Reclaiming Purple

Cursive

noreply@blogger.com (Joe Hartman) — Wed, 04 May 2022 16:31:00 +0000

Last week I returned to doing my morning pages, a practice I was committed to for years, and then abandoned, at least partially in the desire to get to the "meat" of my day just a little bit faster. Beginning them again has reminded me of the undeniable, if also intangible benefit, of doing them daily. A little introspection at the beginning of the day, before resistance has fully set in, can do wonders. In short, it's like "magic for the subconscious". With all that said, one could understandably be a bit skeptical, thinking "if it was so great, why stop in the first place after being committed to them for so long?" And all I can say to that is that sometimes, when you are feeling healthier and more productive and in the flow, it can be deceptively easy to forget the techniques that got you there, and as you are doing a metaphorical victory dance in the end zone of life, forget what techniques got you there, and dispense with them. I also happen to think that is ok! (No true knowledge without exploration, right?)

But the process does bring a lot of things up, and people. Today my pages had me remembering my third grade Language Arts teacher from Deep Wood Elementary, Mrs. B. I feel weird bringing her up like this in any way publicly, because my feelings around her are largely unresolved and... complicated. So let me say only that these are my experiences, and I'm sure she had many students who benefitted from other sides of her.

When I was growing up in Rochester, Minnesota our school administrators had an iron clad rule. No cursive in the second grade. Absolutely none. We were discouraged from learning anything about it as it would be covered the following year and if we had somehow already learned it and used it in a paper, we would find that paper returned upgraded. My best friend Dale and I found out just how serious they were about this, when, rebellious little assholes that we were, enhanced each letter with little curlycews on the ends, only to receive that paper back to be printed. Hamilton Elementary had a policy of zero tolerance before it was in vogue for more illicit practices.

A life change came the summer following second grade when my parents moved the three of us to a little town in Texas. Imagine my confusion on the first day of the third grade in my new home when we were assigned to write an essay to be written exclusively in cursive, having learned it the year before? Not wanting to admit my ignorance, and seeing a handy chart lining the edges of the walls which gave examples of each letter in cursive, I quietly got down to the business of learning cursive, and even felt pretty proud of myself when I turned the paper in, not realizing I had made a crucial error in judgement. I knew that in cursive each letter was connected, but I also assumed (incorrectly, as I would discover) that every word in a sentence was strung together as well. My paper was returned by Ms. B with an abysmal grade and a note in red ink and driven home by the inclusion of several exclamation points, stating that my handwriting was so cramped that she couldn't even see the spaces between words.

Looking back on it, I understand how that must have looked, but I also can't help but wonder what teacher wouldn't see this as a red flag, or think to look into the background of the student at all? I know my parents turned in some records from my former school, but it doesn't appear that anyone communicated those to my current teachers or even told them that I had transferred from a different state. The lesson that I should have taken from the experience was of course, "say something kid! Explain your situation!" And yet I never did. I spent the third grade attempting to win that teachers approval, even defending her to my parents at times when they expressed a dislike for her after some of their own brief interactions. But no matter my efforts, I never broke through the pinched expression on her face whenever she spoke to me.

Of course there could be more to the story, as I knew nothing of what she was going through in her life, her feelings about being a teacher, or her opinion of boys who were beginning to develop a reputation as a"comedian" in their homeroom. So maybe the only thing to do is have some empathy for her. Certainly she has taught me to be a little more open minded and to remember when I am reacting against a person on instinct, certain of myself and my judgements, that there is more to them than what I can see on the surface, and to hope, when recalling moments I ignored that fact, that others might be able to do the same for me.

Expectations And Realities In The New Year

noreply@blogger.com (Joe Hartman) — Sat, 08 Jan 2022 03:26:00 +0000

Whenever I'm asked what I think about New Year's as a holiday, my immediate reaction is to criticize it. I remember countless New Year's Eves in which I was without plans that lived up to the expectations I put upon the evening, as well as those in which I had exciting plans, but those plans devolved into chasing the next party, the next event, the next bash occurring in order to do justice to the year behind us, to prove ourselves the heroes of our own lives, and to have made a promising start on the year ahead simply by putting a fitting cap to the one passing. There's so much pressure on ourselves to "party", to "revel" to be "party people" like the people in movies, and I've never thought it worth the money, and effort.

But there's another aspect to the holiday that I do genuinely love, take comfort in and look forward to. I love the quiet celebrations of New Year's, the one in which I am the only attendee. I love to think about the changes I'd like to make in the year ahead, how it will be different. Does it matter that by the end of the year I am looking at a year that seems, on the surface, very similar to the one before? No. Because truth is not on the surface. It's deeper. New Year's eve also happens to be my father's birthday, so it's usually a time to celebrate him and think fleetingly about what it means to have the two major times in a year that we "reset" our intentions (our birthdays and New Years) consolidated and doubly potent.

New Year's has also been a time, traditionally during which I've participated in church ceremonies full of like minded people and emptied myself onto a page, filling that page with all the fears and habits and petty evils I want to eradicate from my life. Then I burn that paper and witness others watching their worries and shames go up in literal flames before we get down the business of filling another piece of paper with our hopes and plans for the year ahead. It's an incredibly potent and healing ritual, and I love it.

So, when thought of in that context, I really love New Years. It's a fresh start, a second chance, a clean slate, a recharge. Is this "new year" an illusion? A construct? Yes. But it's an illusions millions of us invest in and give power to, and there is an undeniable power in that. And there's comfort in knowing that as we strive to be closer to our ideals in the next year, we are in the company of others we admire, who's lives seem perfectly wonderful from our perspective, but who, like us, want to be more fulfilled.

I also find a lot of inspiration in New Years resolutions. I try to make them positive, so rather than "quit chewing my nails" I might resolve to take better care of my nails, which could involve getting more frequent manicures, moisturizing, etc. I also try to make them quantifiable so that I can stay accountable to myself, and I find I am more able to keep up with them if they are process oriented rather than product oriented. By the end of the year, even if I haven't "succeeded" by every metric, even if I wavered in execution, it's had to argue that the four, five or six months I took action toward positive change (excersising more, eating healthier, being organized, or writing every day) were poorly spent.

Finding the right resolution though, and finding a way to make that quantifiable, can be a challenge. Last years goal was to finish the first draft of my novel. While I finished 2021 with the draft still in progress, I devoted countless hours to it over the past year and have written well over 100,000 words of it. I believe I am over half way through with the actual writing and have the second half of the story explored, outlined, and thought out. Am I a bit disappointed that this mountain has turned out to be larger than it first seemed? Yes. Am I defeated? No. Because I've determined that I will not be defeated by the imperfection of this novel as I have been in the past. The fact that it took me 100,000 words of writing (much of which will end up being discarded) in order to get to the heat and heart of the story? It's all part of my process.

That said, I do feel secure in the belief that by 2023 this first draft will be complete. This dream is well underway, it's gained momentum. So rather than simply repeat last years resolution, I want a new one. I want to continue growing in a new way. Which way is that? It involves the desire to share more of my work and to put myself out there more often. It's another facet of "overcoming the belief that resultant perfection is the only way I can prove my worth to myself and the unknown world around me.

So the meat of my resolution is to "build sharing into my routine". It's taken from one of my favorite authors on creativity, Austin Kleon. If I can achieve this, then it means I will, by year's end, expanded my idea of what my creative output is, will have begun building a portfolio of creative work, will have made countless ripples in the lake of life, and will have proved to myself that I can create more work and not sweat every endeavor. In short, I will be much braver, as the only way to gain courage around creativity is to start creating courageously.

How will I do this? I will need to find a system that I can implement. I will need to make the daily steps of creating and sharing art my number one daily priority so they don't fall prey to procrastination. I will also need to realize that the feeling of having achieved these goals may not feel like I want it to in the end, as the reality of the achievement will always be different than the perfection of that achievement as I first birthed it in my mind's eye. Whichever way I end up feeling will be nine times better than the idea I'd had of that feeling, because "the idea of perfection" was destined to shatter, and the achievement of the imperfect is the best possible result, especially when I consider that the result is only imperfect in my own opinion, and only in relation to the fantasy version I dreamt up which helped fuel the eventual creation I made, and which may end up being the exact version that I needed to create and which needed to be read, seen, heard, witnessed, devoured.

(More to come...)

Nanofinmo: Goal Achieved!

noreply@blogger.com (Joe Hartman) — Sat, 01 May 2021 04:32:00 +0000

Nanowrimo began in 1999 as a challenge to spur creativity. The task set was simply to write a 50,000 word novel in the period of 30 days. Simple? Yes. Easy? Not quite. But since that first year, the challenge is reissued beginning November 1st. It's become more formalized, garnered big name companies to sponsor it, grown its brand , and added supplemental challenges throughout the year in order to keep people creating and taking the next steps to nurture their novel into creation.

I love the idea of writing a novel in a month (which breaks down to 1,667 words a day) and have begun several Novembers with my hopes high as I officially declared my intentions at my project at Nanowrimo.org. No, I was never quite as prepared as I'd hoped I'd be, and yet, I had a dream each year that this would be the year when things came together and the words flowed out of me. Just like they had with Jack Kerouac. Genius in three weeks? Fucking doable! And I had an entire extra week to write my novel. It felt practically luxurious. And yet, inevitably, the world got in the way, I started off great, many times writing more than my quota, but eventually I missed a day, which often became two, and in the meantime the 1,667 words kept stacking up like a terrifying avalanche of words I would never be able to climb out of.

My last attempt was in 2020, and in spite of pre-ordering the winner's t-shirt, I did not finish. The shirt arrived and I couldn't ever wear it because I'd know it was a lie, and if someone asked me about it it would remind me of all my broken promises. And yet, I remain hopeful! I've started at least three novels, two of which I got pretty deep into before falling in love with another cute lil' idea for a novel went traipsing by, luring me to follow it with its promises of a joyous romp at the computer, writing away. After all, it wasn't me that was the problem! It wasn't my work habits, or my outsized expectations, nor was it my over attachment to results over process. It was just that the story hadn't been great enough when it came right down to it. It wasn't perfect, and I could not execute it perfectly.

Rational me knows that no rough draft is perfect, but the wistful, yearning version of me still worries and thinks that if the story were truly meant to be born, it would make it easy on me. This rarely happens. And some of the greatest novels were born out of a desperate struggle and loads of hand wringing, brow beating and self flagellation. Again, the rational side of me knows that too. And lately, all sides of me have been hearing the message that it doesn't matter how brilliant your book is if it remains in your head. In fact, the worst novel is better than the best "in my head" book, because that supposedly terrible, but finished novel can still be picked up and handed to a reader, who may end up making more of the novel in their imagination than it would have been on its own, unread.

So this year my New Year's Resolution was simple. Finish the book I've been working on for the past five years. No more going back to the beginning to clarify my choices before I continue (this is how I have ended up with four different versions of the the first 20,000 words of a novel, none of which was necessarily better than the other, they were just parallel words with slightly different paths trod). This was my year to finish a novel. Finally.

Of course, I decided to start the project by going back to the beginning one last time, It was a trap, yes, but trodding back to the beginning did get me back into the groove of the story I was writing. And re-reading those first pages helped me realize that, actually, a lot of it was pretty damn readable. No good on its own, only possibly good as a part of the whole, but it was encouraging. It was also a reminder of just how little my tortured writer's mind could be trusted while I was in the trenches working away and cursing each click of the keyboard. I struggled away, day after day, joined a writer's meetup, tracked my slow but steadily growing word count, and when April came along and I saw that the same people who had brought Nanowrinmo had branded April as Nanofinno (AKA National Novel FINISHING Month) I took the plunge. I committed to 50,000 words by April 30th, and I wrote every day.

