December 2007 Archives

I apologize for the poor quality of the Rockwelll--I didn't take it off my regular website. But I like the interplay of the anticipation of the couple about to get married and then the happy family life (it's called "The Surprise") of the Boucher. Rather in counterpoint to the long disturbing dream last night that I was in New York with the ex-roommate, wanting to go to bars and drink and feeling an utter certainty that I was going to grow old alone. I have discovered over time that this is just my disease's way of expressing itself. If it's not having much success penetrating my conciousness it'll attack through my subconcious. I have learned in the dreams to realize that something is not quite right, and not to panic. Soon enough, I wake up. Relief.

I actually have a fair amount of bad dreams, but also good dreams. I dream vividly, is what I do, and the realness of all the surrealness can be difficult to negotiate. But I wouldn't trade it for not remembering my dreams at all, like so many report. I consider it an indispensable component of my whole self, and a frequent contributor to my creativity.

I'm getting that feeling this is going to be a long entry but that's seems appropriate for the last day of the year, n'est-ce pas? Last night I also had on my mind a conversation between Sheria and Paul and I via comments on Paul's blog entry Gay, why not? that addressed (among many things, we seem to have become an unholy trinity of blogamis) homophopbia in the African-American community. I felt, particularly from my experience in prison, that it had a lot to do with the Baptists, bascially. What I didn't say was that this was equally true for the whites in prison, most were poor or working class and they went to church about as often as they went to jail. They all seemed to have bible-thumping grandmas who sent them $10 a month and long tracts from various ministries. There was never any questioning of the truth of THE WORD, they were sinners, period. They'd get out, try to get their shit together and toe the line, go to church etc., then do a hit or get drunk and they were off to the races again. They'd get high over a lot of shame and guilt, which of course they drank and used more drugs to quell, and then do something that got them right back to prison, It was often a terrible cycle of fall and redemption, fall and redemption.

And what I got out of bed to write down was this: "Jesus/God - Good Cop/Bad Cop." The Old Testament God was the bad cop: to be feared, always punishing, requiring worship and respect. Jesus was the good cop; kind and forgiving, salvation always possible. It's like they were drowning men who the lifeguard couldn't save unless he first beat them into submission, dragging back to shore a bloodied pulp. I thought it very sad, finally. Which has nothing to do with the original blog entry of Paul's finally, but see how you are Paul and Sheria? Inspiring whole new trains of thought.

Okay, so what did the nephew think of the script? Let me tell you how it goes vetween writers and directors with all first drafts. It's like you have a gorgeous baby, hold her in your arms, and pass out from the exhaustion of labor. You wake up, and the doctor tells you: "Your baby's fine. However, she has 11 fingers, 8 toes, her spleen is where her liver should be, she's got one kidney and her spine is bent. I think with about 8 operations we'll have a normal toddler, and if we're very very lucky, an Olympic athlete. But don't count on it. Any questions?"

Of course you're like: "But my child is PERFECT, I don't care if she's half blind and can't swallow properly. Give her back to me!" And after much wailing and arm-crossing, you finally say, "Go ahead, Doctor. I trust you. You're my nephew after all." I'm not to touch the script until he comes up with a second draft, and frankly, I'm relieved. If you want to collaborate, it means really collaborating.

Thank Heavens for The Sound of Music. It was on last night, and it is my ultimate cure for anything. I have watched it 30+ times and will watch it 30 more. I even notice new things, like the green dress the postulant is wearing in the Reverend Mother's office before "Climb Every Mountain" is the same green dress Maria wears back to the Von Trapps.

And that Baroness. When she says "After all, I do have the finest courturier in Vienna" I practically have an orgasm.

On that note, I wish you all a very enjoyable New Years Eve. I shall do my usual. Which is bed by 11:00 after a good book. It's just another night.

LOVE TO YOU ALL

MCO 2007

Oh Lordie, when it rains it pours. Now, my great friend Sheria has migrated to a "real" blog (from the land of the terminally huggy journalers -AOL), pledging to speak her mind without fear of disapproval or rejection at Sheria's Place. This woman is as smart as a whip and precise and elegant with her thoughts and words. Please check her out as well.

MCO 2007

I received a lovely email from this guy a few months ago telling him he never commented but followed me silently, and that some of my entries had really had an impact on him.

Of course I was tickled, but I also thought him singularly articulate, and asked if he had a blog. Evidently others chimed in as well, and lo and behold, he's begun one. I think's it bloody marvelous. Do check it out. Smart, well-written stuff.

Aussie Paul

Aussie Paul is my moniker--do check out what "CHEL" on his, stands for.

MCO 2007

At the risk of robbing it of a hint of magic, I thought it would be fun to give a window on how the Hy-Art works by showing the two originals with the result. Or maybe it's just that I thought no one would believe how completely black Perov's beard was. (Perov's the painter, not the paintee). For the Hyarter, an all black feature in a painting is a great find, especially when you're not at your own computer and you don't have this immense reservoir of previously downloaded artwork to choose from. (Working at another's computer, particularly when it's a Mac and you're used to a PC, is like cooking in someone else's kitchen. You know the damn spatula's got to be somewhere!). Staying in the "P's" (for "Practical") I discovered this languid beauty of Prud'hon's. Voila.

Creating some Hy-Art was all I knew to do after finishing the first draft of the script last night. Typed up "END CREDITS," then spent 3 hours making corrections and cleaning it up, then printed it out and handed it to my nephew. We both sat down to watch the Patriots game, then I went to bed. When I got up a few hours later to pee, I saw the light in his room was on, and so far, he's not up this morning. This is a good sign. It most probably means he couldn't put it down and needed to make notes while it was fresh.

Of course, what I hope he says he will never say. It's what every screenwriter dreams of and has not happened in the history of the writing process. He will not say: "My God. I've never read a script that I've never even wanted to change a word of. It's a masterpiece." In fact, I'm only typing it out because it's the closest I'll ever get to hearing it. Other screenwriters, you may borrow this vicarious fantasy--although I'm 100% certain you know it well.

What I'm pretty sure I''ll hear is "Wow. It's really a step up from the old one. Much better developed, with much more depth. But we have a lot of work to do." What I fear, of course, is "This is SO different from the old one, which I gotta say, I liked a lot better." This would greatly surprise me and I think I would need to send both scripts to someone I trust to get an objective appraisal. But my gut tells me this will not be his reaction, because I know I'm a much better writer now. A helluva lot more honest, for one.

