Busy. I told myself I would not get busy so soon after my return to New Orleans, but there ya have it! Last week I did 6 shows, wrote a freelance project, taught a software class, and hosted an out-of-town guest. I also hosted the Radical Faerie potluck and put lights on a tree. Luckily I managed to visit a sauna in there too. Never too busy to sauna.
Five of the 6 performances were as John James Audubon. This is a yearly gig with the Louisiana Living History Project, in which each actor researches and portrays a historical person of Louisiana. This year we have 15 characters. I'm Audubon, and also the Stage Manager.
The 6th performance was a staged reading of Black Nativity by poet Langston Hughes. We presented dance, drumming, Gospel singing, and readings. I gave an impassioned sermon-ette. The next day, 2 other actors said to me, "Frederick, you can really preach it!"
"Oh," I replied, "I've been around some Baptist folk." Why do you think the blog is called Kung Fu Evangelist?
Monday, December 15, 2008
Friday, November 28, 2008
The New Digs
My first day-after-Thanksgiving carb-hangover in the new apartment. Feels like home. This is my first apartment in umm...6 years? I've been "the roommate" or "the housesitter" for the past 6 years, most of that time really living on the road. For the past 2 years, I've been settled in New Orleans, renting the big room from Miss Gloria in the Bywater. Now I'm ready to move on to my own apartment.
Day-after-Thanksgiving in my new digs. I'm avoiding the refrigerator. Instead, I walked to Cafe Flora, which is close to my apartment and open, to buy incense and a coffee. Sidewalks are wet from an early morning storm. The few folks outside have the same bleary looks as me. Carb-hangover. Must find coffee.
I moved in 2 weekends ago, but "officially" occupied the place 2 nights ago, when I cooked. I made the oyster dressing for the T Day table, a Southern tradition made with paper-light baguettes. My kitchen is bright with a LOT of counter space and a window that overlooks rooftops.
The whole apartment is called the Camel Back of a Shotgun. A Shotgun house is long and narrow, with no hallways, just one room behind the next. If you open all the doors, you can shoot a shotgun straight through. The Camel Back is a second story that extends only half the length of the Shotgun. A half-story, I guess. The Camel Back was popular in New Orleans because home owners could avoid tax on second stories by only building half a second story. Imagine me in my upper half-story, relaxing on my elevated wooden deck, drinking beer at sunset.
The Mississippi River is only a block away, but except for the sky my view is obstructed by wharf warehouses. I see smoke stacks on passing ships, and the peaks of the Crescent City Bridge lit up at night. My view is rather industrial on the river side. I'm glad the river is there, but prefer the kitchen view and the deck.
I live on Marigny Street, which also lends its name to the entire neighborhood. The Marigny (pronounced merry-knee) is the 3rd oldest neighborhood in New Orleans, directly adjacent to the French Quarter. I walk 3 blocks from my apartment to the Quarter. Named after the Baron de Marigny, who parceled out his estate to pay gambling debts and to house his numerous mistresses, the Faubourg (faux town) Marigny is historic, quaint, quite Gay, relatively middle class, and liberal. Bed-and-breakfast abounds, and KEE-YOOT cottages side-by-side, up and down the blocks, painted bright colors with filigree millwork. Balcony gardens, sweet olive trees, the occasional cobblestone sidewalk, decay.
You could say I moved on up to a deluxe apartment in the sky.
Day-after-Thanksgiving in my new digs. I'm avoiding the refrigerator. Instead, I walked to Cafe Flora, which is close to my apartment and open, to buy incense and a coffee. Sidewalks are wet from an early morning storm. The few folks outside have the same bleary looks as me. Carb-hangover. Must find coffee.
I moved in 2 weekends ago, but "officially" occupied the place 2 nights ago, when I cooked. I made the oyster dressing for the T Day table, a Southern tradition made with paper-light baguettes. My kitchen is bright with a LOT of counter space and a window that overlooks rooftops.