Did I struggle? Yes. Exactly two weeks in I had a revelation. I needed to change my "1st Plot Point". That was the key to all of my struggles! Of course, if I changed that then it meant that all of the prior pages were setting up a plot point that was now completely different. So I was just going to have to go back to the beginning, right? Or no. I mean, up to that point I had been keeping tracks of all the possible alternate paths I had in mind, things I might want to change in edits, and then sailing resolutely onward. For example, if Linda became Jillian? No problem! Make a note and sail ONWARD! But this revelation seemed like a game changer. I couldn't even begin to see how I couldn't continue. In a way it was lucky that I'd been in this situation before because I was able to convince myself to stay in a holding pattern just long enough for the so-called revelation (also known as an illusion, a distraction, a mirage) clarity would return. And it did. It helped that I'd confided in some fellow writers who knew the struggle, and coached me through my doubts and second guessing.

At some point I realized that I was more than 40,000 words into my novel, and yet, had barely gotten through a quarter of my planned story's outline. Disheartening? Yes. Had I overwritten? Yes. Did it mean I might write my 50,000 words and only be halfway through the book? Yes. But also no. Because there was really no way of knowing until I'd reached the end.

And by April 30th, I had written 50,323 words more than I had at the beginning of the month. The novel is currently 79,000 words and theres' still a ways to go until my ending, but that is ok. Once it's complete so much will come into focus. I have faith. And just as important as the fact is that I've gotten closer to my novel's completion, is the fact that I set a creative goal and I kept it in spite of everything. I built up a little more trust in myself, aI found out which times of day and where I write best, and I've built up a practice which has made me more and more empowered, and makes it easier and easier to say to myself "Just sit at the desk and see what happens."And those lessons (plus the fact that I now feel justified in occasionally slipping on that t-shirt I'd purchased last November) were worth it.

Understanding Glinda

noreply@blogger.com (Joe Hartman) — Sun, 21 Mar 2021 14:38:00 +0000

I think the feeling of "loss" is one of the worst kinds of pain. It certainly has been for me. And as far as loss goes, my experience of it has been pretty average. Many have experienced more, and many have had less. Which just goes to show that the experience of loss is so potent that getting hit with it in any form or degree can be enough to make someone say to themselves "I won't allow myself to feel this way again". But in truth, loss is, for better and worse, here to stay. But if that's so, it's because the delights of life are here to stay, too (that means both the "smile to yourself as you're walking to the drug store" moments and the "so this is what everyone's been talking about for so long" moments of falling in love for the first time).

And yet, it's tempting to try to lock our doors to loss. It's so tempting a thought that for some it can become a way of life, a daily practice of staving off loss by attempting to have nothing to lose (that's the great big form of it) or in unacknowledged refusal to look at old pictures of loved ones past for fear that recalling them will bring the ache of their absence. But I think I'm beginning to come to terms with the fact that this is a lost cause. Because the only way to prevent the pangs of loss is to steel ourselves to feel nothing when we encounter life's joyful surprises. It's a life of saying "no". "No" to experiences that may bring future happiness (submitting resumes, going on job interviews) and "no" to cooing like an idiot over ridiculous big eyed puppies.

It also means (if we are acclimating ourselves to living in a world without future joy and therefore the pain when that joy seems no longer present) that whatever comforts and pleasure we currently have in our lives become that much more precious and we will have many dreadful days ahead as those remaining joys break, or chip, or lose their meaning because they've been dredged up too often and exploited for their potency until their color is eaten away like old photos bleached by the sun through an unshaded window. And we won't have the comfort of knowing there is a treasure trove of happy surprises awaiting us, because we have told ourselves they just lead to more pain, so even when they do happen they can feel tarnished with the the guilt of indiscretion (the way I feel after eating a bag of "Tate's Bakeshop" Walnut Chocolate Chip Cookies.

I've wrestling with these thoughts about loss particularly lately because eighteen old cassette tapes arrived in the mail from my mother, and while I've been really looking forward to listening to them, and to transferring them to digital form so they can escape the ravages that time takes on ribbons of forty year old tape, I admit that I've also been worried about the loss I will inevitably feel. I've been worried that the level of loss awakened will be like Pandora's box in rectangular form with two little movable gears at its center. This is not the first time I've wrestled with this particular instance of weighing the potential joy against the feelings loss, but it is the first time I was able to overcome those fears long enough to purchase a tape converter and coax my mother out to her garage where a very small number of my things still remain, so that I can have these tapes with me again.

And it's the first time in thirty years I've heard these particular sounds, bringing back the past. My childhood. Is it painful? Yes. Hearing these tapes makes we want to peel back the curtain and step back into that sparsely furnished apartment in Cedar Rapids where I lived with my mom, as she recorded me telling her stories, and interviewed me about movies I'd just seen and was still bubbling over with enthusiasm for. It makes me want to shower that twenty five year old, newly single mother with mountains of love and encouragement which might lighten up the journey ahead. And it also makes me laugh, to hear the untrained sound of my four year old voice, and fills me with admiration for my mom, and gives me glimpses of the truth that she had a life completely separate of me, and pangs and hopes that had nothing to do with me. That we were both living lives in which the other had a crucial supporting role. It's an experience that has awakened feelings of guilt for things I did as a child later, ways in which I strayed from the purity and untouched hope I had for the days ahead, but it's also brought supreme comfort because I hear in myself at four all the things that I still am. My vocal patterns, my tendency to dive into things head first, my love of anything connected to story... it's all still here. The essence of that kid is still in me, inevitably changed, but not lost. And while other people appearing or mentioned in the tapes, like my Grandma Foye and my Aunt Mary, have passed on-- others, like my mother are still here, also changed, and yet the same. And this experience reminds me that I can and should shower appreciation on her today, and acknowledge what she's given me, and be proud of us for getting through what was to come, relatively uncompromised. And I'm blessed with the satisfaction of being able to gift this experience back to her in a less fragile form than it was, so she can listen without fear of breaking the tape.

So, loss. Thinking about it this way I'm reminded of the ancient Japanese philosophy about finding beauty in things repaired, quietly bringing attention to the unnameable fluttery pangs and regal strength in those cracks and to the vase as a whole, with those cracks. And I'm also aware of the fact that I cannot give shortcuts to this lesson in anyone else's life, because not only is it an experience they have to have from theirselves, but their experience will more than likely be completely different from mine, and to think that other people's experiences are limited to and/or equal to my own, is to entertain a dangerous naivety.

But it does make me think about a certain pink chiffon gowned witch with voice like a strawberry milkshake, sloshy and sweet. And her words at the end of the 1939 film no longer seem as much like a cop out as they used to. Not only couldn't she have convinced Dorothy to avoid the yellow brick road and just click her hells at the get go, but she shouldn't have. Because to do so would deny her all the experiences of the journey. She did exactly what she was meant to. She encouraged one of our most plucky and hopeful heroes to take another step, come what may.

The "Ten Minute" Exercise

noreply@blogger.com (Joe Hartman) — Sun, 07 Mar 2021 15:56:00 +0000

They say that the hardest part about writing, or painting, or doing any kind of creative work (and I'd say it's true about most things) is getting to the desk, or easel, or to whichever space it is that the work needs to be done. I've found this to be true in my life, and one of the ways I've been able to get over myself enough to be productive, is through the use of this exercise. I did not create it, but I've adapted it for my own personal use, and it's been life changing. It's especially useful if you happen to be one of those creative people who's goals seem a bit spread out. You want to write a novel, you want to paint, you want to improve your dancing skills. Some people tell you you need to cut away all but one of those dreams. I say, "why limit yourself like that?" All you need to have is an hour of time set aside, and a timer. When you've got that...

1. List four or five projects that you really want to get done.

Maybe you want to organize the space where you live and create. Maybe you want to create something. Or maybe you want to share something you've created. These can be big projects. Big dreams. In fact, if its a big dream that's been needling away at you to do it and that you've responded to by avoiding it, then it's perfect for this exercise.

2. Look at each project and list a couple of steps that will move it forward. The tasks you choose will depend on where you are in the project and what you need in that moment. Don't overthink this part, just jot them down.

To continue with the novel writing example, you may want to begin writing the first draft, or keep writing it, or explore and come up with ideas for a particular character or plot point that you want to understand a little better.

3. Next, get a wind-up kitchen timer, or get ahold of your phone and open up the timer app. Whichever option you like best is perfect.

4. Set the timer for ten minutes.

5. For ten uninterrupted minutes do the task that most needs to be done in that first project. If you are able to finish that task within the allotted time, move on to the next one.

6. Once the timer goes off, stop what you are doing immediately, then reset the timer and move on to project 2.

7. Keep doing this until you've worked for ten minutes on the final project you listed.

8. Celebrate!

What I love about this exercise is how little time it takes, proving that you don't need hours of time to work on something. You can do more in ten minutes than you ever thought possible. And it will give you experience in the doing, which is the only way to get better at the doing. Want to be more brave? You can read all you want about bravery, but the only way to be better at being courageous is to do what courageous people do. Take a risk.

Now, having done this once, you can do it again and again. Anytime you are having a difficult time prioritizing one project or task over another, or you just want to be reminded how good it feels to achieve something. Big tasks happen, more often than not, through the achievement of many small tasks done in multiple steps.

If you've tried this exercise, I'd love to hear about how the process went for you, as I'm sure it will inspire and encourage others to join in.

Happy creating!

What if it's easier than I think?

noreply@blogger.com (Joe Hartman) — Sun, 28 Feb 2021 23:48:00 +0000

Lately, I've been in a solid mental space, creatively speaking. I work every day on a novel that I expect to have a completed draft of by September, I've just shared part two in a series of short films starring Cathy Dresden, I recently completed the animation voice-over demo I've been promising myself to complete for the past six year, and I meet regularly on Zoom to check in with and support other gay writers. In addition to that I meet with a friend weekly "write together" (which in this moment means writing at the same time at our respective desks) and I've been motivating myself with weekly podcasts with tips for writing and making things, as well as reading other works aimed at people wanting to improve their creative productivity and time management. In short, I feel pretty good. And yet, I know that what I've done and am doing now is completely manageable, doesn't take that much work to maintain, and that there is more I can and should be doing.

For one? I want to return to this blog. I plan to secure representation. I'm excited to make more Cathy videos with less turn around time (there was three months between the first and second episodes), and I want to explore a new creative project a friend of mine recently proposed, regarding a subject very close to my heart, and see if it has promise. In short, I want to keep finding ways to say "yes". Now please understand, much of what I've written so far has had me cringing internally. It feels corny, hokey, "self-helpy", and it feels like bragging. Trust me that any negative thing you might have thought so far (other people are doing a lot more than him, yes he's making things but who is looking at them...) I say those things to myself too. And they don't help me.

Producing creative work has often felt like a struggle for me. It can feel like giving a pint of blood through your fingertip, and I fret and worry over every detail until what I've done is complete. And even once it's complete, I have to research the best way to share it, and find ways to "build an audience" and it all feels so frightening. But doing it badly helps me get a little better the next time I try it, giving me more confidence to squash the fear long enough to do the things I need to get to the next step. And more and more I find myself asking "What if I'm better than the things I say to myself in my most fearful moments?" Well then all that worry is a waste. And the process of sharing will get easier the more I practice it, and the more I make. And in that way, little sep by little step, I can change my belief and my reality.