One thing that makes me very happy is simply that I did it. And when I had trouble getting it done in LA, I said to my sister that if I come to Albuquerque, and my nephew's in the next room, I just KNOW it'll light a fire under me, and I will spend 8 or 10 or 12 hours a day at the screen until it's done. Between you and me, I was afraid I was full of shit. That I'd end up dawdling and procrastinating and watching soaps and writing emails. But it, turns out, just as I thought, the collaborative process is what I needed. Which is basically, the desire to please another human being. (Preferably one with talent.)

And what a lucky man I am to have a sister and brother-in-law who just set me up in a corner of the living room with my own computer, and heated and fed me the whole time. It's like I got a scholarship to a writer's colony. And now I get to go into 2008 with my first full script in 10 years under my arm, and since I set it 10 years in the past, I never have to worry about it going out of date!

I'm off to my first and probably only 12-step meeting here. Right around the corner.

Lucky, lucky me.

MCO 2007

Well, we got all the way up there (about 90 minutes away) rented me skis (boy, the guys who worked there were so nice and cute) and on our very last leg, were turned back! "Parking lot is full, ladies and gentlemen, we're not selling any more tickets!") Found out, when we returned my skis, that supposedly the real problem was that a tour bus had gotten stuck in the snow, blocking the parking lot.

My niece, who loves all winter sports to the point of obsession, was the most disappointed at all. I immediately took it completely personally, that this was the only way God could figure out to save me some disastrous injury just as I was about to complete the screenplay that will win me fame and fortune. Can you imagine how easily it would have been to relapse on all the painkillers, to boot? Plus, on the trip down, I was reminded that the last time I went skiing was not in France in 1975 but in Seattle in 1989, with my sister and Keir, her oldest, six at the time. Not only had I done just fine in '89 getting back the old ski legs, but had actually helped teach my nephew to ski. So now I feel plenty confident about skiing again, when the occasion arises.

Besides it really was VERY cold. As bundled up as we were, I suspect we would have frozen our butts off. And the lunch we had in Santa Fe instead was lovely. After a dusting of shopping for the girls, as the nephew and I talked moviemaking, we came home, and I got another 5 pages done of the script.

This morning, my insistent niece has dragged her Mom off to a different, closer resort. I shall stay in and work on the script, like this Whistler music student, perfecting her craft while the Winslow kids frolic outside. I'm at peace about it. In fact, I'm on PAGE 78. I will definitely have this draft finished today or tomorrow! (It's going SOOO well. Found the perfect 3rd act twist and everything!)

MCO 2007

I've been looking for an occaision to post Ingres' sumptuous Napoleon against O'keefe's equally lush red flower--I decided to wait for a moment when I feeling as grandiose as the Little Big Man.

You see, I need to puff myself up enough with confidence in order to go skiing tomorrow. I tried to beg off but my sister saw through my outer bravado and drew out my inner bravado. I have to say, the prospect of another all day slog in front of the computer in a row was very daunting, and very lonely, especially if everyone was out of the house and having fun.

I did get another 10 pages done, and remembered exactly why screenplays take as long as they do to write and why I tend to distract and procrastinate as much as I do during the process. IT IS SO HARD. And yet SO gratifying. But I've never wanted to get through a first draft so much in my life.

But so far, I haven't had one moment where I didn't know what at least the next scene was, and that's a great joy.

If I don't blog the day after tomorrow, it means I broke something. More than a nail I mean. But my sister and I are renting short skiis, and she says I'll be doing Black Diamond slopes by the end of the day. Ha! I think I'll be looking for the pink triangles!

MCO 2007

This Hy-Art of for the father of a reader who enjoyed the striking use of primary colors in some of my other work. The man is red is from Sargent, the boy in blue (rather well known) from Gainsborough, and the yellow turkish bath is Alma-Ledema.

What terrible news the assasination of Benazir Bhutto was to wake up to, though no one can be surprised. Forces in that part of the world seem to be determined to gallop backwards in time. I could easily go on about the need for women's rights to be the barometer by which we judge human rights, but I got ten pages of the script done yesterday precisely because I did not expend an ordinate amount of energy on the blog or email or in training as a future pundit on NPR or a writer for Keith Olbermann. The world will go on without my scintillating sociopolitical observations.

I did read this quote from Maureen Dowd that will sum up my spiritual views for the day: "Don't cry over anything that can't cry over you." For you parents out there, a handy saying to have at the ready when your little one breaks his first Christmas gift.

Yesterday was a great day, today will be just a wonderful. We may go to the movies, so I better earn some "leave." To the salt mines!

MCO 2007

I know this Millais/Brueghel isn't very Christmasty, but what can I tell you? The drunk villagers are at least having a good time, dancing on poor dead Ophelia. Isn't it odd that there aren't more depictions of Shakespeare's work in art? You'd think it would as popular as the Bible.

Yesterday I input all the changes I'd made on the train into the screenplay, and then some. I will return to it quite shortly. I've got to get a lot done if I'm going to reward myself with a day of skiing. Which scares the pants off me--it's been thirty years. Common sense says don't do it. YOLO (You Only Live Once) says I will kick myself for not taking the opportunity. I had actually been thinking the other day that I really had to do some things that I'd thought I'd never do again, or that I'd always wanted to do. But the last time the ex-, for example, threw caution to the wind and jumped out of an airplane to raise money for AIDS, he was at my house for a month with a broken ankle. Shit DO happen. Ask Sonny Bono.

I'm tempted to launch into one of my spiritual diatribes, this about risk and payoff and seizing opportunities, but I think I'll just see if my sister gets bossy and gets me to do what I secretly want to do, which is go skiing of course. (She reads the blog, by the way. I'm about as subtle as a sledgehammer.)

And what is this trend I see in my family of people who don't drink coffee? It started with my mother, now both sisters and their families. ( At least they know to have some on hand when I visit. ) Don't dare tell Dick Cheney (or the ghost of J. Edgar Hoover) or they'll all be shipped off to Guantanamo for un-American activities. And then who will take me skiing?

MCO 2007

So, you didn't think I was gonna do Hy-Art on vacation, didja? But I thought ahead, I did. The posts you'll see while I'm here in Albuquerque will have some hybrids I did and put aside for a rainy day. I can't say this Fragonard/Degas combo has much to do with anything I'm about to type, but it's striking how much these ladies resemble each other, isn't it?

The trip out here was heaven. I slept just fine in coach, and for dinner last night sat next to either Beavis or Butthead--I think Beavis, in the flesh. A compulsive talker was this one, no kidding. I got TWO words in edgewise and then gave up. I guess it's payback for the millions of time I have done the same thing. But no way I ever could have said so much of nothing as this dude. This morning I sat across from a sweet girl, an accountant-orphan (her parents died in an accident when she was 19) going to Chicago to visit her Aunt. She wasn't the most effervescent conversationalist, but we were entertained by a bloviating rocker chick at the table across, expounding on everything under the sun with her two "partying" travel companions. I LOVE AMTRAK.