The whole apartment is called the Camel Back of a Shotgun. A Shotgun house is long and narrow, with no hallways, just one room behind the next. If you open all the doors, you can shoot a shotgun straight through. The Camel Back is a second story that extends only half the length of the Shotgun. A half-story, I guess. The Camel Back was popular in New Orleans because home owners could avoid tax on second stories by only building half a second story. Imagine me in my upper half-story, relaxing on my elevated wooden deck, drinking beer at sunset.
The Mississippi River is only a block away, but except for the sky my view is obstructed by wharf warehouses. I see smoke stacks on passing ships, and the peaks of the Crescent City Bridge lit up at night. My view is rather industrial on the river side. I'm glad the river is there, but prefer the kitchen view and the deck.
I live on Marigny Street, which also lends its name to the entire neighborhood. The Marigny (pronounced merry-knee) is the 3rd oldest neighborhood in New Orleans, directly adjacent to the French Quarter. I walk 3 blocks from my apartment to the Quarter. Named after the Baron de Marigny, who parceled out his estate to pay gambling debts and to house his numerous mistresses, the Faubourg (faux town) Marigny is historic, quaint, quite Gay, relatively middle class, and liberal. Bed-and-breakfast abounds, and KEE-YOOT cottages side-by-side, up and down the blocks, painted bright colors with filigree millwork. Balcony gardens, sweet olive trees, the occasional cobblestone sidewalk, decay.
You could say I moved on up to a deluxe apartment in the sky.
Sunday, November 16, 2008
Chicago Deep Dish
Boy, was I bitchy about being chilly in Chicago. Low 30s at night. I slept in my clothes and wore everything in my suitcase during the day. Road crews put up "snow fences". Although I love a lot of things about Chicago, like my dear friend Daniel, ethnic foods, and architecture, I don't love the weather. I'm a hot-house flower, Ya'll. I bloom in humidity.
Had a great visit with Daniel in the windy city. We always have stimulating conversations about spirituality and art. He's a very calm, sober-minded man with a deep appetite for contemplation. Our friendship goes pretty far back. To Seattle, where we both volunteered for a queer youth drop-in center, called Lambert House.
I made a point of filling up on foods I can't get in New Orleans. Although we have more restaurants than churches (and there's a LOT of churches), most restaurants specialize in "New Orleans food". If you want variety, take a road trip like me. My first night in Chicago, we ate Pakistani. Then great Mediterranean and real Mexican (not a burrito in sight, which is actually an American food, like fortune cookies). And of course, we ate Chicago Deep Dish pizza.
One night I made dinner, Pasta Putanesca, for Daniel and 2 of his friends, one of whom is quite cute (and may visit me in New Orleans this year. Hee hee. Boyfriends everywhere!) After dinner, they read a script out loud for me in the livingroom while I took notes. After the new year, I hope to direct a play in New Orleans. The title is secret until I'm sure I've secured the rights, which is difficult because the author is dead and the play unlisted with Dramatist Play Service.
The peak of my trip was the Russian Banya, an authentic bath house. Not a gay sex club type of bath house, but the real deal Russian spa for men. For an extra price, they offered to beat me with birch sticks, but I declined. I do want to return some day and be scrubbed down in the sauna by an attendant with a broom of oak leaves. I definitely sweated out my chill. The cold plunge made me "buzzy".
I culminated my wonderful 2-month journey by riding a train they call the City of New Orleans. I even recorded myself singing the Arlo Guthrie chorus, with train sounds rumbling in the background, and sent that recording to a few friends via my cell phone. "Good morning, America. How are ya?"
Had a great visit with Daniel in the windy city. We always have stimulating conversations about spirituality and art. He's a very calm, sober-minded man with a deep appetite for contemplation. Our friendship goes pretty far back. To Seattle, where we both volunteered for a queer youth drop-in center, called Lambert House.
