and proofs as clear as founts in july ~ king henry viii

5.July.2010

It’s a Rufus Wainwright kind of day. Before I continue, perhaps I should credit Mr. Wainwright for the soundtrack of my afternoon journaling. Here’s to you, Rufus.

I finally - stopped. By that, I mean, I’m through with bustling throughout the house. I’ve been away all weekend, living the good life at Casa del Sol Resort & Swim Spa. I had the most wonderfully relaxing weekend. Okay, so it wasn’t really a resort, but I did spend the weekend at Tim Larson’s - dear friend, confidant, and theatrical consort. He and his brother have a beautiful home in Bellevue, and they invited me over for the weekend.

Surprisingly, after the night I previously mentioned in my other entry, I somehow still managed to wake up and head over to Tim’s house by 11:00am. We were in the pool by noon, margaritas by two o‘clock, wine by six o‘clock, dinner by eight o’clock, night swimming to commence shortly thereafter, followed by a poolside nightcap, preceded by late night television comedies and deep discussions of sordid lives; then off to bed by two o’clock in the morning.

Fourth of July brunch was served at eleven o’clock, and by eleven forty-five, me, Laura, Morgan, Tim, Kenny, and Ted were all floating in the pool, laughing, talking, playing games, and simply relaxing hopelessly on this gorgeous, July afternoon.

After yet another incredible dinner, Laura, Morgan, Tim and I traipsed off to the front yard to enjoy the panoramic view of the neighborhood, fireworks display, making a marvelous game out of guessing the color of the firework-yet-to-come. Of course, five year old Morgan seemed to truly delight in this game, which made the three of us adults enjoy it’s silliness even more.

The shooting stars of light soared elegantly through the shadows of the skies, arching gracefully above the treetops, lighting up the heavens as they couldn’t soar any higher without bursting into unexpected colors through the starlit evening. A cerulean hibiscus, fuchsia starfish; illuminated baby’s breath, and more fairy dust than I’d ever seen, poured down upon our eyes of blue and deep brown.

Even sillier than the color guessing came was the shadow creature game that we played on the lawn, creating stories to match our elongated, moonlit silhouettes. Sometimes my quiet silhouette was overtaken by Tim’s monstrous one, as he chased it about the lawn, and sometimes Morgan’s five-year-old, diminutive outline seemed to pounce on mine even more-so than the six and a half foot Tim’s!

I went to bed that night, completely content and full of magical stories. All that previously seemed to cause me anxiety, and all of those disparaging thoughts that had previously overtaken my consciousness throughout the earlier days of the prior weeks before me, somehow found a different residence for the weekend, leaving me freed of my previously heavy mind.

I’m home now. The kitchen’s tidied. The living room is picked up. I’m unpacked from my weekend away - my room is as pristine as if Mary Poppins herself had been here, snapping her fingers and singing about spoons and sugar, while chirping birds sat perched on her outstretched fingers - my clothes put away and pillows fluffed. My bronzed skin seems so foreign against these ecru cushions of my writing chair, my hair highlighted by the sun’s tickling right arm. (In order to understand that slight inside joke, you’d have to ask my mother about the story I dictated to her, that she wrote on a napkin when I was merely four years old and too young to write for myself. Simply mention “Sun‘s tickling arm“ to my mother, and she‘ll gladly tell you all about how I started writing stories, once I figured out I could translate my imagination into scripted words. She LOVES to talk about that.) All the creatures of the house are curled up in my room, apparently also fans of Rufus, as they are quietly snoozing - one at my feet, two on the bed, one on the window sill, and one beneath the chair - as Cigarettes and Chocolate Milk plays on in the background.

It’s been a wonderful weekend. I know I only have four more days until the week is over and I can perhaps try again and have just as exciting Saturday and Sunday at this week‘s closing, but I just don’t want this magical weekend to end…

to our gayness and our gilt ~ king henry V

Friday night I had a Gayte (gay date) with one of my best gays, Christian. We met up for Appletinis at his gorgeous West End town home, and then took a cab to Bound’ry for dinner, sharing a crisply refreshing bottle of Sauvignon Blanc, and devouring a scrumptious dinner of Cajun trout and sautéed vegetables. Then onward to TRIBE (my most favorite gay bar in town), for an evening of dancing, martini-ing and gaiety. (no pun intended)

One White Gummy Bear Martini later, and the muted colors of the overhead lighting poured through the room as the gay heavens opened and all of my dearest friends emerged from the neon-lit Church street,. John-Todd and Eric were there, perched at the corner of the bar beneath the magenta lights; five minutes after we connected, I could almost hear a chorus of Lady Gaga, Ke$ha and Shakira, uniting as one untouchable trinity, as yet another group of friends came into the mix, making me as giddy as a twelve-year-old getting to meet Justin Bieber. We all ventured into the side bar area, only to discover Joe-The-Opera-Singer, and Lee Druce, one of my most favorite people of all time.

My phone started to “teleport” (that’s the text tone I have set to go off when I receive messages) - “Hey gorgeous! I‘m outside TRIBE. Where are you? - Shawn. He had been at the movie theater with friends, seeing that god-awful “Eclipse” movie - or whatever the latest “Twilight” film had been released in theaters, and knew that I was going to TRIBE, and decided to come too! Christian was having a difficult time keeping everyone’s names straight, not that there is anything straight about being in a gay bar. His eyes widened as our Gayte turned from a quiet night out, to a small group of people conversing at the bar, to thirty-five people taking over the entire establishment.

I was too busy playing “catch-up” with everyone to realize that Eric bought me a shot. If I could just shut up long enough to drink it, that probably would have been nice, I presume. Several taps on the shoulder, and I came around, but I don’t really enjoy “shots” as they are intended - well, no, it’s not that I don’t enjoy them, it’s that it’s just too much for me to swallow all in one gulp (that’s what she said), not to mention, shots like “Lemon Drops” are so delicious, it seems a sin to waste the tastiness of it by swallowing it too quickly (this is the last time I swear - that’s what she said). I wouldn’t drink it all in one swig, so I casually sipped it throughout the next two conversations.

By this point of the night, with what to my wondering eyes did appear, Holy Bejeezes, Judson. It’s been at least a year since we’d seen each other, and here we were, on a random Friday night, at TRIBE, finding the smiles and chatty reflections of ourselves in the corner of our favorite meeting place.

Christian, by this time of the evening, turned to me in disbelief, and with no abandon proclaimed: “We OBVIOUSLY need to hang out more often. How is it that you know EVERY gay man in NASHVILLE!!?!?” I laughed. Then, I pondered this quandary of a notion. You know, I have absolutely no idea how I have so many gay male friends in Nashville, but it’s true. I knew nearly thirty gay men at the bar, all whom are astonishingly handsome, and always know how to make me feel like the queen of queens. Ha. That was COMPLETELY an unintentional pun.

I didn’t get home until nearly a quarter till four in the morning. I hardly ever stay out that late, but I was having so much fun, that taxiing up in a Checker Cab and heading home seemed so dull, and thus, we kept the night rolling. When I finally got home though, after deciding my night had gone on long enough, I put in one of my favorite Judy Garland movies of all time (I suppose that’s a little cliché after spending the evening at a gay bar), “The Clock”, and fell asleep to my dearest Ms. Garland. How is it, that no matter what time of day, the sound of her voice is always so comforting?