From Gallup to Albie, inspired by the landscape, I wrote a country song. Here's the chorus:

\\I love sleeping on the train

I love the sky before it rains

I love the desert sun

I love the morning dew

But most of all I love myself

As much as I love you\\

I think I'll call it "The Cowboy Self-Esteem Song."

My sister and my niece, Daniella picked me up. She just turned 23, is a mechanical engineer, and delightful. When we got to this gorgeous house (I'm drunk on the space--you ever get bored, go to another room!) my sister gave me my Christmas present. She had made a box of greeting cards with the best Hy-Arts on them. Beautiful. Thrilled me to bits. We are going to hobnob about how to turn this into something sellable, with the proceeds going to an agreed upon good cause.

On the train I also reread the screenplay up until now, making plenty of notes. The changes are minor, the important thing is that when i got up to page 50, I was completely wrapped up in the story. You may think that's to be expected when it's your own work, but trust me it's not. I can't count the times the flaws are flapping about like a marlin on a fishing line, and I'm at a loss to know how to repair them.

So my nephew is almost finished downloading the script onto the new computer--they've set me up in a corner of the living room. I've called home and found out Gaza is very happy with his Uncle Carl, so I can stop worrying and get to work.

MCO 2007

Well, I didn't think I was going to put up a Christmas Tree, but as you can see, one found me.

I was picking up trash this morning, per usuel (after the best AA birthday gift ever--a meeting with only 4 people that gave us all time to share our hearts out) and I passed in front of apartments a little to the north of where I usually clean. The gardens are fairly well-tended between these two buildings, but the border area between them of unclear responsponsiblity seems to be ignored, a little archeaological DMZ from which I always seem to see the outline of a bottle or two or three in the dirt. I dig them out, and it almost seems like someone plants new ones.

So I notice this bottle and proceed to have rather some difficulty excavating it. Curious as to what was causing this, I tug extra hard, and find out it has been there so long that roots have grown into it. My mind mad with metaphors, as usual, I instantly pose it against this rock for the shot you see above.

When we stop drinking (or using or any addiction or behavior that takes the place of God) we open ourselves up like this bottle. And though I would have rather imagined a flower growing out of the bottle as the apropos metaphor, I just love the idea of a root growing into it. And to complete the perfect circle, I opened my daily delanceyplace.com to read this extremely insightful passage from John Steinbeck:

"Perhaps the most overrated virtue in our list of shoddy virtues is that of giving. Giving builds up the ego of the giver, makes him superior and higher and larger than the receiver. ... It is so easy to give, so exquisitely rewarding. Receiving, on the other hand, if it is well-done, requires a fine balance of self-knowledge and kindness. It requires humility and tact and great understanding of relationships. In receiving, you cannot appear, even to yourself, better or stronger or wiser than the giver, although you must be wiser to do it well.

"It requires self-esteem to receive--not self-love but just a pleasant acquaintance and liking for oneself."

John Steinbeck, The Log from the Sea of Cortez, Appendix, "About Ed Ricketts", Penguin Books, 1951, pp. 272-3.

So I'm on the train tonight to Albuquerque, with 50 pages of the screenplay done. I would love to have had it finished, but it is HUGE that I am this far into it. I'm no longer trying to think of the next scene; I have so many scenes competing in my head that it's just a question of getting them all down. I haven't been at this stage of a screenplay for 10 years. It is a marvelous, marvelous feeling.

I am also planting seeds toward the realization of bringing Hy-Art to a gallery in 2008. I'm tired of seeing other people enact their creative dreams while I lag back because I overdose on a sense of "what's realistic." If George Shrub can become President, I sure as hell can hang some pictures up. And make a movie. And change the world.

Merry Christmas all. Give a stranger five dollars tomorrow.

MCO 2007

So for my third birthday, Denys Homo Homo Sapien called all the way from Australia to congratulate me, neglecting to mention that it was also his third birthday (at least with the time change.) Denys, lovely for you to think of me, and what a nice conversation it was. And major congratulations to you, mate.

This morning my sponsee will give me a cake, and I will share how much The Promises have come true for me. But I will add that the bobbling in my head this week reminded me to watch out for any sense of entitlement or complacency. My New Year's resolutions are to work on my humility, to show more willingness to say "I don't know," to share less and listen more.

Of course, I will always maintain my right to be grandiose in the service of humor. Therefore, I have spun a spontaneous comment I made on a Crystal Clean Persuasion's blog into a full-fledged design for living. (If anyone asks, the founder of this program is officially "Gaza. O.")

"The 4 Paws."

1. We realized life without a dog was pointless, and to continue without one was unimaginable.

2. We looked around, and found a dog, or a dog found us.

3. We love and cared for the dog, and strove to understood him.

4. We proceeded to imitate this dog in all of our affairs, living in the present, playing a lot, and giving and getting as much affection as possible.

Left off the list: loyalty, service, and buttsniffing, but I think they are there in subtext in #4. (Feline lovers can come up with their own program. Catanon?)

One thing I love about the program is that there are already millions of adherents, and meetings occur in every dog park in the world on a daily basis. I don't have to do a damn thing.

MCO 2007

P.S. So I'm coming back from getting my cake at a meeting, feeling all glowy, and Batman walks past, cause this is Hollywood, baby, and he's gotta make a living getting his picture taken with tourists in front of the Mann Chinese Theater. I took his picture from behind (cause otherwise he'd charge me.)

And upon coming home, I realized I finally had an Angel of Death (Mitt Romney to you and me) to explain the panic in this Rubens painting:

I was then reminded that this is also the anniversary of the death of my Dad from alcoholism in 1996. That's right, we share the same date of last insobriety. (Who says God works in mysterious ways? Doesn't seem very mysterious to me at all.)

The top is Botticelli, the bottom is Wilhelm Barth, the combination is all me.

I'm finding my serenity very challenged these days, and I think--hope--that this resurgence of restless and irritable discontent has everything to do with my upcoming anniversary. I have heard others report such discomfort around their anniversaries. It's almost like your disease goes into caves deep in the mountains, and will lull you into a false sense of complacency, and then emerges to strike when you assumed it was dead. Alcoholism as guerilla warfare.

I am feeling alienated from the rooms, imagining that everybody thinks I'm an asshole. All the thousands of superb conversations and tens of thousands of sincere hugs go right out the window when the brain gets like this. At the same time (thank God-literally) I can't really see drinking again as part of any kind of solution.