Because there was a time when we had much more confidence. And we wrote stories, made puppet shows, choreographed dances because we hadn't yet bought the illusion that we have to earn the right to do this. The truth is we already have the right. We just have to do it. And it may mean doing it badly for a seemingly interminable amount of time, but we will get better if we continue to work at it. Does that mean that the result of my project or work of art will be the specific future I desperately want it to have? It doesn't not. But I truly believe these artistic impulses we have are born in us because they are supposed to be followed. And when they are followed they will lead to new experiences and discoveries, and they will make you feel better simply by keeping promises you made to yourself. The promise to finish something you dreamed of doing. And here are two more things I believe: 1. The art you make, if you share it, will find the eyes and ears and mouths and fingers it is supposed to. And you may never know how many people that is. You may never see it happen. But it will happen. 2. The finishing of a project does not equal the end of the line for that project. Sometimes we write the first thing so that we can get to the next thing, growing and learning so that we can create the seventh thing.

So, in the interest of following through on these thoughts and feelings I'm having, I'm going to be more thoughtful about how I spend my time, I'm going to work on being kind to myself, I'm going to experiment with ways to be more productive, and to understand myself. And I'll share how it is going, talk about some of my processes and things that have worked for me, and if you'd like to join me, I'd love to have you along for the journey, and to hear how things are going for you.

Looking Back

noreply@blogger.com (Joe Hartman) — Fri, 26 Feb 2021 01:56:00 +0000

I've decided to do a little metaphorical time traveling, within my own life. I've dabbled in that kind of rumination and remembering before. Last year I started a project intending to transcribe all of my childhood journals beginning with the 7th grade. The idea was I'd get them on my hard drive and they might actually be of service, in case I wanted them for posterity or inspiration for creative projects, and to try and get a sense of myself and my adolescence as story, rather than a series of rote wakings and sleeping and repeating. And I did find glimpses of that, but after the initial surge wore off, the messiness of my childhood delusions and fantasies began to feel like self inflicted torture, and my dedication to it wavered until it was forgotten.

But, in spite of not yet completing that project, I don't feel like the urge was a wrong one, or the practice a failure. And so, I've started a couple new projects, which I'm much more likely to reach the end of.

1. I have a disposable camera that I'd only partially used, and that I've been holding onto since 2006. I've refused to let go of it even though I hadn't taken a photo with it since that year. I figured at some point I there might be something worth developing, and so in spite of three moves since then, I still have the camera. Of course, it expired in 2008 so whatever photos were in there might not be salvageable, but I finally decided, inspired my roommate, who mentioned she was planing to do the same, I dropped it off at Duane Reade, and in three to four weeks I should know, if the technology has held, what I was thinking worthwhile to record fifteen years ago.

2. When I was two, my mom began interviewing me, recording my voice for posterity. It was just the two of us at that time, and she was my world, so we had lots of recorded conversations. She also recorded bath time, my third Christmas, and we would record spoken letters for friends and family, some of which were never sent. In time, her interest in the spoken word became my interest, and I now have boxes of tapes, sporadically recorded, and which have taken up space in my parents garage since then. I'd always figured I would some day transfer them, if possible to digital, and see if there was anything worth keeping. In particular there are talks my mother and grandmother had during some of her visits, and I would like to hear those again.

A friend of mine recently lost his grandmother, and he shared a fifteen minute interview he had done with his grandmother over the phone. It was so comforting, and her affection for him so obvious that it finally inspired me to order a $30 machine to catch what might be on them before the tapes can corrode any further. Of course, I may not find the particular conversations I'm hoping for, and after sifting through hours of footage I might not discover anything worth keeping, but I've decided it's better to know.

In the meantime, I'm feeling pretty hopeful, and glad that the tomorrow I've kept promising myself is on it's way to becoming "today". I'll make sure to update you with anything I find.

Happy Halloween From Hollywood's Past

noreply@blogger.com (Joe Hartman) — Sat, 31 Oct 2020 16:36:00 +0000

In honor of Halloween, here is a look back at some publicity photos from Holllywood's past, that remind us that riding the wave of a trend (even an annual one) to capture some attention is an idea that has been around long before social media.

A couple of things you're likely to notice? 1.Nary a man in sight. While men were often called on to pose for publicity photos, they were more often called in for photos that could be used for multiple occasions, to point up their masculinity, edge and dashing heroics. Typical holiday shots, whether for Thanksgiving, Halloween, and even Christmas, were reserved almost exclusively for women.

Of course, some of this was related to their use as pin-ups, and many of them were obvious opportunities for a "cheesecake" shot. And yet, children were the occasional subjects of Halloween portraits as well, so it's just as likely that the hesitancy to associate a male star with anything that could be conceived of as frivolous or undignified.

While it was perfectly acceptable for B- Movie and serial stars to be "caught" in the act of showering, or for even most highly ranked male stars to be seen lounging at their pool, to go in for a sitting and pose amongst props? Nope.

This is not to say that the women of Hollywood were treated carelessly. Their images were catered to as much as that of the matinee idols, and each photo conveyed the image they were carefully constructing. tone of the photo was chosen to convey The more revealing photos were usually reserved for contract players who had yet to make a real impact, and models/aspiring actresses being shot by independent photographers. In the case of Yvonne DeCarlo, the shot above, available in 1946, was distributed just after DeCarlo had just appeared in Salome, Where She Danced, as the seductive title character, but prior to that she had mostly performed in uncredited roles.

You may also have noticed that the setups are often quite simple. Many times similar props were distributed to celebrities and in some cases the very same set-up was employed by different stars, as these photos were not intended to have a particularly long lifespan. Even when the set-design is more elaborate, the costumes used were often pieced together using recycled pieces from prior films (just in case the witch's hat in the photo below, featuring Judy Garland in 1941, seems familiar)

Happy Halloween/LGBT History Month!

noreply@blogger.com (Joe Hartman) — Wed, 14 Oct 2020 18:00:00 +0000

October, with the packed, double punch of being the month leading up to Halloween and all of its many flavors of creepy and being LGBT History month, has got to be my favorite of the year. Yes, there's December and February, both truly lovely in my estimation, but October is when the leaves turn russet and when the weather turns crisp and cool, and when you are practically obligated to indulge in ghost stories, monster movies, and the darker mysteries of the human experience. But, when you add in LGBT History month, it adds a very different flavor to the recipe, and as a result, I am finding myself torn. I vascilate from daily readings of Vito Russo's masterpiece "The Celluloid Closet" to nightly viewings of the latest ghostly televised series by "The Haunting Of Bly Manor". I want to sing out the praises of some of our lesser known queer entertainers, and pour forth with all the recommendations I have for past sitcom Halloween episodes that deserve special attention. All of this simply acts as a pre-amble to say, get ready for some split personality posts, that likely won't seem contradictory to many of you, seeing as Halloween has always had an indefinable appeal to the gays, possibly because it's a day when everyone steps into someone else's shoes for an evening. Gay people have often had that experience forced upon them, to always wear the bland brown leather shoe when one's heart longs for the violet suede. Halloween was always an opportunity to slip on a more decadent persona that we wouldn't have dared to allow ourselves otherwise, and if someone questioned it, we could always escape to the refuge of joining in the spirit of the holiday. And now that it's easier to publicly admit the side of ourselves that don't conform to the arbitrary whims of the greater society, Halloween allows us to push those boundaries further.

At its best, Halloween is festive, decadent, and daring. It's a celebration of bravery, and of laughing at the unknown and therefore frightening things that haunt the corners of our imagination. And since LGBT history month celebrates those who came before us and braved the very real dangers and oppressions to make life better for themselves and those like them, maybe it's not the worst fit after all.

"Stay-In-Aissance"

noreply@blogger.com (Joe Hartman) — Fri, 20 Mar 2020 13:33:00 +0000

Whether you are someone who believes our current world situation is over-hyped and inflated, or one who thinks it may be one of the great crises of our time, because of COVID-19, we are definitely having a shared "moment". For myself, I am still very hopeful that this will be a temporary change to all of our lives, and that relatively soon we will be able to fully understand it, grieve for those many people impacted by it, and respectfully bring some normalcy back into our lives. Yes, we will come out of this changed, with a stronger awareness of how germs spread and how our actions affect others. And yes, when we do finally emerge like mole people, blinking and bewildered in the light of day (with, as my friend Leslie likes to say, hands that look and feel like crusty bread loafs from all the scrubbing and chemicals) it will take some readjusting. But we will emerge! And when we do, I like to imagine the pendulum swinging the other way for a while, making it a time where we throw down our phones (onto a soft pillowy resting place, of course) and take in the actual environments we live in. Concrete! Sun! Cement lion sculptures lining the streets! People!!! People we can hug again!!! Incidentally, I also see that near future as a time when we all rush to the museums and theaters, and restaurants that are just a vital part of why so many of us choose to live here (#supportmuseums, #newyorktransitmuseum, #momi, #broadway... you get the drift).

In the meantime, however, we are all staying in. It's a moment that I'm trying to frame as cozy and rejuvenating by joining with culture critic and author Linda Holmes in calling it The Stay-In-Aissance. (Please know that Linda doesn't know I've joined her in this. We haven't chatted about it over scones or anything, as I've never met her. But nonetheless, we are joined in the using of this phrase). And If, like me, you are just a little burned out on contemporary episodic bingeing and want to watch some of the time-tested classic films that are pretty hard to find streaming, then you might want to treat yourself to the Criterion Channel". It's the only place I am aware of that has a strong and constantly refreshed selection of classic Hollywood cinema, as well as acclaimed foreign and independent films. And that's all they do!

In the past few week I've watched quite a few films, and am making a strong effort to choose artfully made movies along with comfort films, and other "fluff and fancy" delights. So far I've seen
Hans Christian Anderson and Support Your Local Sherrif, and rewatched Sorry, Wrong Number, Strike Up The Band and Darby O'Gill And The Little People, two of the films on that list are currently featured on Criterion. And in the next couple I plan to add some greats I've never seen, like Gilda, Asphalt Jungle, and The Sweet Smell of Success, all on The Criterion Channel.

Now, if your eyebrows are currently raised and you are metaphorically casting a suspicious gaze my way, please know I'm not getting kickbacks from Criterion. I do, however, want to support them and spread word of them to others who might be into what they have to offer for the handy dandy price of just $10.99 a month!

Regardless of how you are spending this time, I hope that amongst all the working-from-home, and the referee-ing amongst fighting children, and donating, and frugal spending, that you get a chance to give yourself some love and appreciation, whichever form that takes. And when we are all finally back together hanging out and being just a little less conscious of bumping up against each other, I plan to be able to tell everyone what a profound and mighty impact Strawberry Fields has made on my life... should it ever come up, purely by coincidence, in the most casual of conversations.

A Different Strength

noreply@blogger.com (Joe Hartman) — Fri, 06 Mar 2020 12:57:00 +0000

Recently, I've been more purposeful about the messages I'm putting into my head, as a way to encourage positive thoughts about myself and the world around me. Because I know that when I fill my ears and eyes with art, and stories and songs of positivity and truth, my life seems to go so much better. Not only do I find myself more motivated and able to find worth in risking putting energy out into the world, but the things that might have unsettled me or given my day a metaphorical shaking up, are much easier to reframe when I'm living and doing and receiving with purpose.

Things that have been boosting the happiness factor are a couple of creativity podcasts that help to keep me focused, the words of Maya Angelou (especially through her "resonating down to the bottom of her soul" voice) the inspiring writings of Eric Butter-worth, and the music of Mister Rogers.

Now, I am not in anyway trying to infer that I've discovered Mister Rogers and like Prometheus to the suffering mortals I bring this spark. "Mister Rogers! Pretty good guy!!!" He is, after all, extremely beloved, and in this moment, having a bit of a resurgence. There's the recent documentary, the film directed by Marielle Heller, and a new biography on the shelves. It's more cool than ever to love and appreciate Mister Rogers. And, I'm not trying to say I want to BE Mister Rogers and speak of hope and joy to everyone in the way he did. That role has been taken. I do want to speak of hope and joy and love, but in a way that feels in line with who I am, and is unique to me.

