toronto, I get to walk around for the next couple of weeks, in the neighbourhood in which I think it will end up (There is a wild street here with a lot of potential, and I think after work I'll go take another walk to see it) Anyways, the day is ahead, so this entry is at a conclusion.

Time to get to work, anyways.

If Words Aren't Enough...

I've calmed down in the last few days? (That would be a colossal lie) I would say more that it is important to approach certain matters with a little rational behaviour. I can break silence because photography has started (Though I think I'll wait for a bit of time to post what is evolving, because it is turning into it's own narrative) Looking the part has now become even more crucial, which is why I've backed the starting date to the beginning of April (for other reasons as well, mind you) Isabelle and I will get together in a few days to figure out the show, as will I visit Samantha (I know a lot of individuals named Samantha, you know) to sort out when her event will take place. Brutal physical behaviour does a few things to a man. So does bleeding. So does a lot of longing.

On a random aside, and something I won't make common knowledge, save to the people who read this blog (and my boss) my skin cancer has returned to my legs, so this week a determination will be made as to how to deal with this, and to make sure there is nothing else wrong (I have faith there is nothing else wrong, so I'm not worried) I was looking at my legs and how fucked up they truly look right now, understanding that treatment will only make them worse (to the point where I am thinking I should wear those scars during the show, rather than cover them up)

Wear those scars. Vulnerability (That word again) That word has complicated things, and altered narrative. That and understanding that my words are not enough. They are not. They are powerful, and I love singing them, and they are not enough, so yes, I've pushed my show back because I need to adapt to the immediacy of the circumstances.

I am starting to think I attract passive lovers. You know, one of the things I'm quite good at (and proud of such a distinction I am) is that I truly have the stamina to endure any kind of fucking. And that I can do things with my mouth besides the obvious that few men truly can do (I am going to start believing it, because it's been said to me several times in twelve months, so excuse me for the momentary arrogance - I believe it now) One of those things is talk. I talk and I give and I talk and I give and you lie back and you take it ('You' being the collective wealth of women I've known in the last year) You remind me of a dancer I once knew, who's bed was more a performance stage where she would simply undress, lie back, and take waves of pleasure for hours and for days and when it came time to give, she failed at it (and trust, I'm not the hardest man to give pleasure to) I am inspiring, and I've made you come several times one way or another over days or weeks or months, and I am still waiting. Waiting (Do I have the tone of voice of a man who is pleased with waiting?)

I can wait. Give me something to tide me over and I can wait. Otherwise I am starting to feel uninspired to make the effort (and that is not specific to anyone - that is as general of a statement as there can be)

You know, it's still happening, even before touch. I give and I give and it's now expected. It's the norm. You want, and you desire, but the understanding has to be that in order for me to believe in desire, I require something more than 'wow...'

If words are not enough in my life, why would I assume they would be enough in narrative? (And so, that understanding changes everything) Why would I assume that a show based in longing and want that uses words is enough to speak to what I feel?

It isn't.

So that will change a few things. You'll get me in the bed. You will have your 'A Love Supreme...' You will have your song, and your longing, and your desire (but to say the least, changes to the narrative are taking place, as profound to the changes of my body, and of my heart)

Do not expect me, though, to be a selfless man anymore. I'm tired of it. I will give and I will give and give again.

You meet me halfway.

(That's the deal)

Please Please Please Let Me Get What I Want...

Fuck. Fuck Fuck Fuck.

That's it. Enough words. There will be no more entries until I show, because telling is an art I should save for my show, at this point.

Expect photos. I'm building the fucking set tonight, at 1:00 am, and I'll shoot this in a few days. Black and White (since the reality is, desire is strictly black and white)

Consider me a mute until then.