As if to reinforce that understanding, I went to a little holiday gathering last night in a gorgeous home in Silverlake. Everyone drank except me. Almost everyone was funny and charming, including me. However, after a lovely, meandering conversation in which I learned, among other things, that the other French Marc in the room grew up in the small town my Great Aunt lived in outside of Marseille, the host got decidedly drunk and proceeded to get decidedly strident. I knew he was drunk not because of any slurring, but because his tone was one of argument--though no one was disagreeing with him. The topic was a touchy one -- why people who are bi-racial (like Barack Obama) are termed black when they are technically, equally white. The host--who is a little of everything as New Orleaneans are wont to be--needed to make the point the United States is racist, and you'd think he was talking to a roomful of rednecks instead of people who basically agreed with him. (I personally thought the point very 80s--I'm much more concerned with the economic manifestations of class in this country than the supposed illogic of not always noting that Tiger Woods is bi-racial. As if anyone notices anything about Tiger Woods anymore but his unbelievable golfing.)

It was a reminder of a dinner party or two years ago where I got equally strident, attaching great importance to making a point and impeding the natural growth of the conversation. Whatever ails me shall pass--maybe I shouldn't have gotten off the anti-depressants after all, but that was months ago.

When I'm not fretting about my dog being at my sponsee's house, I'm looking forward to Albuquerque, and meetings where you don't raise your hand. The speaker picks whoever he wants--and God has a magical way of directing his finger,

MCO 2007

In AA we are not any less real people because we don't use last names in the rooms and our secretaries rotate every six months. We get to know each other, we like some people better than others, some people (horrors) dislike us. We all have baggage at best and terrific wreckage at worst. And we have sexual attractions and date and fall in love. It is impossible, if you extend yourself in and out of the rooms, not to get drawn into dramas and create a few of your own--in and out of the rooms, because of course you go out there and try to practice these principle in all your affairs. (No, not those kinds of affairs, but sometimes!)

Twice now I have found a new home group, and fell so in love with these people that I went every day for over a year. Then inevitably, after initial period of intense infatuation with practically everybody, I developed favorites and friendships, and grew impatient and tired of certain people and their remarkably repetitive shares. I had arguments with some and slept with others or tried to. This present home group remains a source of great joy yet can be fraught with pitfalls. I'm avoiding this one or that one or vice versa because x, y, and z. Just like high school when you dreaded 6th period because {FILL IN THE BLANK}.

One of the reasons I so loved to drink was how often it led to becoming Robin Williams in a bar or at a party. When the booze was largely replaced by drugs I was much less talky and much more focused on other things. Instead I became the best drug-dealer ever and also very proficient at other activities discretion proscribes me from getting into. (Think kinky, okay?)

That urge to be "A+" instead of "just" an A, or heavens forfend, a B, still leads to far too great an emotional investment in being funny and/or inspiring in my shares. I can't bear to meander or be inarticulate--as if somehow what I accept routinely in others is inacceptable in myself. This need to be "more than" would probably be what caused eyerolling at my shares--if such a thing were imaginable (It's not. Certain areas of my life remain unimaginable.) I'm aware of it and often to sit on my hands and try to shut off my rehearsing-share voice, with varying degrees of success. There's nothing wrong with being entertaining, of course, but there is something wrong with feeling if you're not that not okay. It's called a lack of humility. (I mean, yesterday, the speaker and almost everybody was extremely funny and I didn't even share! The nerve!)

Shutting up more in the rooms is probably a good thing for me spiritually, even if it takes going to different meetings. Principles before MY personality.

MCO 2007

P.S. The Hy-Art is a Picasso self-portrait mixed with a work by Hans Baldung. You can figure out how, if at all, it applies to the blog.

PS. Should I change the title of this blog to "OnAndOn?" DON"T ANSWER THAT.

A Wreath a' Franklin.

MCO 2007

Well if you sent a card, as asked, to Chris Last Chance Texaco at my request, he's out. Which is rather worth the lost stamp and card, isn't it? Read all about it on his blog. He's by no means out of the woods.

Now, on a completely different topic, I had an unpleasant exchange after a fabulous laugh-filled meeting that, despite the call of the screenplay and a call to my sponsor, I simply must blog about. Writing is therapy, and I need therapy.

A word to the wise. If you advise someone who is not your sponsee not to get into a relationship in their first year, especially with another newcomer, when the relationship breaks up, you will be reproached. You will be accused of having undermined it from the get-go with your negativity, or of now saying "I told you so." Do not try to argue with this person, they know better. They knew so much better that they are now in terrific pain. Such suggestions, you see, could not apply for them--so smart, so handsome, so otherwise together. They just had this one little problem of drug addiction, and once they stopped using, they were all ready for a healthy, workable relationship. Just like that, 90 days or 6 months in.

Forget that expecting to be successful in a new relationship when you've just gotten clean is like expecting to run a marathon with the flu. Forget that you have been deprived of your medication and are dying for something to replace it with so you don't have to learn how to be alone. Forget that you're replacing the dopamine of the drug with the dopamine of infatuation. Forget being able to concentrate on doing a fearless and thorough moral inventory. Forget on being able to concentrate, period, And that's when you're in love. When he's broken your heart? Good luck on thinking of anything else except relief. Guess what form that is most likely to take?

What have I learned? #1) Don't advise someone you're attracted to on their love life. Whatever your best efforts to be objective, they will later use that to throw out the baby of any good advice with the bath water of your attraction. #2) In general, be wary of advising ANYONE who is not your sponsee, and extremely wary of offering any unasked-for advice. (God knows I need to work on that in my blog commenting.) That may mean watching someone pick up and wondering if what you could have said would have made a difference. The reality is that all the advice they need is right there in the rooms, on a daily basis. If they choose to hear it, they will. Thinking you are that essential is sheer grandiosity.

Lastly, conflict won't kill you. It's uncomfortable to have someone angry with you, but this is part of life. You acknowledge, or try to, where you were out of line, and then you accept that sometimes this is not enough, at least right away Things pass. There is nothing made better by a drink.

MCO 2007

P.S. Conciliatory text messages have been exchanged with this person. Thank God I find texting so arduous. Lets just say I kept it short and simple and apologetic. Otherwise we'll have a whole new blog entry.

The above is half Maximilen Luce and half Gustav Klimt. If you don't know which is which, then you somehow missed one of the great art stories of the last century: Klimt's 'Adele has her debut. I guess this is as close as I'm going to get to putting up a Christmas tree. The complete dearth of decorations in my apartment may seem scrooge-like, but on January 2, I am the freest of men while everybody else is lugging their sorry-ass tree to the curb and crying into their decorations.