What I am saying is that I'm finding a lot of comfort in being a student of Mister Rogers. And lately I find myself asking "What would Mister Rogers tell me in this moment?" I hesitate to say that I'm loving him and actually ingesting his message in a way that I don't remember doing as a kid, because not only does it feel like a bit of a betrayal to his work, it shares a secret thrill of mine that has felt like a very personal and private relationship with Mister Rogers, and I worry that if I share it, it isn't mine any more. But it is. Always will be. And your relationship with his work is yours, and private and personal, too. And you're never too old to hear that you are worthy in this very moment, exactly as you are.

Besides that, as an adult, we can appreciate the work on a different level. That slow and evenly paced patter of his no longer triggers suspicion because we have some understanding of how intrinsic it was to him. We can read about his sensitivity as a child, his experiences being bullied, and that he took experiences and turned them into opportunities to empower other children who may feel alone in the world at times. He refused to listen to the negativity around him, and said, to a very wide audience, that it is ok to care. In fact, it is wonderful, because caring is the essence that fuels our individual strength so that we can go out into the world and be strong and courageous examples of good.

My grandmother loved Mister Rogers. Fervently. And it makes me a bit sad to think that when I leaned this as a child I thought it was weird. And then as I got older I thought it was sweetly naive. My grandmother was very gentle, very positive, and like Mister Rogers, was sometimes accused of being in denial of the world's realities. But now I am coming to a realization that she and Mister Rogers knew very well about the world's darkness (I mean, here was a man who was directly confronting assassination and bigotry on television and very gently and purposefully taking some of its fearful power away, and as woman my grandmother had been through her own days and nights of pain and fear, and in spite of these she emanated warmth and acceptance and emotional nourishment) and came through their lives with the understanding that there are ways to be strong that we underestimate, and they are the way to overcome our greatest challenges. We may have brushed them aside as insubstantial during times of great crisis, but they aren't going anywhere. We can always pick them up again.

Yes, Mister Rogers spoke to children. He knew that they needed his messages. Children often don't feel empowered or in control of their own lives, and may have been told that they weren't good enough. Mister Rogers fervently teaches them that they are wonderful just as they are, and the world is a beautiful place, even if it seems scary at times.

Mister Rogers also speaks to children who are now grown ups, like me and you. He knows we need his messages, because we have been told many ways that we are not good enough, and we can often feel like we are just reacting to the wounds that life deals us. For us, he teaches that we are wonderful just as we are, and we have so many lovely and unique qualities, some of which we may have dismissed as weaknesses. He teaches us with the faith to step out into the world and not just to enjoy its beauty, but to cultivate it. It can and should be our purpose in life to cultivate the good, to see its power, and to share it with others; adults and children (especially children).

Reviewing "Carrie Fisher: A Life On Edge"

noreply@blogger.com (Joe Hartman) — Sat, 28 Dec 2019 13:41:00 +0000

Below is a reprint of a recent review I wrote for Goodreads of the biography "Carrie Fisher: A Life On Edge" by Sheilla Weller. Being as today is the day after the anniversary of her passing, I feel it's somewhat timely, if a day late, to post here.
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Imagine for a moment, that you've never tasted ice cream (I know, but just go with it). You want to know why every one actually "screams for iced cream". If you live in a world where ice cream no longer exists and you can't taste it, but a well read friend has, well then ask them. Have them explain to you for some hundreds of pages in equivalent conversation what it was like. Let them tell you the year ice cream was created, why it was a hit with kids and adults alike, let them detail the steps in manufacturing it and distributing it.

If, however, you want to know more about what ice cream's like and the ice cream actually wrote a book about the experience, chain smoking her way through it, jotting down the things most people would brush away, and acerbically commenting on the homogenization process in a way only she, the ice cream could, then read that book. If the ice cream wrote scads of books, then read those. If the ice cream wrote and starred in a one-ice cream-show about what it's like to be tasted by everyone on the planet and later dismissed because ice cream doesn't stay fresh past it's expiration date and has way more fat content than she used to, and then the ice cream lets filmmakers into her carton to see what it's like from the inside, then see those. All of this is the long way to say that reading a book about Carrie Fisher's life and work can be a decent supplement to your experience, but don't be surprised if it leaves you feeling like something is missing. Because if you want to really know what ice cream tastes like and understand why we love it, (sorry, we're back to the metaphor) then there are no short cuts... you just have to taste the fucking ice cream.

So if you want the true feeling of knowing more about Carrie's life, if your goal as a reader is to feel like you understand Carrie as a person, because she's touched your life, and you relate to her struggles and are bowled over by her dry wit and sympathetic to her ambivalence with the extreme highs and lows she seemed pre-ordained to live out? If you want to feel kinship without sacrificing the truth of the facts as lived? She may have passed on, but her work is here. Carrie Fisher made exploring and sharing her life and her flaws, the focus of three memoirs, several novels, a one-woman show, and a documentary. And while most people, famous or not, seem to be curating their image and distracting from their flaws and imperfections because they want to be admired, Carrie Fisher wanted, above all else, to be understood. She had an innate faith that if you understood her, you might admire her. And that need, which shine through in her humor and candor and kindness, are as much a key to her beauty as those giant brown eyes, the pillowy lips, and the flashes of "fuck you" that we admire.

If however, I'm preaching to the proverbial choir, and you just want a sympathetic laying out of the facts and some details, or if you are wanting these before doing a deeper dive into Fisher's own words, then read away. This is an even handed, often insightful look at the facts. Likewise, if you want to understand Carrie's side of the relationship with her famous mother Debbie Reynolds? This book helped me to get a much stronger grasp on what it might have been like to live with someone as charming, vivacious, and undeniably winning as Debbie Reynolds, who loves her fiercely, and yet, in spite of outward appearances, keeps a tight hold of her rank in the relationship, and deeply values her image in the public eye, occasionally, if unwittingly sacrificing her daughter's confidence by alternately micromanaging her and then leaving her for much of the time in the care of others.

Also in the book's favor is that it becomes apparent early on that the intention of this biography is to tell the truth as best as the author is able. She deeply admires Carrie as a person and as an artist. She researched, she probed, she dug deep, and she laid out all that research in this book. What she doesn't do, for good and ill, is interpret as much as she needed, in order to give the reader a true sense of being on the inside. This was probably because she didn't want to play armchair psychologist and also because she didn't get the full access she would have liked. Therefore, the book reads like a second hand story as gleaned through articles and interviews with friends of Carrie's, and through interviews and speeches by Carrie herself, that are accessible online. It can leave one feeling dissatisfied.

Equally dissatisfying is the fact that Carrie's casual social life is given such uneven attention, to the detriment of her family life with people like her brother or her step sister Tina, or what it might have really been like when mother and daughter were alone. Additionally, there are no tender stories about Carrie and Billie, or really why Bryan Lourd might be considered "the love of her life" that could give one a real sense of how important these parts of her life were, or how the razor wit might have been spared in their presence. This is very likely because Weller got a lot of access to Fisher's outer circle of friends and acquaintances, while her inner circle closed ranks and shut her out. So some of those having less contact with Carrie receive a lot of time and importance placed on the things their eyes saw. My critique isn't intended to undervalue these sights, or the intentions of those who witnessed them, but to say that their placement and weight given in the book by Weller, may not be for the reasons implied, and in some instances, too much kindness is afforded them because they were good enough to grant the author an interview.

The most glaring example of this is detailed from an interview given by Penelope Spheeris, the director of a low-budget film Carrie shot after she was released from rehab, when no one wanted to insure her for work. Spheeris fought very hard to get Carrie on the film and put her own reputation on the line, giving Carrie a chance to prove herself as reliable. This is how the story is described, and there is truth to this. However, what is vastly understated is how much the film and Spheeris needed Carrie's name, presence, and the publicity of her comeback story, in order for the film to be seen at all when and if the film got made.

Carrie was given routine drug tests and was under a very heavy watch by all involved in the film, including Spheeris, which must have been infantilizing and humiliating to go through. Then, when the filming is complete and Carrie has relapsed, Spheeris says that the two of them did a lot of drugs together, had many drug fueled adventures. When Carrie later turned on her and created distance, Spheeris was left at a loss because she felt dismissed in spite of offering help when Carrie most needed it. The explanation by the author? Sometimes it's difficult to be seen at such a weak point in one's life and to be helped so much by someone. Carrie was likely overwhelmed by the vulnerability of that exposure, and knowing she would never be able to balance the scales, or say an appropriate thank you, she had to cut the relationship off.

Ummmmm... say what? It doesn't take a genius to see that once Fisher realized the mistake she had made in her relapse she might not look so fondly on someone who kept her clean when it served her own interests, and then partied equally as hard with her once Carrie was no longer needed to assist her career. That someone could be so careless with her, knowing what this kind of activity would cost her, had cost her, likely left Fisher feeling twice used. I understand that Weller felt loyalty to her source, but a greater loyalty was owed to her subject.

To sum it all up, this book is, in spite of its flaws, a solid addition to your understanding of Carrie Fisher if you are already familiar with the work and want some objectivity and some clarification on things you are still curious about. The translator of Carrie's life and work is kind, clear eyed, knowledgeable and sincere. But she cannot provide the wit, warmth, and slightly crazed brilliance, nor the flashes of insight and self forgiveness that Carrie herself did, because Weller, nor could any one else be, is just not up to that task.

I Am A Father (of a lil' dumpling baby of a good feeling)

noreply@blogger.com (Joe Hartman) — Mon, 16 Sep 2019 15:24:00 +0000

Lots of emotions jostling around in this body and brain today, making any number of metaphysical "clankings". And there are many people who would say that when I feel these emotions-- the uncertainty, the fear, the judgement of the fear and uncertainty, the disappointment-- that I should be grateful. These are signifiers that I want something different in my life. Many of those same thinkers say that to experience something different I, as a person in this world, simply need to feel better about I am right now, because good feelings will inspire more positive actions. There are other thinkers, those who believe the first statement (emotions are signifiers of where I am) that would part ways with the party of the first part at that juncture, saying that their solution is airy fairy magical realism thinking.

Me? Look. I agree with both. I was obviously able to move from a place of confusion and mini-despair in order to conjure enough hope that writing these words might prove useful to someone, might strike a chord. That, in turn, inspired me to start my first blog post in four months. And look, no one is saying that positive thinking is easy. What's that saying? Something about the solution being an easy process to follow, but that the execution of that easy process can be very difficult because of all the ways we doubt the solution. And following the first step? Thinking good thoughts by focused effort for one day? That will produce a day's worth of results. Two days worth, exponentially more. And so on ad so on. But what happens when we're feeling great after three days? Or four? For me, it's often the backslide. Like taking the first three days of the antibiotics I was prescribed and then ditching the prescribed and then the process that got the good results, in spite of the prescription clearly stating that I need to finish the prescription. Soon enough the illness is back, and stronger than ever.

The "feeling better" cure is just like that. It's relatively easy for me to change my attitude for a few days. Before I know it I'm feeling in control. I'm large and in charge! Ready to get 'er done!! Yes, I'll need to get back to feeling focused positive thoughts really soon, but for now, shouldn't I act on the power I've gained? Time to "get 'er done"! I'll put in the effort that got me to this good place later. Promise! But then when enough of those days of ignoring the process have piled up, I'm back where I started. Start over this process enough times and it's enough to make a person feel like a real failure. Is it strange that a person who has, on seven separate occasions successfully created good thoughts three days in a row isn't able to see twenty-one days of good thoughts that went out into the world, but almost always sees the seven examples of failure instead?