The Key Outside My Door

In Montreal, sometime in the spring, I will have a studio space for a month, to perform and live in. I am going to leave a key outside of my door, hanging there for someone (You should be aware by now who you are, though I know so many individuals who will be close to me, in geography, who are close to me in other ways, so I wonder if it is clear who you are, and who you are not) I will say nothing, but I will give you my address. You will know where I am, but I will not know where you are, or if you will come on over, but I know there is a part of you that is tempted to do so, because you love at least the notion, or the possibility of this man, and the touch, and the wild that would come with bending (Are we really such an unspoken thing?) It's a simple key, and when you open the door you will find a bed, and large windows - a spartan surroundings made for only two things (and I will be doing one of those things, hoping and wishing you would come on over for the other) Is it really a surprise, love? Is it really such a difficult contemplation to just wonder about the possibility of, or to contemplate something beyond the simple words of desire, and have something sweeter to the taste (You really do know that I've thought about what you and I would be like, in my bed, and I know such a possibility has even crossed your mind, now and then, so does an entry in a blog really require graphic details? You know them by heart and body by now) So I will make it simple. I will take my space, and perform in it, and in the other days I will spend either in dance, or in the preparation of what is ahead. So that wherever you are in the city, on any day, if you suddenly find yourself wanting your man (and you are well aware, that ultimately, I have always been your man) you should get up from wherever you are, and come on over, and have me. Have me (Not so hard of a thing to do, really) Your key will be outside of my door, and I know you will be tempted (and that will be plenty satisfaction, to know that you are)

That is the only thing on my mind tonight.

Wintry Rust

Out of all of the individuals reading this blog (and do tell why I've had a significant upswing in how many people are reading this, yet none of you are saying hello...) I've probably spent the most time outside, out of all of us (I don't think that is an exaggeration - three days a week in winter working as a door-to-door fundraiser in all kinds of weather allows me to take that statement, I think) You see all those snowstorms and wind chills in Toronto? I've worked in every single one of them, without fail (it would take a severe weather day, specifically a wind chill of minus thirty degrees celsius, for us to call a shift) I've been cold all winter, and my body took a lot of punishment during this season (this season which is soon to pass) In New York, upon the day I arrived, it was fourteen degrees celsius, and it truly was a helpful thing, for I returned to this city in sunshine, and I realized that the tone in the air had changed (Yes, tone is something that isn't measured by the weather network, though it should be) The sun was shining, and there was blue sky (and rarely when I was outside did I see blue sky, in this season of winter) But it was more the way my body felt, and this assurance that no matter the snow or the chills to come, we are now officially in upswing - there is a lot more daylight, and we are no longer marching towards a long cold winter, but to a warm, promising springtime. Everyone talks about it on some level or another, and poets write of it, and singers compose songs, so I won't indulge in such a narrative about new beginnings, and all of the auxiliary cliches that come with it. No, I'll just say that the wintry rust I had is shaking off, and my body is suddenly in rapid evolution, and my stamina is increasing (I am no longer simply preparing for a show, but other things of a more violent, and artistic nature) I noticed my clothes are starting to fit the way I wish them to, and my body language is far more expressive, because I am no longer shivering, or simply focusing upon surviving winter (and trust, being outside so much can bury you long into springtime if you're not careful) I don't exactly feel like a corpse, though, and though I'm tempted to turn on that new camera of mine and shoot these publicity photographs for my show tonight, I'll wait a few more days, because in a few more days I will be a lot more delicious, in narrative and body. Tariq in New York, upon viewing a workshop/stop and start/rehearsal of my show, said to me simply 'This is your 'A Love Supreme' (which was as good of a compliment as the 'That was like watching Henry Miller on a bed' comment of the past) It's true, my show structure has evolved, and I've stripped a lot of it away (A very good sign when you have great material, and choose not to use it, because it simply does not fit - those narratives will be performed another time) The narrative is now in four sections - three principal narratives (the middle 'Sam' compelling me to memorize thousands of words in staccato order while maintaining the wild in the physical - good luck with that one, buddy) and a coda of song. It's a shorter work, but the 35-40 minutes I am in that bed, will feel a lot longer, to myself, and to the audience. New York was amazing because it not only reset my body, but it made me appreciate the urgency to get back here as soon as I could, and take the meditation to a higher level (which, today, I truly have, and will continue to do so) I can't wait to get back to my practical job now, upon the 25th, because unlike before, we will be rapidly approaching springtime, and I won't have to worry about surviving winter, but preparing for spring, the narrative (and you, even)

The rust, quite simply, is gone.