I was pleasantly surprised with an offer for a subsidized ticket to Denver at the end of January. I suggested to my blogami Rod to throw a party for SIN (Strength in Numbers - an organization for HIV+ men) at the club owned there by my very close friend Lannie and as she hasn't seen me forever, and has never seen me sober, it was decided this was the perfect excuse for a trip.

I could launch into stories of how I was born in Denver (my Dad sold encyclopedias there after we moved from Chile--yes Chile) how I met Lannie (in San Diego, after one of her shows, in 1989--I just introduced myself and it was a meeting of the muses), or how I moved to Denver for six months in 1995 (see "Geographic: In AA parlance, when someone blames their addiction on where they live, and moves in an inevitably futile attempt to treat the insides by changing the outsides." I actually DID stop using meth for six months because I moved there, but I broke the heart of someone I never had any business being involved with, as I met him on the rebound etc. etc.) I could expound on all these stories, but I won't, because I have four days to complete a screenplay before my trip to Albuquerque.

I'm up to page 41 as of last night. That means a minimum of 15 pages a day. It's rather unlikely that I keep up that pace, but it definitely won't happen if I don't discipline myself as regards to distractions. The sorry truth is that I am completely addicted to making extensive comments on blogs, drop-of-the-hat ex-parte email exchanges, and Lord knows I can spend hours putting together Hy-Art. We won't even discuss All My Children and One Life to Live.

I doubt I can skip blogging altogether--you might as well ask me to give up coffee. But if I'm less gabby than usual via email communication, it's not about you.

MCO 2007

The book and the candle is by Georges de la Tour. The woman painting is a self-portrait by Judith Leyster. In all my art hunting thus far, this is the first female Renaissance painter I’ve come across, and I thought that worth sharing her biography. (I’m saving at least one reader an Internet search.)

Judith Leyster (1609-1660) (also: Leijster) was born in 1609 into the family of a Haarlem brewer. She was one of the very few women to be accepted as a member to the Haarlem Lukas Guild of Painters. Although she was highly esteemed by her contemporaries, she remained unknown for a long time and her works were either believed lost, or were attributed to Frans Hals. Judith is believed to be Hals’ pupil, she worked in his studio in Haarlem in about 1630; at that period she tried to follow his style. She was definitely a friend of Hals’ family, because in 1631 she became godmother to Hals’ daughter Maria. In 1636, Judith married the genre painter Jan Miense Molenaer. In her early works, the young Leyster, like Hals, followed the style of the Utrecht Caravagisti. However, her later portraits and genre scenes were strongly influenced by the painting of Terbrugghen and Honthorst. The artist died in Heemstede in 1660.

There were a few years there when I was so caught up in the hunt for sensual gratification that the road invariably narrowed into one long ride on Route 69. I not only surrounded myself with gay men, I also told myself that I wasn’t missing anything.

Now I can’t imagine my life without close, daily interaction with my Mom, my sisters, a multitude of women in AA, and several blogamies with whom I also trade email in addition to mutual commenting. I've also had the great joy of reconnecting with women with whom I was extremely close before the drugs took over; one of them, Cheri, quite accidentally misdialed me last night after she'd just "killed" on stage doing stand-up in Austin--we laughed like hell for 10 minutes straight.

So, today, Vive La Femme! And doublevive femmes like Judith Leyster. I can't help but think of all the women who may have well been Leysters or Kahlos or O’Keefes, but who lived in times that never afforded them the remotest chance to discover, much less hone their talents. (For most of the world—not just for girls, but for boys living in poverty as well—that still hasn’t changed).

Ah well, thank God for reincarnation. I have to believe that talent never dies, it just gets reborn in a different soul. Eventually, all good things come to light.

MCO 2007

We found this adorable homosexual—Little Markie-- wandering around a Los Angeles park picking up trash—that’s right picking up trash. This was one of just a few sad facts about his life. In a city full of glossy new BMWs and Mercedes-Benz, Little Markie drives a 1990, dented Nissan Maxima—too shocking in appearance to even picture here. Surrounded by the luxury of Silverlake and the Hollywood Hills, Little Markie lives in a small one-bedroom in Little (ironic, hunh) Armenia where he must sleep in the kitchen, on a futon, next to his mixed—breed rescue dog. For exercise he does push-ups on his living room floor. That’s right, a homosexual in Hollywood who does not even have a gym membership.

Little Markie survives on less than most homosexuals spend at Barney’s or Banana Republic. He buys his clothes at thrift stores. He owns no furniture from Restoration, the art on his walls has never seen the inside of a reputable gallery. Worst of all, Little Marke has an allergy to alcohol and drugs that means he cannot go to bars or circuit parties like the other homosexuals. Consequently, he rarely meets any men. That’s right. Little Markie goes for months without sex. Months.

If you join Save this Homosexual, you can do something about this horrific situation. For a mere thousands of dollars a month, you can help this homo with the puppy dog eyes afford decent housing and a respectable car. He’s not asking for much—just a two-bedroom condo in Weho or maybe a craftsman in Echo Park. He doesn’t need a Lexus—a late model Miata would be just fine. With your help, Little Markie can finally get a cleaning-lady, a membership at Bally’s and a personal trainer twice a week. Most importantly, little Markie can take that personal trainer out to dinner, maybe for a weekend in Palm Springs.

Without your help, Little Markie will probably stay single forever. What self-respecting L.A. queer would go out with anyone who can’t pick up a brunch tab and has never even been on an R.S.V.P. cruise?

In this holiday season of plenty, won’t you skip just a few mortgage payments so little Markie can make a few? Doesn’t he deserve to shop at the store he was named after, Neiman-Marcus? Won’t you sleep better at night knowing Little Markie no longer has to pick up trash, even if it means a stay at Bette Ford to break him of the addiction?

With your contribution, you are guaranteed at least one snippy, entitled email from Marco (his new name) a month, with pictures of his new digs, replete with hunky gardener and personal sex slave, Esteban. You will also receive his credit card bills for full payment within 30 days, and granted access to his zany You Tube postings from his fabulous travels to London, Ibiza and Santa Fe, where you will even be allowed to stay at the vacation cottage you’re paying for when he’s not there. (Please tip Consuela well, but don’t use the Biotherm Homme Skin Peel. There’s only one store in Paris that carries it.)

Call now—1-555-696-9696, and Save This Homosexual from the ravages of a life in the slow lane. Operators are standing by, wearing real cool outfits, made by the designers of Project Runway.

MCO 2007

Many of you read one of the blogs I recommend on my blogroll, The Last Chance Texaco, (formerly methup.net) and if you do, you know part of Chris' recovery has been to face some of the dangling legal consequences of his using years. On Friday he went to court to address his outstanding warrants, and warned his readers that he might be offline for an indeterminate length.