These feelings of failure can also get me blaming the process itself. As if the good feelings I generated should have been all I needed to propel me onward, and of course they aren't, because it wasn't those feelings alone that caused me to make a change in the first place. It was the addition of my conscious mind to those initials feelings. My observation of those feelings brought me to the conclusion that a change needed to be made. It was the conscious mind that then initiated the practical steps. It would be a mistake, when I'm three days into the process of "thinking happy thoughts" and all those zingy results, to forget that the discipline was a key ingredient. Instead it is at this time that I should remember and be grateful for the conscious steps I took which helped me arrive here. In short, the feelings were the WHAT, the result. And the conscious changing of the original feelings/the old WHAT/results from my past, was the HOW I got these new results. .

It's tricky, Because you could reason that the positive feelings generated from the decision to refocus should generate more good feelings and therefore it should get easier and easier. The fact that it isn't that easy...doesn't that make this whole theory bullshit? I've thought this. Its all bullshit. Con men handing out easy answers. Chuck it all and live in misery, because at least misery is guaranteed. And yet, just because the solution is more complicated than I originally foresaw doesn't make it any less of a solution. I mean yes, we do generate good feelings from good thoughts, and yet. The first results generated from the beginning steps... these good feelings- they're BABIES! They're tiny little dumplings fresh to the world, pure and excited and equally fragile. And here I am, the uncertain parent of these lil' dumplings, wanting them to be amazing, thinking they just might be. Risking hope because what I can see of them, and how I feel about them? I see dynamic creatures. I see promise! I'm ecstatic! I love these lil' dumpling emotion babies!!! And yet, how quickly this bliss is turned upside down.

Something happens in my world that is less than thrilling? A negative thought? A stumble? It's so tempting to think "of course. I was deluding myself". Those lil' dumplings? "What disappointments". I shouldn't have expected that much of them. I mean, after all, I was their parent, so just how perfect could they be?" I'm forgetting that they are BABIES. Did I say they are BABIES??? They aren't done forming yet, they haven't reached full strength. And here I am betraying my babies, blaming them, when in truth I am the one who is betraying the contract. My job as a parent of these thoughts is not finished. Far from it. The more diligent I can be about strengthening them daily, the stronger they become, and the more I trust that their creation was not a momentary fluke, or a con played on myself in the desperation of jangling thoughts, which allows me to make more, equally strong thoughts.

Ok. Agreed. My job wasn't done. And then I turned on my thoughts. I doubted. I poisoned those good emotions. I agree. My bad. I fucked up. Shouldn't have done that. But now what? Well, I've put poison out into the thoughts, and all that can come now is the inevitable destruction of those thoughts due to the poison I put out there. I mean, what good can these less than completely healthy good feelings do me? Best to abandon them and start over later, when I can use the lessons learned from this experience to do it right next time. Easy to think this. Easy to rationalize this. And yet, no one has ever done this process perfectly. Everyone has doubted on this journey. No one has gone through this process without a stumble, and the only way to fail is to stop the journey too soon. For example, i this very moment as I type these words I am already thinking back over this rambling heap of an essay and gathering evidence which will help me formulate arguments in my brain to kill this blog post before the hideous pulpy mess that it is can be seen by anyone. That? That would be too soon. Equally true that to not continue this process and create more in the upcoming weeks? To abandon this blog again after just one tentative return, that would be too soon. In fact you could argue that to stop the journey ever, is to stop too soon. It's funny how quickly the perfectionist creeps in, right? Without even noticing, and disguised as an ally, the perfectionist has snuck up and planted the realization that "no one can keep this up forever". It continues. "You are contemplating beginning an enterprise which is destined to fail." But fail by who's definition? Mine. I have to, or get to define what success is to me. Even if I only do it a day at a time.

Right now? Success is this. It's pushing the "publish" button. It's putting this imperfect rumination out in to the world and letting it make ripples. Any ripple. No judgement. And no rumination on all the better entries that could have been if I'd just continued the next day and the next? . If this is all I do, it will have be enough. It will do it's job. Convincing myself that what I just wrote is really true? That's my job. The irony is that is that only by successfully and truly believing that this one entry is enough, in and of itself, can I justify the risks of entering this struggle again tomorrow, or the next day.

Taking A Leap

noreply@blogger.com (Joe Hartman) — Wed, 03 Apr 2019 21:04:00 +0000

Over the weekend I registered to join an audition class. Though I've lived in New York for nearly four years, this will be my first in town. I'd been seeking one for a while, but had procrastinated signing up for all the reasons one can name. I liked, but didn't necessarily have complete trust in those who made the recommendations, money was tight, I wasn't ready, I'd already spent gobs of money on classes... Basically? I was afraid. Afraid that I would choose the wrong glass, or choose the right one, but not be good enough for it to be worth my time and efforts.

And yet, my auditions are not as plentiful as I'd like, and while I get good visual feedback (smiles that look ever so sincere, and the occasional "really great job") none of this so far has led to a single call back. Yes, I need to up the number of auditions I attend, but I also need to be confident in what I do once I'm in the room. And so... I took the leap. One of my good friends recommended a class, and it was reasonable, and so even though I don't have tons of money to spend on classes, I am trusting the funds will come, and that this action will raise my confidence level and lead to a better me, and hopefully, more work. Or just... work.

It means being strong enough to allow myself to look and feel like a novice at something I flatter myself to be pretty good at, and diving in and trusting the coaching and opinions of someone I barely know. And it all begins tonight.

Following the Stars

noreply@blogger.com (Joe Hartman) — Fri, 07 Sep 2018 18:29:00 +0000

I was raised by a mother who was very open and explorative of all the world's mysteries, which has made me a pretty open minded person as well. Mostly? I know enough to know that I don't know that much. I have my thoughts, my theories, the ways that work for me, and the beliefs that, when I am able to key into them, help my life flow and allow me to be more productive and feel closer to my authentic and best self. But, I do not judge those who have other beliefs and ways of exploring "the mystery", nor do I attach to much importance to the little t "truth" of these things. Long story short? If they work for me, and the message of these things resonates on a deep level, feeling T "true"? I go with it.

The basic premise of the article, entitled Tarotscopes That Slay by Brandon Alter, is that he drew a Tarot card for each sun sign, and then applied the meaning of that particular card in context with what will be happening astrologically for that particular sign. Now, even though the tone of the article is geared toward the lgbt community, I'm going to hazard a guess that, anyone, gay or straight can find meaning and guidance in these cards.

In light of the intense questioning I've been going through the past couple of months, the many nights of tossing and turning, and the doubts that any of this work I'm struggling to produce will be worth it, the card for Aquarius for September 9th - October 8th, The Hangman (reversed), seemed very apropos and brought some gentle comfort. The gist of it? Surrender. Surrender deeply.

The following is excerpted from Alter's article...

"The Hanged Man doesn’t struggle, he accepts and allows. And that’s the mantra for this next cycle, to accept and allow everything that presents itself to you. Most importantly yourself. The Hanged Man relinquishes control to the tides, to the rhythms of nature and especially to his own unique design.

You are who you are and that is glorious. Stop fighting yourself. Stop judging yourself. Every piece of you, from your kinks to your curiosities is of cosmic design. Instead of trying to fit yourself into a box that’s too small or pretending to be normal like everyone else, this moonth should find you being your most extra."

See what I mean? It feels spot on. And... so did the message for Pisces, which, before you say anything, is not my rising sign. Although, I was born on February 14th, which some consider the cusp of Aquarius and Pisces, so... basically, you can think to yourself that Astrology and Tarot are just another one of those "applies to everybody and works on your psychology and your willingness to believe" and is thereby bogus, or you can think "this has been around for centuries, and there is something to this".

Or you can think that this is an imperfect system that may have value for you, regardless of any quirks and imperfections. Essentially, claim it if it suits you.

And, if you'd like to pursue more in this vein, Brandon is based in San Diego where he gives classes on understanding the Tarot, and does individual readings. He and his husband also host a podcast., The Spiritual Gayz, so venture out and explore all you lil' seekers and dreamers!

I'm Gonna Buy A Paper Dolly

noreply@blogger.com (Joe Hartman) — Wed, 05 Sep 2018 18:47:00 +0000

Willa Paskin's Decoder Ring is a podcast that examines the workings of different pop culture artifacts. How they came to be, how they might be different than how we have come to understand them, and how they continue to work in the world. It's not one that I listen to regularly, but if the topic is one to which I feel drawn, I've found it pretty inspiring. The latest episode on paper dolls is one of those. It features a paper doll artist by the name of David Wolfe, who's work I've long admired, those featuring movie stars like Judy Garland and Rosemary Clooney. His work is whimsical, and incredibly evocative, but unlike some other contemporary paper dolls I have seen, these don't simply reproduce the details of past costumes, but they evoke a feeling of nostalgia and glamour from a contemporary perspective. There's a lot of yearning in the David Wolfe's illustrations.

The paper doll art of David Wolfe, available at paper dollywood.com

Myself? From the ages of five to seven, I had an accordion file, maybe three inches thick max, in which I kept my paper dolls. I'm not sure how I was first introduced to paper dolls, but I can only imagine that one day when my mom and I were at the drug store looking at coloring books, I'd seen the Walt Disney "Snow White" paper dolls and pleaded for them until she relented. My aunt, who often watched e during the day while my mom was at work, would help me with cutting them out, and showed me how to put them on the stand. The funny thing is, I don't really remember playing with them much, as I remember cutting out each outfit as delicately as I could, because any bit of white at the edges spoiled the illusion of the clothes. I also remember poring over the pictures, and imagining what they would look like on Snow White. The actual product of them on the stand was never as satisfying as the pictures of what the result might be. Those imaginings were perfect in a way that the reality of snipped up and folded paper could never be. My next paper dolls were Wizard Of Oz paper dolls. I was only interested in paper dolls based on characters that I already knew, and in the ways that those different outfits would change the way I thought of them, open them up to different possibilities and futures in which they might need a Halloween costume, or a fancy gown.

Now that I've gotten older, paper dolls inhabit a strange in-between place for me. They are not quite dolls in the way that we think of them. They're a craft project, easily dispensable, and they cost little more than a coloring book. All of these qualities are what made it acceptable for my mother to buy them for me. And, the art of some paper dolls, especially those of David Wolfe, you'll have to forgive the pun, "stands up on its own" and is worthy of framing, but the dolls, by their very nature, were meant to be cut up and played with, even though the execution of that "play" takes something away from them, because the reality of them in action is never quite as beautiful as the promise of their pristine state. And that, for me, is one of the very things that makes them fascinating. They exist as a great big beautiful tease, like a "mint in box" collectible toy just beckoning you to take it out of its box and play with it.

If you're curious to find out more about paper dolls and their beginnings, including the art form's hidden queer history, the Slate podcast episode can be listened to here or anywhere you get your podcasts. To admire and purchase the work of David Wolfe, visit https://paperdollywood.com.

Struggling.

noreply@blogger.com (Joe Hartman) — Wed, 05 Sep 2018 17:48:00 +0000

I've been going through it this past few months. By "it", I mean doubt, fear, depression, the value of trying, and questioning my own self worth. All of these feelings combine, multiply, expound, and collude until they make up one big ball of resistance that seems to have packed itself all around me. It's had me questioning my life here in New York, my viability as a partner in a relationship, and my ability to function in the world.