I made a point of filling up on foods I can't get in New Orleans. Although we have more restaurants than churches (and there's a LOT of churches), most restaurants specialize in "New Orleans food". If you want variety, take a road trip like me. My first night in Chicago, we ate Pakistani. Then great Mediterranean and real Mexican (not a burrito in sight, which is actually an American food, like fortune cookies). And of course, we ate Chicago Deep Dish pizza.
One night I made dinner, Pasta Putanesca, for Daniel and 2 of his friends, one of whom is quite cute (and may visit me in New Orleans this year. Hee hee. Boyfriends everywhere!) After dinner, they read a script out loud for me in the livingroom while I took notes. After the new year, I hope to direct a play in New Orleans. The title is secret until I'm sure I've secured the rights, which is difficult because the author is dead and the play unlisted with Dramatist Play Service.
The peak of my trip was the Russian Banya, an authentic bath house. Not a gay sex club type of bath house, but the real deal Russian spa for men. For an extra price, they offered to beat me with birch sticks, but I declined. I do want to return some day and be scrubbed down in the sauna by an attendant with a broom of oak leaves. I definitely sweated out my chill. The cold plunge made me "buzzy".
I culminated my wonderful 2-month journey by riding a train they call the City of New Orleans. I even recorded myself singing the Arlo Guthrie chorus, with train sounds rumbling in the background, and sent that recording to a few friends via my cell phone. "Good morning, America. How are ya?"
Monday, November 3, 2008
Writing Retreat
This short poem is my first attempt at "meter" in poetry.
MADRONA
Twisting, yearning Madrona peels
back his own red foreskin, exposing
the raw desire need of the Earth and a sleek
skin of green beneath.
Seems a trifle to belabor for 2 weeks, but the poem's been a learning tool. And once again, I'm attempting to express something about my relationship to desire.
During my 2-week creative residency at Port Townsend, WA, I wrote 3 poems and started a couple others, but primarily worked on my novel, Goodfriend, now 3 years in the making (and officially my longest relationship.) I'm very happy with my progress. In addition to increased wordcount (2 chapters, neither done but both very well-developed), I found my way out of the wilderness. For several months now I've complained of being lost in "Deep Middle Territory," groping my way blindly forward with my story. Or so it felt. But I did some problem solving in Port Townsend. I now believe I'm only 6 chapters away from FINISHED! With Draft 1, that is. I've written 15 chapters so far; only 6 more to go. Not so lost. I have crested the summit and can see the River Jordan.
That's wonderful news to me. I'm happy to leave Port Townsend with a plan of action, re-energized, and re-focused. Time away is a good thing.
I had a 3-bedroom apartment all to myself, with panoramic water view. On clear days, Mount Rainier is visible, plus the Cascade range and the Olympic range on opposite sides of me. If you've never experienced the Pacific Northwest, the landscape is dramatic. We had a peak Autumn this year too. Nothing to rival Vermont, but impressive for this area. The foliage has been a frequent topic of local news. I had sunny days with crisp air and then a few misty, moody days toward the end. Each morning I walked in the woods or on the beach, muttering lines to myself. I sketched. Daydreamed considerbly, and deeply imagined the lives of my characters. Did a lot of soul searching.
MADRONA
Twisting, yearning Madrona peels
back his own red foreskin, exposing
the raw desire need of the Earth and a sleek
skin of green beneath.
Seems a trifle to belabor for 2 weeks, but the poem's been a learning tool. And once again, I'm attempting to express something about my relationship to desire.
During my 2-week creative residency at Port Townsend, WA, I wrote 3 poems and started a couple others, but primarily worked on my novel, Goodfriend, now 3 years in the making (and officially my longest relationship.) I'm very happy with my progress. In addition to increased wordcount (2 chapters, neither done but both very well-developed), I found my way out of the wilderness. For several months now I've complained of being lost in "Deep Middle Territory," groping my way blindly forward with my story. Or so it felt. But I did some problem solving in Port Townsend. I now believe I'm only 6 chapters away from FINISHED! With Draft 1, that is. I've written 15 chapters so far; only 6 more to go. Not so lost. I have crested the summit and can see the River Jordan.