Luckily I happened to know his last name, and a little Internet savvy and "inside" knowledge of how the system works enabled me to track down his whereabouts. It would not seem improbable that Chris might celebrate the holidays from inside a cell, so I thought it might be nice for him to get a few cards or letters or a blog entry, (as I sent, with a note of course). Hopefully, he'll never get it because he'll be out before it arrives, but that is a best case scenario that cannot be depended upon.

I feel special about Chris because it was his efforts to find blogs about addiction that ending up linking an entire circle of us who have become close blogamis. I can't imagine my day without checking in with these buds I would not have otherwise met, as we fertlize each others brains and help each other forward.

So this is where you can write Chris or send him a card:

Chris Mecham

#11953

c/o Ada County Jail

72310 Barrister Dr.

Boise, ID 83704

Thank you all.

MCO 2007

Okay, let me break it down:

Hopper did the train.

Altman (Nathan) did the women in blue and yellow, front left.

Sisley did the view outside of the left window.

Tissot is the woman on the couch.

Turner did the view outisde the right window.

Now you know why I love train travel. This is what goes on in my head on a train, I sense all the individual drama in the lives of those around me, in the landscapes and houses and cities we pass by and through. In fact, I've never passed a "For Rent" sign without imagining moving in, the farther away, the better.

Mary commented on my last entry that she would be nervous about drinking on the train if she were in my place. It certainly would seem that way for me too, wouldn't it? The reason it's not is nothing admirable on my part, no willpower is required. I simply no longer imagine that my perception of the world needs some kind of enhancing. In fact, it was an illusion that I was ever trying to enhance anything in the first place--if that had been true I would have stuck to one drink or two at most, up to which point it can at least be argued things are geniunely rendered a little sharper and brighter.

I believed that I was one of those special people for whom more drinking meant more enhancement, when in fact I was just growing increasingly numb. I needed to quiet that voice in my head that exhausted me with its judgments, its resentments, its constant criticism of the world and myself, and its endless woemances.*

The reason I'm not worried about drinking on the train is that I can't really imagine anymore not wanting to be 100% present to my experience, and no longer believe you can be 110 or 120% present to it. As for the "fun" of the artificial euphoria and lowered inhibitions, I had enough of that for three lifetimes. I've grown to prefer the "new fun;" a good giggle over the raucous belly-laugh, a two-way conversation over a dominating monologue. The New Fun means never having to wake up with someone whose name you don't recall in the morning. The New Fun also means coming up with amusing lists of witty definitions of made-up words.

In fact, I just whipped this off this little whimsy this morning. I'd love to hear any additional submissions from the peanut gallery. (Of -omances, or of your ideas of what "The New Fun" means to you.)

Variations on Romance for the 21st century

Fauxmance – Love With a Liar

Nomance – Love With Someone Who Doesn’t Know You Exist

Rowmance – Long Distance Love

Gomance – Love with someone who you wish would leave

Pomance – Love without Money

Lomance-Love with White Trash

Chomance- Love with a Korean comedienne

Yomance – Love with a Homeboy

Stowmance – Love with an Illegal Alien

CuppaJoemance – Love over coffee

Flomance – Love with a Waitress or a Plumber (Flowmance)

Promance – Love with a Golfer or a Call Girl

Growupmance – Love with an immature guy

*Woemance – Love that ends badly

Owemance- Love with an Accountant

Homance – Love With A Streetwalker

Blomance – See Homance.

MCO 2007

If anyone is secretly thinking about trying their hand at Hy-Art, here's a little hint. When in doubt, go to Dali. I had this little visual trickery going on below, having miniaturized Pisarro's traffic to go through Corot's rustic village, but it lacked a certain je-ne-sais-quoi. Salvador had the one of the seminal imaginations of the 20th century. He'll add zing to anything, even if, in this case, I don't know exactly what the hell it means either. Well, with surrealism, the viewer's take on it becomes part of the work itself. So your guess is as good as mine.

So yesterday I thought to ask my buddy Carl if he would take the dog from Christmas to New Year's, and he said yes. Hooray for Carl! Then, to my surprise, I found that I could still get on Amtrak to Alburquerque and back by leaving on Christmas Eve and returning on New Year's (I love traveling on holidays--there's a strange solidarity with your co-voyagers), but at the absurdly affordable fare (with AAA discount--that's Triple A, not double A) of $140. I won't get a full 8 hours' sleep, but who cares when you're rocking and rollling across the desert with the night sky better than any TV and a copy of Gone With the Wind (which I will reread) to remind you how much luckier you are than Scarlett O'hara, trying to get back to Tara carrying a sick woman, her new baby, and a Prissy--with the Yankees about to cut off Decatur Road!

In fact, if you've ever seen the movie, and you're not an alcoholic or a drug addict but you want to understand exactly what a "bottom" feels like, a pretty sterling example would be Scarlett under the bridge, holding the horse still, as the rain plummets down and the Yankees gallop overhead. Lest you think it's also proof there is no God, hey, something told her to get under the bridge before the Yankees got there! (Quite unconciously, I realize I've come up with a bizarrely appropriate narrative for this Hy-Art. I just don't know if that figure represents God or the Yankees!)

Albuquerque, by the way, is where my older sister lives. I shall be joining her, her husband, my nephew Keir (the filmmaker) and my lovely niece Daniella (the engineer.) I hope to have the screenplay ready for Keir, and making the reservations has also made for an excellent deadline.

I'm up to page 36 as of last night, and I'm feeling that fire under my ass.

MCO 2007

P.S. My last drink was on that train, 3 years ago on December 23, so I'll have a day into my 4th year this time round. Zero danger of any such silliness this trip, but I will enjoy taking in a meeting or two in the Duke City, the same place that so welcomed me in those incredibly anxiety-filled first days sober (and just out of prison) in the last days of 2004.

I was thinking about how during New Year's eve 2003-04, two months prior to my final arrest, when I tried to come up with a "plan" for the coming year. Zero, zip, nada. I sorta kinda wanted to stop using, but I just didn't think it was possible. I tried to be grateful for my life, but I was living on a precipice. By giving me the unforgettable and necessary spanking of 9 months in prison, God really did for me what I could not do for myself. (Yes, I drank a little after I got out and before December 23rd, but that was also necessary. I had to close that door, to know it no longer worked, on any level. Scarlett had to go back to Tara to realize she had to grow up.)