Why? It's a mixture of factors. I'm currently without full-time permanent work. I'm not in a relationship, nor are there any fun flirtations on the horizon. My friend network is still relatively small for someone who has lived here three years. And I have an impending performance, and I'm fearing that no one will show, and if not, what does that mean for the quality of the show, a show that I have spent the last year pouring myself into? These things were tapping away at me, persistently and almost imperceptibly, until a month ago, when my family suffered a deep loss, with the death of someone who was far too young, and who's life seemed like it was just beginning.

It's difficult to comprehend the full impact of events like this, or just how they work on us and our lives. The important thing, I'm realizing now, is not to judge them. For me? This event sent me into a withdrawal period. It had me spending hours in my bedroom, mired in escapism in the form of video games, netflix, dating apps... none of these things were working toward a future, they were just there for the purpose of making the present seem more livable, through the avoidance of all the fears and doubts in the way that seemed the easiest to reach. When I deleted some of these things to make room in my life for things of value? Other things crept in, or I wavered and downloaded them again. The hole that they left was too vast, and the prospect of filling that hole by making art or submitting for day jobs, or going out into the world brought with it individual armies of uncertainty. The prospect of a lot more suffering when those things would surely turn out to be self created delusions. Of course there were days when I thought I had beaten it. I went to a writer's support group, and thought I was well on my way. Ditto for any job submission or excursion to see theatre. But inevitably I found myself back where I'd started. And yet, each of those things began to add up. Individually they were not enough, but the more I was able to do, the better I felt, and the more opportunities for doing seemed available and just as important, doable.

Something that helped me? One of many things, was a book called The War Of Art. It made resistance a force of sabotage. The inevitable force pushing against all of us anytime we have hopes for our future. And unlike most books, describing the situation I was in ad-nauseum without any practical solutions until the last chapters, this book, which I've had on my shelf for years, put hope in the first few pages. And slowly, I've been putting its principles into action. The principles? There's really only one. Do it anyway. Do it, whatever it is, as if your happiness depended on it. Resistance is there to stop you. Don't let it. It isn't "right" about you. It's an illusion. A very powerful one. And the fight against it is never ending. But you have to fight, and fight hard, with every ounce of effort.

And sometimes its stronger. I'm not out of this hole quite yet. Or at least, I don't think I am. But, I am better now than I was. And not having a permanent office job? It's a plus! As long as I can continue to get money in through whatever means possible, the freedom it allows me gives me the opportunity to audition. It allows me more time to write. To plan more cabaret performances, to increase the visibility for my work. But if I'm wasting all that time on immediate gratification? It feels like a waste. And of course, looking back on the past months, I realize they haven't been a waste, as that time allowed me to process, but I'm much happier "here" than I was "there".

Resistance even played a part in the posting of this topic, because this kind of honesty is often discouraged, especially in a world when every message feels geared, to toward honest communication, but toward marketing. Marketing of our "best selves". This kind of posting? It's false, it's the worst aspect of the internet, and it doesn't break down walls. It builds them. Better to communicate with the intent of being honest. And this sometimes means stating things which make us feel vulnerable. Of course, if you are deciding to put that out into the world, the importance of just how you do it can seem inflated, so that's another way resistance wheedled it's way in. You have to find the right amount of time to ruminate about it, edit it, you have to have to be in the perfect part of resistance to be able to write about it, because if you are completely out of it, you feel like you are preaching, and if you are too steeped in it, you worry you are whining. The point is? It's everywhere. And as exhausting as it seems to be consciously fighting it daily, it will do its work whether you fight it or not. And to not "try" is to not play.

Outward Podcast, At Last!

noreply@blogger.com (Joe Hartman) — Fri, 17 Aug 2018 20:23:00 +0000

I'm lucky to have some wonderful friends who are not only generous, witty, and soulful, but also have their fingers on the current pop culture and literary pulse. This is how I was introduced to Slate's The Culture Gabfest, and through that I discovered The Waves. Both of them are podcasts that are savvy, thoughtful, with the added benefit of being comforting and providing lovely company as you make your way through the day.

Recently, my other podcast loving friend alerted me that, as we had just been hoping, Slate has brought forth an LGBTQ podcast with one of our favorite critics and writers, J. Bryan Lowder, at the helm. I frankly adore his work and his insights, and while I naturally don't agree with everything her says (I see his point but have some disagreements regarding his assessment of the new Queer Eye) he always keeps me thinking. This along with the fact that he is looking at issues and stories that few others seem to, and that resonate with me. If you are not familiar with his work, check out his essay on embracing "What's Gay", or check out his appearance in the feature doc examining drag that you can see on Filmstruck. He and fellow critics Christina Cauterucci and Brandon Tensley will be doing a monthly podcast discuss trending lgbt issues, and to broaden our horizons, if such horizons need broadening. I could not be more excited to have this out in the podcast world, because while there are many lgbt podcasts, it is doubtful that there are any that are as well produced and thoughtful as this one will be. I highly recommend it, and if it doesn't thrill you right away, I encourage you to stick with it for two reasons.

1. It sometimes takes our ears and minds awhile to adjust to new formats and new personalities. Allow yourself sometime to adjust to the slight pretensions and the unfamiliarity of the panelists and their quirks. When I first listen to any podcast it takes awhile to get past the feeling of being in a foreign land, and to make my own decisions about the panelists, seeing past the self established personas to who they are. Once I do it always worth it as they become like second world friends that both get me laughing, remind me of the gentle reason in the world, and teach me.

2. This podcast is just beginning, and may take a little time to find its footing, but it surely will, and if you listen and subscribe now you can boast to your friends that you were there from the beginning.

Angels Revisited

noreply@blogger.com (Joe Hartman) — Wed, 11 Jul 2018 00:48:00 +0000

Last Sunday I caught Part 2 of Angels In America before it closes on Broadway in the next few days. The guy I'd been seeing had not been able to get tickets to the second half, and I was able to score some very reasonably priced tickets that would allow him to see the second part, and for me to hold this production close to my metaphorical bosom before it leaves forever.

God, I love this show. God, I love this production. For how sprawling and far reaching and important and inclusive it is. For Andrew Garfield and how empathetic he is, and the fact that both David and I can adore him and not feel unmoored by the awareness that the person we are seeing finds other men attractive, that's how undeniably lovely he is in this play. I love it for it's humor. For its cold neon glamor, and its earnestness. And for its many many allusions to The Wizard Of Oz. I want to live inside it, it's so beautiful. But only because I know that its a journey that I know how it ends. Knowing that ending allows me to relish in the way we get to that ending, and to find joy in each twist and rest along the way. It's kind of the same way people want to live in the forties. Our whole fucking way of life was at stake, and people were being slaughtered. Our loved ones were going off to shoot people and may never come back, but Oh, the clothing! And fashion!

I hope this play comes back in my lifetime, and that I can go back and hear those words spoken, see those tender fuck-ups struggle just like I do through my own jiggles and bounces. It will be heart wrenching, and bittersweet, and I will laugh and cry with another group of people as we acknowledge our commonalities together through "mutual emotion", but it will never be the same. This is what theatre has that is special, and that Hollywood can never own. That intimacy, that momentous thrill, and that magic of vanishing.

My date caught a bit of the final bows on his phone, and I was equal parts annoyed and grateful that he did it. It's nice to have even the smallest piece to keep and remember.

Putting it together.

noreply@blogger.com (Joe Hartman) — Sun, 08 Jul 2018 16:57:00 +0000

I sit before my computer screen on a bright and breezy Sunday afternoon, at my desk, tucked away in my creative corner of the apartment. My face is covered in a slick sheen of black which is slowly crusting and fading to grey. No. You do not get a picture. Because, while everyone else seems perfectly content to post pictures and videos of every minute detail of their daily routine, to me... at least some things are semi-sacred, and putting on a charcoal beauty mask is one of those things, so you are left with your imagination on this one. The mask is part of my steps of productivity today. I am working very hard to get small things done every day, and to avoid as much as possible the trap of insidious computer phone games, the re-runs of classic sitcoms, and the teeming torsos of tumblr that seem hellbent on pulling me from creativity.

I'm working on organizing, purging unneeded items, and on a couple of larger creative projects. The one that has my most focused attention this month, is a Christmas cabaret featuring Cathy Dresden. I'm not certain that I'll be able to mount it in time for this year, but at least I plan to have it completely written and structured by the end of the month of July. This focus is inspired by Camp Nanowrimo, a virtual writer's retreat, which is extremely flexible. So far I've used every day in July to work on the show, and while as of this moment it has been more planning and research than actual writing, I do feel like progress is being made, which pleases me.

It's hard creating a cabaret, as anyone who has ever tried can tell you. Some people think it's just a matter of finding a bunch of songs you like and putting them together. Plugging your individual favorite songs into a formula. But it's more than that. You do need to find songs of course, but they have to be the right songs. Right for your voice, right for your presence and personality. They have to sound good through your instrument and look natural emanating from you from an audience perspective. Either that or they need to be framed in the right way so that the audience will accept your singing something you normally wouldn't be expected to.

And you don't just need ten to fifteen of these songs, you need to find fifty to a hundred of them. Why? Because they all need to work together to create a large piece. A piece that works thematically, with every song supporting that theme, and your expression of it. Not only that, but there needs to be a real reason for you to sing the song. How can you make a particular rendition of a song unique? How can you make it mean something different than it has before while keeping the integrity of its original message? How can you make it your own? Can you??? And keep in mind that you can't have to many of one type of song in an hour long show, or not only will the show seem kind of monotonous, but it won't be taking a journey to anything.

And then, what if there's something to say that you don't have a song for? It's something that absolutely has to be in the show, it's the capper, it sums up the night, and you don't have a song that assists you in doing this? Well then you have to go hunting. Or try and write it yourself (I would not suggest this for most people) or try to do it through patter or a story. There's a lot to think about, and a lot of research and compiling, and testing of the songs before they go into the show. And that's before you even think about where they go in the show, which can cause so many more complications. It's surprising to think about how many "perfect songs" get cut from shows because they fit the show as originally conceived, but once things start coming into shape, the song no longer does what it should.

An example from my own work is the song "As Long As He Needs Me". It's a beautiful number, sits well on Cathy, shows off my high notes, and I love singing it. And yet, it is the kind of show stopping number that you can't place too early in an evening of song, and for my first show, which was in essence about a woman coming into her own power, you can't end on a song about a woman who will love a man no matter how much he hurts her, as long as his being with her is serving a purpose to him. You just can't. And so... it's not in the show.

And this is all on paper! You have to finish the thing up on paper (the dialogue, songs, and running order) and then start working stout in real life with a director and a pianist, until the songs and dialogue and blocking and lighting and sound are as good as their gonna get. And that's its own heap of complications.

Cabaret is never just a collection of songs. It's story telling, through songs, and every aspect of those songs has to fit the story you are telling. How you contextualize it, how you perform it, where it goes in the evening... all of it. And yet, as daunting as that can seem at times, you have to start that journey if you want to try to perform a cabaret show. And if you want it to be good, you have to work to make it 40 percent better than you think, so that you can allow for some falters and nerves and miscommunication from singer to hearer. It's that old "shoot for the moon and land in the stars" philosophy. Of course it gets easier as you continue, and the more times you start a new show, but it's never easy, because you never want to repeat yourself. You are always working to create something new, and find new and better ideas than your last.

Lecture over. I didn't expect to go on so long, but it does explain how the mere planning of a cabaret show on paper can take longer than a month of concentrated work to come to fruition. And even then it will continue to morph and change, way beyond the first performance.

And now I have stop, because I still have this mask on my face and it is calcifying.