That's wonderful news to me. I'm happy to leave Port Townsend with a plan of action, re-energized, and re-focused. Time away is a good thing.
I had a 3-bedroom apartment all to myself, with panoramic water view. On clear days, Mount Rainier is visible, plus the Cascade range and the Olympic range on opposite sides of me. If you've never experienced the Pacific Northwest, the landscape is dramatic. We had a peak Autumn this year too. Nothing to rival Vermont, but impressive for this area. The foliage has been a frequent topic of local news. I had sunny days with crisp air and then a few misty, moody days toward the end. Each morning I walked in the woods or on the beach, muttering lines to myself. I sketched. Daydreamed considerbly, and deeply imagined the lives of my characters. Did a lot of soul searching.
The facility is top-rate. There's yoga onsite, an Internet cafe, ok cell coverage, laundry and ATM. On Saturdays I rode a door-to-door bus to the Farmer's Market in town. And on Halloween, I costumed as a dead poet and walked to the waterfront. At some straight bar in town, I danced to a surprisingly great funk band and got as drunk as a living poet on payday. Women hit on me HARD. I'm not used to that.
I reserved the apartment again for this summer, an entire MONTH. Mid-August to mid-September, the peak of New Orleans hurricane season. Yay! I have a hurrication plan! A month is a long time to maintain momentum or to be alone, so I put out the word to 20 writers I know around the country to join me for some portion to write. A 3-day weekend, a week, two weeks. Several writers have replied already. Perhaps by this summer I'll be writing my LAST chapter, or better yet, Draft 2.
Friday, October 31, 2008
Old Friends in Seattle
I lived in Seattle for 13 dark rainy winters, from 1984 to 1997. I make fun of the weather a lot, and the "cold" culture of the residents, but I go back to Seattle every year or 2. Most of my oldest friends live in Seattle, and even friends from other cities have moved there. So, there's a draw. I don't want to move back there, but I like to visit (except during dark rainy winters).After Vermont, I flew directly to Seattle. My dear, dear friend Rafael (Ralphie) Ruiz picked me up at the airport (which I always like) and put me up in the guest room. I like staying at Ralph's house because he has a hot tub and takes good care of me. And his 2 new housemates are uber-gay cooks, housecleaners, landscapers, and aesthetes. I bond a lot with Stan and Dan's sensibilities, especially with Stan's, the older one. I love my sister Ralph, so it's always a joy to spend time at his home.
Greenlake is an upper-middle class neighborhood situated around a lovely lake, very traditional Seattle: Craftsman Era homes with A-frames and wide eaves, porches, gardens with ornamental Japanese maples. But Ralph's house is more mid-Century modern, and the new landscaping done by Stan and Dan really brings that out.
We had a dinner party for 10 of my oldest friends, and I mean OLD friends, like 22 years ago. It's always good to have them together. After dinner and many cocktails, I performed Mona Rogers in Person for them, the same performance I did at Gay Camp. Check out the safety-orange shoes in the photo. Melissa, my oldest oldest friend, said "Wow, it's amazing how far you've developed." It's great to have those benchmarks in life, to have people who've seen you change and evolve.
Thursday, October 30, 2008
Gay Camp in Vermont
I'm currently at my creative residency site in Washington state, which I'll write about soon. But before I forget, I want to describe my earlier trip to Vermont.
After Connecticut, I caught another Amtrak train, the Vermonter, for Bellows Falls, a village near my destination, a remote campground in the woods. My entire journey up the East coast I've seen the landscape turn chillier and yellower. In early October, the entire state of Vermont was yellow. The village of Bellows Falls was adorable. The train let me off right in the midst of a weekly farmer's market, where I bought pumpkin bread for the first evening's potluck at the campground.