I've fallen in love with a painter I didn't even know existed two months ago, James Tissot, to whom belongs the breathtaking woman in yellow on the right. I looked hard and unsuccessfully for a match for her, and finally put it aside, waiting for someone else who could render yellow as perfectly. Then this morning NPR had a feature on a retrospective on the British painter, James Turner and the reporter extolled his landscapes. Click, click, click, and voila.

I've been semi-joking with a friend how extremely attracted I am to the late 1800s, to the point of wondering whether I was born in the wrong century entirely. But aside from wanting to live in the Gilded Age, I also see myself quite well as an Edwardian, and as someone who would have loved in Paris in the 20s and 30s, or New York in the 40s and 50s (On the very salary I live on today, I could have a Park Avenue apartment, a maid, parties and the theater every night...Heaven!). It finally leads me back to thinking I quite live in exactly the right time and place, because with this glorious Internet I can relive all of those times, and more (17th-Century Amsterdam, for example), on a daily basis.

I'm not just talking about the Hy-Art. I may have 75 books or so in my modest library, but with the Internet, I have access to the entire world at my fingertips. As do you. It's one of the purest forms of democracy ever invented. And like many of you, I can spend hours just following links and reading Wikipedia articles. Curiosity is a great gift, and all of us are born with it. Those who "lose" it have it beaten out of them, physically or psychologically, and this is one of the world's great tragedies.

Addiction will also beat it out of you, as discovering new things tends to fall way behind investigation of who has what at what price and can you get it by 4, or which bar has 2 for 1 or the cutest guys or the most generous bartenders. So I am enormously grateful in a few clicks to learn about the history of Algeria, the Battle or Trafalgar, or the life and work of James Tissot,* among countless other searches and well-spent hours soaking my brain. (You never know when you're going to be stranded on a desert island with a bunch of kids for a decade, and it will be up to you to prepare them for college upon your rescue.)

And this morning, my 82-year old mother told me she's signed up to take a computer course in January. Hope springs eternal.

MCO 2007

*Guess who shares my birthdate? That's right, we're both October 15.

I wasn't perfectly happy with any of the Hy-Art designs I have ready, so I decided to make use of my new love, the digital camera my ex-roommate got, to give you a little virtual tour of my apartment and my art--that is, the art personally made by me, by hand.

Top left is the view of my computer, where I spend all my time. (The artwork in that corner is not by me, but by a good friend.) Then there's the view of my couch, ( the view stage left from my computer) and the view of my TV, (yes, that's One Life to Live), in which the flash did not go off.

The "bedroom" is actually in the dining room, which isn't really a dining room, but an extension of a large studio. That is not pictured. I must maintain some mystery! Which means, imagine the man of your choice in my bed, as long as he looks like this:

Isn't it awful when, out of the blue, you have a sharp disagreement with a good friend? In this case, it was about texting in the rooms of AA. One meeting we both go to had a group conscience resulting in a request that people refrain from doing so. Guess who does it all the time? (Hint: Not me!) Of course my agreeing completely with the group conscience was "heard" as a personal attack, which is part and parcel of the very set of character defects that are not being faced and dealt with, IMNSHO (In My Not-So-Humble Opinion,) that keeps leading said friend right back to relapse-land. Then I kept trying to switch the topic from the "tree" of the texting to the "forest" of the copping of resentments, which just made things worse.

You see, IMNSHO, the reaction to that group conscience that WILL keep him sober is, "Okay, I won't text in the meeting. Maybe this is God's way of telling me I need to listen (or at least pretend to listen) to even the people I can't stand, who I think have nothing to offer, who I think say the same thing every time they share. Maybe the spiritual lesson in that for me is about MY WILLINGNESS TO LISTEN, not about WHAT THEY ARE SAYING."

Of course, we never got to that, because I had completely undercut my position by agreeing with him on the assholism of some specific, pompous types in that meeting, which is INEVITABLE in any group of 50 of so people. Ever watch an airplane disaster movie? There's always the blowhard who gets slapped by the nun--AA is no different. By agreeing with him on how irritating these people are, I was completely vulnerable to accusations of hypocrisy when I then tried to shift gears.

I DO dislike some people intensely, but that's about ME, about MY willingness to JUDGE, and that makes a huge difference in what I take away from the meeting. It doesn't turn into a resentment, a sentiment that somehow I've been wronged by this person's obnoxiousness, or that it somehow reflects on AA as a whole. The disease is DYING for me to turn it into the following scenario: I hate that meeting, AA sucks, it's full of assholes, why the hell shouldn't I drink?

But if I point this out to my friend, it comes off to him as self-righteous lecturing. I am accused of not listening unconditionally as a friend, of playing his sponsor--which I am not--and this drives him crazy. Another resentment to add to the pile.

When he does this, his disease, IMNSHO, is doing a jig, and I feel I am relating to the disease, not the friend. I, however, have no interest in a "friendship" in which I cannot tell the truth as I see it. The stakes are too high. People go out and never come back all the time, they go to jail and die. If I see someone doing the same shit over and over again that always leads back out that door, I am going to point it out, and lets the cellphones hang up where they may.

I know that there's a fine line between standing in your truth and know-it-allism. The latter is something I tend to slide into, particularly as there is almost nothing I don't have an opinion on. I'm sure not a few blogs I comment on find my comments a mixed blessing, as I don't shy away from disagreeing, even criticizing. I find the colorlessness of the comments on many blogs or AOL journals demoralizing, it seem to me a great many people use exclamation marks in lieu of actual personalities, as if "Sounds like you made a new friend!!!" (on a blog titled "Made a New Friend") somehow renders such a pedestrian comment sparkling and original. People seem to instinctively shy away from leaving such comments on my blog, which may have something to do with how few I get. (Thank God for the Aussies, who always seem to come up with something quirky!)

So, I may be an opioniated curmudgeon, but better that than an Hallmarc!!!! Card. With me, you'll never get storebought.

MCO 2007

P.S.

I could have sworn this was Kevin Federline and Britney Spears behind me on Franklin Avenue. But I guess that would be two years too late?

Some mornings, I also have a lot of inner Rembrandt going on. While my own life is mostly Tissot, I am of this world. I hear the news and bang my head over the complete idiocy of ideology over common sense, wring my hands over the insistence of human beings on exercising cruelty over kindness. (See Congo's Continued Holocaust .) It is one of the great philosophical dilemmas. If you see the world as made up of your brothers and sisters, isn't their suffering yours? And yet, if you try to feel all that suffering, you couldn't get out of bed, much less do anything about it.

The closest thing to an answer I have is acceptance. You accept the horror is real, you accept that you are one person, and that means you can do a lot, but you cannot single-handedly fix the world. This is definitely a job for the serenity prayer. C'mon say it with me:

"God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things that I can, and the wisdom to know the difference."