Howling

It's nice to not be in Toronto again (though I do love the city, so this isn't a lament to be elsewhere) New York has it's charms, but I'm not in the mood to do a 'so today I went down to Nuyorica and met a few poets and visited the grave of Reverend Pedro Pietri...' I'm not exactly on a rooftop channeling Pinero, but I can testify that this body is sore from a wild day of physicality last night (and it was in Brooklyn!) At the moment, it's a friend's laptop in The Bronx, and it is my full intention to savour this full day elsewhere by indulging in more dancing (both in and outside) I may return Friday to Toronto, or it could be Saturday (an unexpected road trip to accompany a friend visiting family compelled me here) I was told by a beautiful girl that my imagination is my achilles heel not too long ago, and she is right - an ex-girlfriend, when we broke up, called me not just a dreamer, but 'The dreamer...' In the past I've tended to dream and imagine potentials and possibilities so far and wide, and have had so many bold illusions, it's caused me to divert from paths unnecessarily, and where there should have been tangible results, and historical documentation, all that have been in my hands, and my mouth, is sawdust. Accomplishments have been temporary, or fleeting (just like lovers) But sitting here today, looking back at my favourite country on the planet, I realize that for once, instead of a kiss that would taste like ash, I have a feeling this time it will be warm saliva (and will be followed by so much more sweetness) So while I am in New York City, for at least one more full day, remind me that even though it feels like a vacation, it's still a working vacation, and the intention of today is to have an even wilder, and more of a sore body, than I did yesterday (and to close the night in the company of new friends)

There's a paycheque waiting for me in the office at the corner of College and Augusta, right outside Kensington Market (lovely that I come back from vacation, and I now officially have the funds for Paris)

Four

Increasingly immoral (or amoral?) Violently sexual, indulging in all kinds of perversions, laughing at authority, body rounding into form (and only a few days into the break, so contemplate how he will be on the 25th?) Making a few wild vows that he never thought would come out of his mouth (and laughing at how easy it will be to surrender to every single one of them, such great rewards they do offer, though) Words are becoming less necessary as a means of expression, physicality is becoming more prounounced (There are hints of something more on the horizon) Space still requires evolving, and there are cosmetic matters to attend to (but he's attending to them just fine) Circling a few days upon the calendar far from now (but they are etched in proverbial stone - why wouldn't he, after all?) Though his feet are a little sore, and some muscles that haven't been used in awhile are aching, he knows that the soreness will soon pass, and more of the wild that he is finding will only intensify (and everything will simply get better - from how he uses words, to how he kisses you on the mouth, to how he fucks, to how he dances) He's happy he took time off, and he's laughing at what has already happened in the days he's given himself, but now he feels like there is still another level to find (there is always something higher) but especially in the next two weeks. So he's figuring out what is next upon day four, but is enjoying the vanity of the now, and wishes more than anything at this particular moment in time, in between spasms of wild dancing, to have his lips firmly pressed on someone's sex for a long while (or a mouth open, for that matter) because frankly, the way we all say hello is just too passe (and this seems like a more delightfully way to make a greeting) He's turning into the unapologetic character he created upon the bed, in narrative (and realizes that the point was not to be that man, but to exceed anything he has ever been) So the reality is, he has no idea, how this particular story ends.

Plus, he is simply thirsty (and pardon the obvious) but he wants to drink from your body, long, and deeply, until you are dry, lover.

'C...'

Upheaval. Everything is now upside down, wildly. I'm still breathless from the dancing I just did (never like that - what was that?) And you are the cause, love. This is no ordinary kind of desire, now, and I freely admit and surrender to the violent, and understand that the particulars of what I spoke of earlier are no longer required. There is no publicity outreach, but lower-frequency madness, with hints and rumours, and a man named Ram ('and did you hear about what he did...?') There is photography, but only at angles, and in shadow, and with the corresponding word. So in this time off from the practical, things have been simplified (as have desires, to be frank) All I want and need to do is the kind of dancing that I have done today - all of the physicality and more, and then simply trust that I will be ready when the moment comes.

I'm still shaking. I am still wanting you.