Camp Destiny, a Radical Faerie campground in the rolling hills of Vermont, hosted the annual Fall Foliage Gathering. About 45 people, mostly gay men but a couple women and 6 trans-men (that I was sure of). A couple of the trans-men were quite fetching, in that twink boy way that I like so much. For 4 days, our group sat around campfires, cooked and ate communally, hiked, flirted, and participated in daily Heart Circles, a form of personal transformation through group talk, somewhere between group therapy and a Quaker meeting.
On the final night, I performed in the No Talent Show, a regular feature at Faerie gatherings. I knocked out the Vermont Faeries with selections from Mona Rogers in Person, a show we did in New Orleans earlier this year that was directed by a rather well-known Faerie named Agnes. You should have seen me balancing on 7-inch (no kidding) safety-orange heels...in the woods! The next morning the ground was covered in divits where my heels had poked in. I offered to plant seedlings.
Gay Camp was a reflective, rejuvenating--even sexy--four days. 45 people was a good number for me, as I tend to feel anxious in large groups of gay men. I connected with several sweet, intelligent people from the Northeast, and left camp with invitations to visit Maine, Vermont, New York. I was also happy to see Faerie friends who I know from other locations, like Short Mountain in Tennessee and New Orleans.
Best of all, within minutes after my arrival, I fell into a passionate, 36-hour romance. Keep in mind, I've been on the road for a month by this time, with no real opportunities for sex. No, my hymen did not grow back! But if you know me, you can imagine the state I was in when I arrived in the woods. As I was setting up my tent, a handsome, older man kissed me in greeting. And that was that. When I finally came up for air, yellow leaves were falling all around my face.
After Connecticut, I caught another Amtrak train, the Vermonter, for Bellows Falls, a village near my destination, a remote campground in the woods. My entire journey up the East coast I've seen the landscape turn chillier and yellower. In early October, the entire state of Vermont was yellow. The village of Bellows Falls was adorable. The train let me off right in the midst of a weekly farmer's market, where I bought pumpkin bread for the first evening's potluck at the campground.
Camp Destiny, a Radical Faerie campground in the rolling hills of Vermont, hosted the annual Fall Foliage Gathering. About 45 people, mostly gay men but a couple women and 6 trans-men (that I was sure of). A couple of the trans-men were quite fetching, in that twink boy way that I like so much. For 4 days, our group sat around campfires, cooked and ate communally, hiked, flirted, and participated in daily Heart Circles, a form of personal transformation through group talk, somewhere between group therapy and a Quaker meeting.
On the final night, I performed in the No Talent Show, a regular feature at Faerie gatherings. I knocked out the Vermont Faeries with selections from Mona Rogers in Person, a show we did in New Orleans earlier this year that was directed by a rather well-known Faerie named Agnes. You should have seen me balancing on 7-inch (no kidding) safety-orange heels...in the woods! The next morning the ground was covered in divits where my heels had poked in. I offered to plant seedlings.
Gay Camp was a reflective, rejuvenating--even sexy--four days. 45 people was a good number for me, as I tend to feel anxious in large groups of gay men. I connected with several sweet, intelligent people from the Northeast, and left camp with invitations to visit Maine, Vermont, New York. I was also happy to see Faerie friends who I know from other locations, like Short Mountain in Tennessee and New Orleans.
Best of all, within minutes after my arrival, I fell into a passionate, 36-hour romance. Keep in mind, I've been on the road for a month by this time, with no real opportunities for sex. No, my hymen did not grow back! But if you know me, you can imagine the state I was in when I arrived in the woods. As I was setting up my tent, a handsome, older man kissed me in greeting. And that was that. When I finally came up for air, yellow leaves were falling all around my face.
Thursday, October 9, 2008
Connecticut in Autumn
Fire on all sides of this Internet cafe. Deciduous trees turning russets, reds, and oranges. How long have I been in Connecticut? A week and a half, sleeping in the attic bedroom of Matt Levine's mother's house. He sleeps on the second floor, where he can help her in the night if she needs him. Laura has cancer, emphysema, and a broken hip. Matt has his hands full. Overall he's cheerful, but the strain does show.