MCO 2007

Kind of cool how that wealthy society matron painted by Sargent blends in so well with these other sailing ships in this rendering by Boggs, isn't it?

This administration would have us believe that no, she looks like a ship, she's in the port with the other ship, so she's a ship, dammit. (I can see the headlines tomorrow: "President questions the usefulness of 'Hy-Art' on the Global War on Terror.") And like this faux ship, this ex-CIA agent, John Kiriakou, being trotted out on all of the news shows to talk about torture, ain't what he seems.

First, he's very young and good-looking. He's not reading from a prompter, and in the era of lasix and contact lens, why is he wearing those thick-framed glasses? Could it be it gives him this Clark Kent-credibility? Then listen to the narrative he weaves: Waterboarding may or may not be torture, but clearly it's not pleasant and as Americans, we probably should not be doing it. BUT back then, we thought we were gonna get attacked again any minute, and it was very effective. 35 seconds before he gave up all of these plots, just like that! Surely, any reasonable American can agree that 35 seconds of discomfort for a nasty terrorist is worth saving thousands of lives!

But the truth is, if the torturee says "we planned to blow up the Brooklyn Bridge," --anything to stop the torture--the CIA told the Bushie, the Bushie told the Giuliani, and 10 more cops are assigned to the Brooklyn Bridge. The "plot" gets listed under Top Ten Foiled Terrorist Plots" -- a list kept confidential for "national security reasons" until Bush needs it to justify some more raping of the constitution of a country, take your pick.

So yeah, I find it terribly convenient that this ex-agent, who wasn't even present during the torture, is trotted out precisely at the moment these tapes have been destroyed, so John Q. Public can nod at the TV and go, "I don't like waterboarding, who does? But it can save lives!." I mean, you wanna hug this guy because he had some difficulty sleeping! Awwww....

This does not pass the smell test. Look how oddly quiet Dana Perino is about this guy--and she hasn't had a original thought since kindergarten, she only parrots what she's been told. No comment, no questioning of his patriotism for being open about his CIA service--doesn't that alone violate some sort of signing statement?

This has Dick Cheney written all over it. Mark my words.

MCO 2007

My ex-roommate bought a camera and guess who's learning how to use it?

I actually took some very cool pictures of some of the surviving trees in the burned areas of Griffith Park, plus some of me (including a super short video) and the dog.

Marc in Griffith Park

MCO 2007

Lerolle (left part of painting) is not an artist I knew until recently, Alma-Tadema (blue part on right) I did see in an exhibit on "Orientalism" at the Clark Institute at Williams College in 1999.

Last night, my Mom (who never calls me at night, as we speak every morning) called me to tell me she'd read this in the New York Times, (Michael O'Brien) "Poetry captures perception at that very moment before it yields to analysis." I don't know what moved me more; the perfect definition or the blessing of having a mother who calls me with such nuggets. We know each other very well, we are not only very close as mother and son, but excellent friends.

I could analyze what makes the above compelling, but I don't think it's necessary. You either "get" poetry or you don't, and you don't need me to "get" this, even if its only because you respond to the colors or imagery on a visceral level.

I wish Life was as consistently beautiful as Art.

MCO 2007

The gleaners are Jean-Francois Millet's, the porch overlooking the sea is Edward Hopper. Together they make for a fairly accurate idea of how I imagine most of the world's hardest workers get through the day. They place their brains elsewhere.

Ironic that the ability to create art that makes such a point is exactly what allows me to feel the precise opposite. I can sit at this computer for entire weekends and much of most days, with very little desire to be elsewhere or be doing anything else. Thank God I have the dog to force myself into the real world, that and AA meetings. And the need to keep the street clean.

In fact, going out to socialize involves peeling myself off the chair, like it did Saturday night when I went to see my friend Richard sing and play piano at a cafe in my old neighborhood. His show (which was great) was preceded by the worst 4 stand-up comics on the planet. Their material was awful, absolutely awful, and the audience reaction (or lack thereof) reflected it. I was amazed at how their desire for attention trumped their fear of failure, even blinded them to any realistic appraisal of their own talent. It seems to be a fairly modern disease, (see the American Idol auditions.) I don't know if it gives me hope or horrifies me, but I think more the latter.

In contrast, my morning meeting had enough laughter for an HBO comedy special. Just a bunch of garden variety recovering drunks sitting around talking about their lives. And I don't know if this has anything to do with what I said to him, but "Bob" (from yesterday) was delightful, even inspirational.

MCO 2007

In AA you will often encounter a species of newcomer still completely preoccupied, (like this sad-eyed friend of the Russian painter Ilya Repin,) by his own "unique" drama. He listens politely to the speaker or to the reading, but never tailors his shares to respond to the topic or themes heard therein. Instead he repeats almost word for word the same share as the day before, delineating why he drank or used--or still does--how nice everybody is in AA and how much he wants to stay sober--or at least wants to want to. Often he's been sent there by his wife or the court, and stays for the attention. He tends to think AA is a form of group therapy, where you regurgitate your problems and they will magically go away. Often, many hope the result of coming to AA for a month or two will be that suddenly they find themselves drinking or using "normally." Cured!

It can be frustrating to watch and listen to these hamsters on a wheel, frankly. I finally took one aside the other day and told him, as gently as possible: Bob, (not his real name), there's something I need to share with you. There is a reason we have speakers who start the meeting sharing their story, or who read from passages of the Big Book or the 12 x 12. It's so the newcomer gets to hear solution, gets to slowly absorb what the program is in manageable bites. What the rest of us in the meeting generally try to do is then share about how what we just heard might specifically apply to our lives, and in so doing, maybe help the other people in the room expand their capacity to live in the solution.

I'm suggesting that you may find that the quality of your sobriety, and your ability to stay sober, changes considerably when you reverse the dynamic from using the meetings to bring your life into the rooms to instead using the rooms to bring the program into your life.

I could have said more, I could have gone on for about an hour--one of my character defects is a tendency (well known to you readers) to go ON AND ON. But I stopped there, and he thanked me and hugged me--though I don't know if he understood what I was saying as much as wanted to appear like he did.

The disease of addiction has a primary purpose--to keep you thinking about you, your problems, your apartness. The booze or the drugs are just fuel on that fire. Makes for a lot of light and heat--tends to blind you to the sun, where the real action is. (Yes, I'm talking about God. I've always been a bit of a pagan.)

This is the reason oldtimers tend to say to newcomers: "Take the cotton out of your ears and put it in your mouth." They know (largely from personal experience) that you can't talk problem and hear solution at the same time.

MCO 2007

P.S The angel is from Bougereau