Day One

It's a little before I start my first session of training of the day. I'm on an eighteen-day leave of absence from the practical job. The thaw is on outside, and though we've all been beaten up by winter, I find myself wishing to return the favour, and return to how I was (and so much beyond it) in summertime. In this eighteen day period I will put myself in performance-ready shape (Trust, there's a difference between being in great shape, and being in shape enough to do one's job, perform wildly and maintain such a discipline where you are not standing still, but still improving) I will make sure all the words and actions are memorized, take the publicity photos and prepare the press releases, begin a thorough outreach (which will continue beyond this eighteen day period) for the show. I'll set up gigs, prepare the programs and the flyers AND in the middle of all this intense training, I'm going to reward myself for surviving the winter outside (That's right, I'm going shopping - I'm going to single-handedly stimulate this economy myself) The only reason to go out will be to go out dancing (be it in studio with others, or out to a show) so the reality is, I'm going to entomb myself, repair, rebuild, and upon the 25th of February, when I return to work, soon after, this show will be performed (and I will not stop performing for awhile) I'm still a little under the weather, so I'm dealing with a bronchial infection now, but it won't be so much of an issue soon, so these new disciplines in training that are calling to me today, I can handle. It's going to be a hard and brutal day one, but it is still forward motion, and that simply, is all that matters. Forward motion. Ahead. Springtime.

Laura

While doing my day job a couple of months ago in The Annex, I knocked upon a door, and met this charming man, who later turned out to be someone pivotal in my life, who I had only known in rumour, from the girl you see in the photograph. When I was signing him up to a donation, and asked him for his name, I said to him 'The _______ ______?' in reference to his name. We had a good laugh when we found out who each other was, and he would later tell me to forgive myself for what had happened, and it was one of the few times I've ever been soothed by another man (I'm sitting here with an MP3 Cd of Jazz/Funk that is a gift for him, which we will listen to next week together, while having a drink, my new friend and I) The beautiful girl that you see in the photograph is Laura, ex of The National Ballet of Canada. Laura is like Sam - a subject of my touring narrative - a stanza that is quite different than Sam. Sam is an act of pure pleasure, and a wink and a laugh, and a caress and a sigh. 'Laura' is a piece of longing, and a piece of wanting, and a piece of torture. It is a narrative pulled from the unpublished book I was working on three years ago (was it even longer than that?) 'Laura' is the surviving piece from that narrative, sitting in a box somewhere, unpublished (even though I had one publisher willing to do so) I will, in all likelihood, never pull it out of that box (some things are simply not meant) 'Laura' is a wild piece, and I wouldn't have been able to perform it even a year ago, because the wound felt fresh. It still felt fresh until the day I went to a certain cafe and met a beautiful girl who would serve me coffee (who I would dance with later) and it still felt fresh until I knocked on a door after meeting the girl, and met the aforementioned charming man, who again, gave me the gift of forgiveness. I still miss this girl so much, you know. I only think of the day standing in the old Tequila Bookworm, where it was only myself, and Owen, and a couple of random irregulars sitting at the back couches in the cafe, where she walked in, in her red boots and blue coat, and said to me, very early in our friendship 'I was hoping I would find you here...' The possibility exists that word will get out (I am not doing this show so it'll be small and forgotten, so trust, the word will get out) and she will hear of what exactly it is that I perform. I don't know how she'll take it, but I really don't care, because I have to do it - at the heart of this narrative, I know it all started with her. Longing may pass after years, as will regret, but all great jazz has a tinge of melancholy, and this girl, is mine, my own, my wistful, my lament.

But god I'm grateful for her.

Unapologetic

I was speaking with one of the followers of my blog last night, about being a 'whore' and an unapologetic one at that, because I'm happy. I won't lie, that I desire several women, and it's not ego to say there are possibilities because affections and desire is being returned, and I hide nothing from anyone when it comes to who's mouth I've kissed the last while (or elsewhere, for that matter) I want every woman who's part of my show, for example (well, except for one) I've said time and again that I'm not in the mood anytime soon for a commited relationship (I have too many examples of failures when it comes to such things from other people, or women in these relationships saying things to me like 'sometimes I just wish I was free...') Sometimes? Is the desire to be free not a sign of your true nature, and are you simply not ignoring it? This is me - I want many, and it is not to say that I'll randomly go pick up some stranger somewhere, and have one beautiful night with them, and let it go. Don't mistake my nature as someone who just fucks around, because I don't. I want a strong connection with whomever I fall into bed with, and I've found myself in the beds not of random strangers the last while, but of good friends (good friends, who are actually better friends now) I'm not sleeping around but I have had sex with people the last year who know me very well, who like me, prefer to be unattached. Even if I wanted a relationship, I simply do not have the time to properly pay attention to it, so for me, why would I do that to another woman? My life is full of women who's men do not pay the proper attention to them (trust, if I'm not dancing, or fucking, I'm listening to various horror stories about it) I simply desire a lot, and it's in my nature, and I'm glad I'm not hiding from my own true nature - it's taken a great weight off of my shoulders, and I am truly free to pursue that which I desire, be it in art, or in sex (and you wonder why I'm smiling all the time, ha)