Matt and I spent a lot of time together, talking, driving in the countryside, watching the debates, eating well. We're both good cooks who like to eat. I made a delicious cauliflower soup. He made Littleneck clams and pasta.
For me, the peak of this visit was yesterday, an afternoon at Storm King Art Center in the Hudson River Valley. I've visited before. Storm King is one of my favorite landscapes. Yesterday we packed a lunch, drove down, and I spent an hour sketching Autumn exploding behind a 2-story iron sculpture.
We also drove to Milford, Pennsylvania, a tiny hamlet where Matt used to own a gallery. We attended an Oktoberfest party at the house of the richest people Matt knows. And he KNOWS some rich people. I liked the pool house and the lake, but never saw either of the 2 greenhouses. The beer was strong, and combined with the rosy-cheeked Oompah band, I was worried for their rather abundant pre-Columbian art collection. I'm just the kind to knock over or drop sauerkraut onto a terracotta God older than the Gutenberg Bible.
While in Pennsylvania, we visited Luna Park, a fantastical, whimsical house in the woods. The artist/owner Ricky Boscarino was not home, but Matt is a friend, found the key, and gave us the tour. Madness inside and out. We climbed ladders, ducked under rafters, crawled thru narrow spaces. Molded concrete and mosaic tile everywhere, especially in the bedroom-sized bathroom.
We walked around Yale University and their student art gallery. I saw Westport, the last home of Paul Newman. We grooved to a great Jazz combo on Christopher street in NYC, then went next door to riot at the original Stonewall Inn. I've eaten good pizza, ok bagels, and pretty good Thai.
I read two new books while here, Cormac McCarthy's The Road (loved it) and David Sedaris' When You Are Engulfed in Flames (liked it). I'm also still digesting Mark Doty's book of poems, Source. I wrote this poem below, Bird House, sitting in the garden of Matt's mother, Laura.
Tomorrow I catch a train for Vermont.
Matt and I spent a lot of time together, talking, driving in the countryside, watching the debates, eating well. We're both good cooks who like to eat. I made a delicious cauliflower soup. He made Littleneck clams and pasta.
For me, the peak of this visit was yesterday, an afternoon at Storm King Art Center in the Hudson River Valley. I've visited before. Storm King is one of my favorite landscapes. Yesterday we packed a lunch, drove down, and I spent an hour sketching Autumn exploding behind a 2-story iron sculpture.
We also drove to Milford, Pennsylvania, a tiny hamlet where Matt used to own a gallery. We attended an Oktoberfest party at the house of the richest people Matt knows. And he KNOWS some rich people. I liked the pool house and the lake, but never saw either of the 2 greenhouses. The beer was strong, and combined with the rosy-cheeked Oompah band, I was worried for their rather abundant pre-Columbian art collection. I'm just the kind to knock over or drop sauerkraut onto a terracotta God older than the Gutenberg Bible.
While in Pennsylvania, we visited Luna Park, a fantastical, whimsical house in the woods. The artist/owner Ricky Boscarino was not home, but Matt is a friend, found the key, and gave us the tour. Madness inside and out. We climbed ladders, ducked under rafters, crawled thru narrow spaces. Molded concrete and mosaic tile everywhere, especially in the bedroom-sized bathroom.
We walked around Yale University and their student art gallery. I saw Westport, the last home of Paul Newman. We grooved to a great Jazz combo on Christopher street in NYC, then went next door to riot at the original Stonewall Inn. I've eaten good pizza, ok bagels, and pretty good Thai.
I read two new books while here, Cormac McCarthy's The Road (loved it) and David Sedaris' When You Are Engulfed in Flames (liked it). I'm also still digesting Mark Doty's book of poems, Source. I wrote this poem below, Bird House, sitting in the garden of Matt's mother, Laura.
Tomorrow I catch a train for Vermont.
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