Mustering up a sense of PRIDE

noreply@blogger.com (Joe Hartman) — Sun, 08 Jul 2018 16:22:00 +0000

[Composed June 14th, 2018]

It's Pride in New York. This means that it is the day of the Pride Parade. The parade kicked off at noon today, and right about now there are huge amounts of people out in the sun celebrating their gayness. I am not there. And I'm feeling emotions about it. Why am I not there? What would keep me away? And, doesn't my absence make me a bad gay person? Isn't it my duty to go out and be counted, to be amongst the throngs? And yet... this day? This is "Gay New Year's Eve" with all that that implies.

You should have your Pride planes cemented way in advance so you know what you are doing, with whom, and where. Then you can choose your outfit, "slenderize" and tan up for it. As you will be seen by many, many, gays and others alike. You need to look good. It isn't a requirement, per say, but it feels like one. Just like New Year's Eve. And just like New Year's Eve, it is very important to have a good time. It is kind of a sign of your gay year to come. And will you? Well, do you on New Year's Eve?

I think if I'd had close friend here who were going, I would have dragged myself out, but one of the few gay friends I have is currently out of town, and not many other people I know are motivated to celebrate. And yes, I was invited to join a couple of different sets of plans, but that comes with its own set of social anxieties. Those of fitting into a small social group, as well as being respected and admired my the people at large. And there will be throngs of them. And I don't always do well in crowds. I tend to worry. This, plus the fact that I didn't wake up early enough to do the laundry and get in to the church service that would be the beginning of the first set of plans, and that I couldn't bring myself to join the second set of plans which involved the guy I'm dating and his much younger than me female friends, added to the fact that I hopped on the scale this morning and saw a horrific number, and that I have no cute clothes that are "gay enough", all caused me to stay home on Gay New Year's Eve. And now that I'm feeling like I should have gone, it feels to late to strike out.

I'd told myself I would stay home and be incredibly productive, and yet that has not manifested itself enough to justify the absence.

Am I doing this to myself? Did I do this to myself? Or is there a lot of very real pressure out there? I think the answer is "yes" to both questions. Pride is essentially a very amped up microcosm of society, and I cn make what I want to of it. I can overlook all the twinks that I only ever was for about two years from the age of six to eight, and then it would have been illegal for me to do anything about it (WITH GOOD REASON) and yet, I am kind of sad tat my truly skinny years were wasted on a child.

And I can avoid spending a ton of money (another reason I was laid out for skipping) and I can avoid eating a bunch of bad food. I mean, it's not like it's a fair. There's no Funnel Cake being served at gay pride. And if I run into the 6 ft 7 guy that dumped me a couple of months ago, and now will have the joy of seeing me fifteen pounds heavier than the last time I saw him? I mean, he would be easy to pick out in a crowd, because it's kind of hard to Well, there are worse things that could happen, right?

I guess a big part, outside of all of these "what ifs", what if I do, and then I have a bad time, and I miss out on doing the things I have been telling myself for weeks now that I had to get done?

Next year? I promise I will be better. I mean, it is the 50th anniversary of the Stonewall Riots, and not incidentally, the death of Judy Garland. So I have to go. And it is being turned into the location of a World Pride Event. So I really can't miss it!

I've always done this to myself. Psych myself out of doing something and then at the last minute I change my mind and go, and whether I feel good about it or not, I at least went. I at least tried. I may do this yet.

[I ended up leaving to meet a friend around 3PM, and while many people were heading home at that time, it turned out not to be the worst time to go. I was alone for much of it, waiting for my friend stuck on the opposites side of the parade, while I mingled and awkwardly joked and sang with strangers. When my friend and I caught up it was about 5:30 and we ducked into a darkened bar and I had a glass of rose while he drank a Coca-Cola. I am glad I went. Glad I participated in the world, even half-heartedly. I think a large part of enjoying it is about keeping expectations low, and making plans early. Next year being the fiftieth anniversary of the Stonewall Riots, added to the fact that New York City is going to be the epicenter of World Pride, it's one not to miss. I decided not to post publish the original post at first, fearing that it was more about me than about any real observations of the outer world, but I do think it has some value, so... just like my subway journey on June 14th, this post is a little late.]

The Manic Pixie "Best Friends With No Benefits" of Alex Strangelove

noreply@blogger.com (Joe Hartman) — Thu, 14 Jun 2018 02:37:00 +0000

You may have heard about it. You've likely seen ads for, or read buzz about a new romantic teen comedy that is touting itself as Love, Simon but edgier. And as someone who found the prior mentioned film bland and homogenized, created by committee with the expressed mission of not offending anyone, I won't blame you if your interest was as piqued as mine.

And when I sat down to watch it, in that first few minutes, I had a lot of hope. A lot. The actors in the film? They're very attractive, but they have edges. They don't look like moving photoshop. They are allowed to be beautiful and imperfect. And thank God the parents don't look like they stepped out of a magazine ad for Abilify. And there's humor! Weird ass, off the wall, occasionally crude and sometimes intentionally insensitive humor. It's a light hearted film, but just edgy enough, and it reminds us that real life is kind of dirty. And that's ok. Fun, even.

As for the title character of Alex Truelove (the title is a play on his actual name) I found him charming and affable, and bought him as a kid struggling with his sexuality. It was nice to see a protagonist who was gay, and skewed a little more to the effeminate side of the spectrum. "Simon", of the earlier film seemed bio engineered in a lab to be that guy that was effortlessly straight acting, and yet, if you really wanted to imagine it... could be gay. Hooray! Someone for everyone. He's perfect. Too perfect. Alex, on the other hand... he's handsome as can be, and yet, he's skinny, somewhat gawky, and if he has washboard abs under his shirt, we don't see them. Cute enough to moon over, but with a sensibility that strays far enough from the stratospheric bar of Hollywood beauty for him to be "approachable". And he's an over thinker, a nerd, a go- getter! And yet, because of his off-beat interests, he's worried that no girl will love him, but you know what? One does.

Claire. Equally intelligent, equally off-beat, equally gorgeous, and with similar interests. So they begin dating, and yet, after some time has passed, and Claire has been trying to get Alex to have sex, nothing is happening. And this is where the trouble begins. Why? Because Claire deserves better, as a character than all the crap that's about to rain down on her, and audiences deserve a girl who behaves in a healthier way when it does. Believe me when I say that she could, and this film would still be exciting and dramatic it could even be more satisfying because you'd have poignancy and a character who believes as a real person would, not as a plot device for some dude's ultimate happy ending.

Spoilers here, so if you want to and have not seen the film, here's where to make a hasty exit, see the film, and come back.

Why is nothing happening with Claire and Alex? Because Alex meets Eliott, the out gay freshman college kid that he begins to have feelings for. And it's right there, in that first meeting, that the film becomes problematic for me. You see, Elliott is hanging out in the nearly empty room with his best friend Gretchen. Quick sidebar. GRETCHEN???? That's the name of one of those fucking Hummell figurines that your grandmother needs to take a feather duster to. It is not the name of a living breathing girl in 2018.

This is a Gretchen

But, if you just want to say to the audience that she's about as sexually appealing as oatmeal, well then, ok. Why the fuck not??? Gretchen it is. Hazel would work, too. Also Bernice, Madge, and Agnes. Anyway, Eliott mistakenly believes that Elliott and Gretchen are a couple, and who could blame him? They talk about doing things to better their relationship, they "kiss and make up" after a brief spat, and then... Gretchen is given the thankless task of cupping Eliott's chin and saying in baby talk "If only Elliott were straight...then at least I'd have a chance." And yes, friendships like this exist, I understand that. My problem is that the film doesn't show any indications that this is unusual, or that Gretchen deserves better. Ethan certainly doesn't tell her that. He compliments her folks, but not her. And the film just lays this relationship out, implicitly condoning it as the way of the world.

Ugh. Ugh. Ugh. I'm watching this, and I'm seeing this beautiful girl with amazing retro makeup play reluctant wing woman for her gay friend that she publicly loves. She has relegated herself to being Eliott's #2. Always the sexless bridesmaid, but alas, never the bride. And once her job is done, does this girl ever come back? Do we get a scene of her and Eliott later, or even her, on her own, having a life outside of him, or expressing opinions that are only hers? Nope? Job done. Goodbye. I'm sorry this happened to you, Gretchen, you deserve more. Certainly a better name.

Move aside Gretchen, you have served your plot point... uh... purpose.

And Alex? Well, he's shaken by his newfound desires, and this complicates the upcoming date that he and Claire have set to consummate their relationship. In Alex's confusion he begins to mistreat Claire, popping off at her for no reason discernible to her (actual reason? He wants dick, and he doesn't want to want dick). To top it off, he does this on the same night that her mom (played like one of the living dead with apropos grayish make-up and a rigorous sense of ennui) has been in the hospital with... what, Cancer? I don't honestly think the script clarifies because, eh... C plot.

Now, for Claire. She's gorgeous! She's feisty, she's going to Columbia!! And yet, her boyfriend is being an asshole. Why? He's gay. And very confused about it. Now, gay boys of America? Here's some advice. And some for you, too, girls that find yourself in the situation of dating a guy who turns out to be gay. Being gay is not an excuse to be an asshole. If you're a guy in a relationship with a girl and you discover you like a guy, and are feeling things you've never allowed yourself to express before, and suddenly here is someone before you who can give you something she can't? AWESOME. You've discovered something about yourself. But WAIT!!! Stop. Think. Be a good person. Don't cheat on your girlfriend because you've discovered someone you like better. Whatever the reasoning. Whether you are longing for another girl, or for a boy, it's an asshole move.

Claire, Claire, Claire... you had me on the edge of my seat for a while, wondering how this was going to play out! I mean, when, later in the film when you happen upon your nearly drowned, possibly ex-boyfriend (it's ambiguous) prone on the cement after an ill-fated leap, GOOD ON YOU for turning away and leaving him at the end of the night when he's asked you, essentially, if you're mad at him. I mean, you'd already tucked him in and nurturingly smoothed out his forelock with your fingers. Enough is enough. Right on! I mean, when he first told you he was gay, the shocked expression on your face made me think you were going to forgive him everything in this righteous act of understanding that girls are constantly, and very unreasonably expected to deliver. But when you got to your home where your Boo-berry faced mom awaits with open arms, you bawled your guts out. As you should have. You had every right to. It sucks to be cheated on. It sucks when your boyfriend pauses in the act of deflowering you to tell you the he likes someone else. I loved this scene, because it shows you as a real person with feelings, and I was really excited to see what you would do next, I anticipated a declaration of self, free of Alex. That is not what happened. I mean, any reasonable person would have taken some time to heal, but Lcaire jumps right back in there. And everything in the script is implying these next actions are how a girl should behave in this situation. But no. Let me tell you, that if your boyfriend behaves in this way? Let him be. I mean, if you're really a Saint, you can have a conversation of closure with him and let him process his shit, but Claire... and Claires of the world, I implore you, when you're recent ex boyfriend says he couldn't come out of the closet earlier because he was afraid of losing you... you tell him "tough titties." Because if he treats you like shit, and he did (being confused and does not give you a free pass to constantly ignore the feelings of others) he deserves to lose you. And PLEASE READ THIS CAREFULLY GIRLS- if, after breaking up with you he asks you to still go to prom with him, I hope you politely, and with dignity, GET THE FUCK OUT OF THERE! And by all means, if you do go with him to the prom (and seriously, why?), don't go out of your way to invite the boy he likes, who doesn't go to this school, to come to the prom and then give him a loving nudge in the direction of your ex boyfriend so that said ex can slow dance with the guy he made out with while dating you, and then kiss him again in front of everyone at school including yourself. You deserve better than that!!! You absolutely do. Because if you don't say "enough is enough", he gets to make goo-goo eyes at his new love while you make the winsome expression that tells the audience "Don't worry about me, I'll get through this". Because if you put up with this, then you're in for a lifetime of those expressions while you spend it taking a backseat to Alex as he bemoans his shitty love life and cries on your shoulder when Elliott dumps him for being selfish and self involved.

