Brain Fever
Wednesday, May 12, 1993
Hello again. I'm still here. Well, not exactly. I've moved, so here is really somewhere else. I remain in Boston but now my loft is in Chinatown. Somehow, it's less depressing than Southie (where they are having race riots these days). I'm no longer in the basement so I've exchanged dampness for noise. Still it's an improvement. So much has happened that I'm reluctant to say that I'm still me. I'm certainly not still.
Most of my friends from four years ago are gone. Some flipped out others copped out, but the operative word is out. After Jane moved to New York, we became closer friends until about a year and a half ago. Then it ended. Badly.
Cindy and I got to know each other pretty well, but now she is sort of underground and the less said about it the better. Alan got married and divorced and the less said the better. Amy is still around. She has a boyfriend now so I don't see too much of her. Ann got married and has a baby and the less said about it the better. Sonja moved in with me for a while (after it was clear that we would not have a relationship) and then moved to California. The less said...
Lisa is still making hats although she still talks seriously about quitting.
I'm reading In Search of Human Nature by Carl N. Degler. It traces the fortunes of social Darwinism in America. Unfortunately, the treatment isn't as good as the subject. The writer assumes the validity of a model of bigotry that I find less persuasive than complacent. This book has the same shortcomings that one would expect from a book about war by a pacifist. On the other hand, I just finished Donald Thomas's The Marquis de Sade. Thomas has a fine wit and an eye for the ironic.
I am supposed to be in Portland, OR (where the other Jane now lives) visiting my childhood friend, Andrea. She called me a few days before my flight to tell me "Now isn't a good time." I'm in Boston with no plans for a few days and everybody thinks I'm away. I'm using this time to do spring cleaning and catch up on my reading. That's what I tell myself.
I have a roommate. Her name is Anne. She just returned from the post office and had to show me a picture from the front page of the New York Times. It showed a springtime beach scene by a pier with enormous women in bathing suits. Anne wondered why that picture was placed on the front page. (She is a photographer.) I told her about the recent fashion policing that Paul and I have been doing. We've concluded that, now that the Reagan/Bush years of indulgence and display are (lamentably) over, America has let her figure go. It is as if everybody agreed to buy clothes a size larger from now on. Don't get me wrong, I have felt deprived of feminine curves since Twiggy. What we've been seeing could only be described as curves by a mathematician.
Amy called me today. I told her I'd seen Ann pushing a pram in Harvard Square. "She saw me but looked away." Amy told me that she heard from Andrew (a guy she was seeing for a while) and that he'd proposed marriage to her. He has a brain tumor now and although he was quite prepared to face life without her, he doesn't want to face death alone. Talk about having your priorities all screwed up.
Friday, May 14, 1993
This morning I walked through the combat zone on my way to return some videotapes. There are so many homeless people on the streets that my walk resembled an obstacle course. As I passed out of the zone somebody said, "Excuse me, sir."
I continued walking.
"Excuse me."
I stopped and turned. The man I faced was a very ethnic Italian-American. He was decently dressed, clean shaven and sober. He asked me, "Can you tell me how to get to the Pine Street Hotel?"
I said, "Do you mean the Pine Street Inn?"
He said, "The Pine Street Hotel. It's on Harrison Avenue. You pay twenty-five dollars a night and it's a nice place to stay. It has a swimming pool."
I said, "I've never heard of it. There is a Pine Street Inn on Harrison but it is a homeless shelter. There's no swimming pool or anything like that."
"They said it was a nice place to stay, with a swimming pool."
"Who told you that?"
"Some black guys I was talking to."
I told him, "I think they may have been playing some sort of joke on you by directing you to a homeless shelter."
He asked, "Is it nice. Do they have a swimming pool and nice rooms?"
"No. It is a shelter for homeless people. I don't think that they have rooms and I'm sure they have no pool."
"Can you tell me how to get there?"
I told him.
Saturday, May 15, 1993
I met Russell at his job. We were going to an art opening and then to a party. He had to finish up some paperwork so I looked at some vintage guitar catalogues he had. There was a little art gallery there. I looked around. The paintings were "woman's art" and the accompanying artist's statement was full of words like, "informed by, celebration and angst." Why have artists (who are specialists in perception and interpretation) focused on such a limited array of "social issues" with such a uniform style? It's painful to see exhibit after exhibit showing the same romantic rejection of civilization and culture. The same "glorification" of the ugly. The same naive primitivism. The same appeal to the spirit and the community. The same moralism.
I asked Russell if he had read the artist's statement.
He said, "You know what word I can't stand?"
Together, we said, "is informed by."
We went to Spectrum for Russell's friend's opening. As we approached, we saw the rear end of a woman bending over to check a run in her stockings. She stood up and greeted us. It was Shannon. She was there with her boyfriend, Mark, who had framed the show. Russell knows Mark because he's framing a print of mine for Russell.