I still have a fever, and my voice is gone for the moment, but today is still a day for the wild (and the last week of work I will have until the end of February)

I am not performing this show merely for the art, but for the invitation for anyone to fall into that bed with me (There is plenty of room for you)

Sam

'Sam' is the stanza of this show I may have the most fun in, admittedly. The last few days, I've heard things from her about someone - a former friend of hers (or perhaps current, but soon to be former) which have been quite cruel, and unfair (and when I get to Montreal, if I see this particular man, I'll make sure I let him know of my displeasure with his ill behaviour) This man doubts her desire, and will to live, and the things she will choose to do, but I do not at all. His words have been the words of a small man, who to me, sounds like the kind of man who once he does not get what he wants, resorts to pathetic insults, and unjustified begging in the subtext (I'm a fan of blatant begging while naked in a bed with someone - it's the only appropriate place for such behaviour, eh?) I don't really think this man knows Sam, and knowing her as I do, I could not help but have her be the topic of one of the stanzas of this show. This particular stanza, I will only say, pays tribute to the nature of our connection (You don't expect me to give away the specifics of my show in a blogspot entry now, do you?) It's done with a laugh, and channels one of the scenes of a favourite movie of mine (think David Lynch, and I'm not telling you the film) but with a different spin, shall we say (If this scene went in another direction, this would be the result) I may never laugh so much on a stage as this point, nor will you ever see such a blatant expression of desire in any kind of performance, in such a wild setting. I've already told her that there is a clear purpose to why I'm doing this particular narrative, and she knows, at the core, the reason for it. The girl in the photograph is complimented widely, and is wanted by many, without a doubt. I've stopped concerning myself, though, with things like want, and would just rather express a different style of wanting (and one that is so bold, I know she'll love it, because I know her) The girl is my friend, and she opens up to me, and leans on me, which I absolutely appreciate, and though I don't know if we're going out for tea after my many performances in Montreal, I have this sneaky suspicion that the first day this narrative is performed in Montreal (and trust, there will be a few performances in my OWN bedroom) she'll be sitting on a pillow at the foot of a bed, watching what she's done to this particular man. I don't know if she'll stay after the audience disappears, and truly, I don't really know if it matters if she does, because the performing of this stanza, if it as gratifying of an act as I have experienced during rehearsal, may have been one of the greatest gifts this man has ever been given, and I hope she is aware of that, and contrasts it against the words of the other man, this week. That is your effect, Samantha. Not cruelty, but desire, and you are one of the four I speak of (and the most honest expression of desire you'll ever see)

Thanks, darling.

The Show

I've got a slight cold, but enough time to write for a moment, before attending to the first of three training sessions today. I've been asked several times in the last week or so as to the nature of my show (apparently I haven't explained it enough, so I'll attend to it one more time) The narrative is a series of physical monologues, all based upon a bed. The topic is unrequited desire - things that either were, and did not fully come to pass (or things that have not been, or have not been just yet) I felt that since the pieces were of such an intimate nature, rather than stage them in a conventional setting, like a theatre, I felt it was a better idea if I staged it in the bedrooms of the world (which apparently, considering the recent response, is quite a good idea) It's not dance, but theatre, but very physical theatre - the 'choreography' is mostly improvised - the text is the thing, and the body will naturally follow (and I trust myself now as a performer, more than I ever have) I've been able to set up these performances without doing proper publicity, simply because with work, I've had no time. This week, though, is the last full week of work I have for three weeks, and in that three week period, all the publicity will be done, the photoshoots will occur, the press releases will be sent out, and the outreach is going forward, fully. In that time as well, I have the time to commit all text to memory, and prepare the body properly after a long winter, for what is to come in springtime.

This show is not fiction, though the character is the man I aspire to be. The subjects are quite real, and every narrative stanza, is either about a girl I know, or who I have known.

This blog is starting to be read a lot more, I just realized, so I am going to take the time now, to stop talking about myself the next few days, and talk about the women who've inspired it, and each stanza (and this will be the only other space I really speak of it, aside from the stage)

So with that...