And girls watching this film? They deserve to know that if they fall in love with someone who later turns out to be gay, they can break from him and protect their emotions if he has been cavalier with them. Heck, even if he hasn't. If it's too hard for you be around him and not have him? Don't torture yourself because he "needs" you. He WILL BE FINE! Plenty of others will be around to fill your shoes, and you can busy your own little feet finding someone viable for you. I urge you to forgive your friend, and if, after you have taken some time to heal, you want to be his friend again and he has proven himself worthy of that friendship? It's your life. But you have to do what is healthy for you. My personal recommendation? Move on, and take heart in the fact that you have the intelligence, wit, humor and charm that draws love to you. But then remember that it's not all about whether you are worthy of him. You need to ask yourself if he has proved worthy of you. Whether that love is physical or not, there are basic requirements for giving and receiving it, and he needs to meet them, and to know that his actions have actual consequences, and if he values that relationship, he should not take you for granted, and putting up with his shit for any longer does not make you "cool".

Girls, please don't settle for a lifetime of making this face.

Now, a request to gay male screenwriters. We get it, you write what you know, and from your perspective on life. But even if she isn't the central character, please give us a film with a girl who is not just someone to be bent and posed in whichever position you need her to contort in order to make the story work, and allow our gay male protagonist love his boy free of guilt. Because if Alex created collateral damage on his way to love, especially to the girl who helped make him ready to love the next partner in his life by being a terrifically loving and supportive partner herself, well then he should feel a little guilty. It will make him a better person, and make your story far more interesting for being authentic and grounded in a reality where everybody's feelings matter. And it's funny to me that you deal with this very issue, but again, you take the option of scolding the girl, rather than looking at the relationship that is central to your plot. Dell, Alex's "quirky" best friend says to the girl he has loved for a long time, that girls like her have a power over boys like him and they should be gentle when they use that power, and still be respectful of the nerds. Yes, straight girls should be respectful, but so should boys. Gay boys are not immune to the dangers of behaving insensitively, and they definitely have a power over young teenaged girls who see a boy who takes care of his looks, isn't afraid to pursue cultural and intellectual interests, and who relates to them on a level beyond the purely physical. And instead of constantly excusing Alex's behavior by telling us over and over that he is a good person simply because he ponders whether or not he is good, make the same demands of him that you do of your female characters. Respect that power, respect those feelings, and make them of equal importance to yours.

Mementos

noreply@blogger.com (Joe Hartman) — Sat, 09 Jun 2018 17:09:00 +0000

For the past month I have been working my way through a book called Getting Things Done. It has been an instigator for doing some things I always intend to do, but can never focus on for long enough to actually write them down and then do them. One of my tasks for today was to measure some of my old sheet music and photos in order to frame them, and while seeking these out I came across a pile of mementos I've kept. There were some pictures of people I had dated, a couple of old letters, and then underneath the papers were these things:

The bottom of a plastic champagne glass from a past New Year's Eve
A purple plastic Lei from that same night
A mixed tape an old girlfriend made when I moved from Texas to L.A.
A large dried leaf that dropped onto the patio table during my first date with a man
A blue collar from my cat Ira, with his tag
A green collar from Ira with his rabies vaccination tag
An antique stopwatch and blue cloth case
A plastic pangolin
A baby picture of Z.M. Madsen
A little orange cloth heart
A green rubber bracelet from the publication date of one of the Harry Potter books
An orange rubber bracelet from a production of Annie
A piece of pink plastic cut like a jewel
A small bowl crafted from a gourd, with a beaded interior
A handmade button with a puff paint snowman

It's funny because some of the things I've kept seem to have little significance now, and then some I will keep simply to remember people and animals past, even though the items themselves are of little significance. They all stir up emotions and make my mind wander back to the past, and the way things shook out.

Like that leaf? When it fell the guy I was with, an over earnest slam poet named Ted, mentioned that it must be a sign, and when he wasn't looking, I slipped it in my pants pocket. That night we ended up on the beach kissing, getting sand in our hair and under our shirts. I felt things for him that I just hadn't before, and from that moment on I knew I couldn't deny that my attraction to men was far more than the merely physical thing I had been trying to pigeon hole it as.

The cat collars make me think of my sweet cat Ira that I had with me for more than 18 years, through six moves, multiple roommates, and through countless nights of him yowling like a little old man to get food, attention, or to be let outside.

They all leave me with a slight sense of melancholy, which is probably why people don't often go through their mementos. And while I'm glad I did sift through mine for a bit, it's time to slip that little painted box back under the bed for a while.

Movies, movies, and more movies...

noreply@blogger.com (Joe Hartman) — Thu, 07 Jun 2018 23:53:00 +0000

It's a little after seven on a Thursday evening, and I'm at the apartment, windows letting in a gentle breeze, and sipping on a glass of red. I'm not classy so it's not a Shiraz or a Pinot Noir or even a Merlot. It's a "blend". Which probably means a bunch of garbage grapes that couldn't go in to anything else, but it tastes great to me. Sweet, like I like it. Of course, there was a time back when I would have given the squinty eye to anyone having a glass of wine at home alone, but today, that person is me, and it's a wonderful little wind down to the week.

I have been working for the past week and half (you may know that I was let go from my former company during a restructuring) doing temp work for a staffing agency. It's only been part-time, but it goes full time beginning on Monday for a month, and while it's not the kind of work that would constitute my dream job, it is a terrific opportunity to get to know the staffers at the office, and to have an income. Plus, it was founded by and is run by strong and charismatic women, and I feel very appreciated and at home. That said, it does take some psychic energy to take in and acclimate to a new office dynamic, so this glass of "mixed red" feels well earned.

Now, why the title of "Movies, movies, and more movies..."? Well, June has always been a time for me to celebrate film, because Judy Garland was born on June 10th of 1922 and died on June 22nd of 1969. So June is for me, Judy month. And since so much of Judy's career revolved around film and television, it means that I inevitably end up watching a lot of films in June to celebrate her, and to treat myself to the filmed work of the artist I love most. And this month, TCM, in conjunction with Ball University, is offering a free online course entitled "Mad About The Musicals". I, and many in my friend group have registered, and so far it has been another wonderful reason to watch great films. In this case, these are films that I, in many cases, have not been exposed to before. Now, I'm aware that much of the motivation for the course is to drive people to TCM on Tuesdays and Thursdays when they will be showing the musicals most mentioned in the class, but so far (and we are only in day 4) it has been really educational, and it's given me a new way to work my brain muscles.

The final "Movies" in the post title, refers to the fact that Filmstruck", an online streaming service that I recently subscribed to, is featuring a collection of six films that center on the art of drag to honor Pride month. It makes me a little queasy that they chose to use drag as the entry to understanding gay culture, as I think drag as an art form has been used to limit gays, to compartmentalize us simply as men who like to dress like ladies. But, I do understand that it has also been a gentle gateway for mainstream audiences to find common ground with the gay experience (drag is after all I kind of "illusion", and audiences have always loved magic). Plus, Filmstruck focuses on classic films, and films of the past have found it more palatable to focus on drag as an aspect of gay life, than to actually look too deeply at what happens between two men in bed.

So, I plan to watch a lot of films this month, and hopefully I'll also squeeze in some time to celebrate gay Pride through actually going out into the world and socializing! Stay tuned...

Pride Month

noreply@blogger.com (Joe Hartman) — Wed, 06 Jun 2018 15:28:00 +0000

I've been putting a lot of thought into pride month this year, and how I want to explore and celebrate it in this blog, the very title of which is about reclaiming the things we love that we have been told one way or another to put behind us. This blog attempts to be a place to re-evaluate the parts of ourselves that we have viewed as flawed, and to celebrate them as a part of our full beautiful selves. hope, here, to explore all human qualities that we may have once viewed as flaws, and to understand them as a very valuable part of our whole beauty, and this is largely the message of Pride Month, in the context of extremely high stakes.

Pride Month celebrates an uprising that occurred June 28th, 1969, in which a marginalized people stood up to the authorities which had been shaming them for years. This uprising took place at The Stonewall Inn in New York City, and the events that took place in the early hours of that day are known as The Stonewall Riots. And yes, I don't like violence. I don't celebrate it. But let's look at what was happening. The people at this bar had long been considered easy marks by the authorities. Their sexuality had made them so. They were the cockroaches of humanity, and for years the police had flipped the metaphorical lights on to watch them scatter. So I will celebrate the night that those people chose not to submit. That night, these people who had been mortified, imprisoned, and who's lives were constantly in danger of ruination by being publicly named in newspapers as sexual deviants, people with the strength of spirit to know that every societal message telling them they were sick and did not deserve respect was a fallacy? Those people took a unified stand against these acts and declared those acts wrong. Rather than allowing a system of oppression that was firmly in place continue, they stood up against it. They stood against the idea that they were diseased and not worthy of the same rights as others, merely because of who they loved.

This kind of thinking, often expressed privately, but for the first time taken on by a unified group, was a galvanizing force which gave rise to a number of lesbian and gay organizations across the world, and which has changed much of society's thoughts on homosexuality, person by person. One year after the Stonewall Uprising, the first Pride Parades took place, not only in New York, but also in in Los Angeles, San Francisco and Chicago. The idea that not only was gayness not only something not to be ashamed of, but in fact, could be actively celebrated along with many other traits and qualities that make people diverse and beautiful, has been an idea that has taken us as far as we have come today. It is an idea that we celebrated through the Pride Parade, and which was later celebrated as a weeklong event, and which is now called "Pride Month".

And the message of Pride? It is universal, and is a message of inclusive, not of exclusion. Yes, this particular celebration arose because of a particular set of circumstances experienced by a particular group of people, but the idea of pride is big enough to encompass much more than that. Whatever you perceive as your flaws?Why do you perceive them that way? Who has told you this? First of all, IS someone outside of you telling you this? Or is there something in you telling you this? Does this quality harm other living creatures? Or is it something that can help to spread a little beauty? And if so, why not celebrate it as a part of the whole of you?

Now, I've read about people wanting to celebrate "Straight Pride" during this month. And this is not meant in the spirit of inclusion. It is because, somehow through this celebration of shifting thoughts about what is and is not "ok" to be in the world, there is a minority of heterosexual people who think they're being told they are "less than", and that's simply not the case. Nowhere in the idea that gay people have the right to be as proud of their sexuality as everyone else, is there a message that those people already having the privilege of being accepted by society should not be proud. But truly, everyone's been proud of them their entire lives for simply being this way. And if someone is straight and doesn't see how their conformity to the norm has been celebrated, they simply are not paying attention.

Think of it as a great big party where many people have been invited to drink and celebrate, and yet, not all people were allowed entrance to the festival. And then, at some point it was realized that a mistake was made, and more people were worthy of coming to the party and more invitations were sent. Nobody disinvited the people who were already at the party. And not one of those people already drinking and partying it up, were they thinking logically, would feel the need to declare "And we're gonna be here too! We have the right to be here at the party, too!" This is blatantly apparent. Other people just want to join in on the rights and privileges that others have already had. Thankfully, neither love, nor acceptance, or legal rights are pieces of some metaphorical pie of which there are only so many pieces to go around and where one person's receipt of rights means there is less for someone else. Equality and pride are to limited and quantifiable. There is enough for all.

That said. I plan, this month, to explore and shine a light on LGBT art and artists, and to make this month the most prolific one yet. So stay tuned!