The people attending this event were the usual bohemian/yuppie network and schmooze group. I suppose the pictures were in focus and everything, but it looked like ordinary photo journalism. You know, like the sample pictures in a "how to take good pictures" book.
Mark asked me what I thought of the show. "You know I don't like anybody's work but my own." The statement wasn't completely accurate but that's as tactful as I can be. Russell introduced me to the artist. I don't remember what he looked like. I walked over to Shannon and we talked about Mark's hangover and then about Mark and Shannon coming over to drink some wine. A friend of hers (her upstairs neighbor) joined us. Her name is Bethany. There is something about her.
Bethany is a glass artist and told us about schlepping different colored bottles around town. She is amusing. I got her phone number. (Actually nobody had a pen so I got her permission to get her number from Shannon.) I was curious about what her work looks like so I asked her if she had any photographs. She said that she had tried to document her sculpture but didn't get acceptable images. Since I photograph glass a lot, I offered to give it a try. Bethany accepted eagerly.
Russell and I left the opening and walked across the channel to my place. On the way, he observed that Bethany seemed to be more interested in me than in him, "despite all my obvious attractions."
He suggested that I "play it cool." I think he didn't want to go to the party later. We ended up watching Pygmalion with Wendy Hiller and Leslie Howard.
This afternoon I called Shannon to invite her and Mark over for a glass of wine Wednesday. I spoke to Mark. I got Bethany's number.
I called Bethany and left a message on her machine inviting her to come with Mark and Shannon.
A few hours later the phone rang. It was Bethany. Well, sort of. Last night's party was so good that she lost her voice. In a raspy whisper she said, "This is Satan." She also said that she hoped she hadn't offended me when she joked about the spelling of my name. (note 8)When I assured her that she'd been charming, she said something about yeast infections. She said that she looked forward to coming over Wednesday. I reminded her to bring the pictures that she had. She mentioned something about, "the guy I live with" before hanging up. I thought this was a particularly uninformative statement. Did she mean boyfriend or roommate?
Anne went over the handlebars of her bicycle and got scraped up a little but she's all right. She and Giovanni came in this evening and said that they'd been at an opening, across the street at Gallery Equus. Anne said, "Your friend Colleen is there and she is tuned." Colleen has a few paintings in Equus's final show so I thought that I'd better drop in and show my support. I haven't seen much of her lately. Partly it's because she's been busy and partly our conversations have been unpleasantly contentious lately.
I went across the street and found Colleen outside the gallery, in the hall, drinking beer with her sister and her two cousins. After we'd been talking a while, a cousin said that I was a "nice guy" and made some teasing remarks to Colleen about "family approval." Colleen didn't really blush. I went into the gallery and saw a lot of people I'd rather not. Same with the art. Nick (who'd had some kind of weird relationship with Cindy after she left Jim) was there. (note 9) He told me that he was impressed by the fact that a major part of the show was produced by a group of friends who work together. The place was full of Thayer Street types and Mass Art types and tattoos and piercings and stupid haircuts. The works on display were, of course, dreadful. Colleen asked me if I was as critical of the show as she was. I said, "At least."
The owner of the gallery, Peter, was being pursued by a frustrated creditor. That provided the only real entertainment.
Friday, May 28, 1993
I finally finished reading In Search of Human Nature. That book was more interesting in its discussion of feminism than it was on the subject of race. I chuckled when I read that early in this century, radical feminists doubted if women would be great artists. When I have raised this question, even moderates have been offended. The most interesting aspect of this book was the admission that the shift in the views of social scientists from attributing our differences to genetics to an environmental explanation was not the result of theoretical or experimental evidence, but rather the result of shifting moral and political values. (note 10) I thought it was unfortunate that the writer didn't pursue this to the natural conclusion that the social sciences may not be science at all.
I read City of Eros New York City Prostitution, and the Commercialization of Sex, 1790 - 1920 by Timothy J. Gilfoyle. Although he glosses over graphic pornography and literature, his rendering of the interrelationship between prostitution and the theater augmented my understanding of that ancient phenomenon. (It also sparked my interest in vaudeville.) City of Eros describes the symbiosis of saloons and prostitutes in a way that closely parallels the Paris of Women for Hire by Corbin. I wonder if alcohol is a factor in the large number of ugly people. I suspect a Darwinian consequence of the "beer goggles effect". (note 11) This book also reveals a relationship between the real estate business and prostitution that adds another dimension to civic evolution. The most important shortcoming I found was a tendency to automatically insert feminist truisms to explain sex conflicts like the brothel riots of the 1830s and 1840s.
Mark, Shannon and Bethany came over for wine and conversation. When they arrived, Bethany said, "I've been here before. When we were looking at lofts three years ago, this was one of the spaces we saw. He wanted a ridiculous key fee. You've done a great job fixing the place up."
I said, "By the time I was involved, the fee was much smaller." Things started out well enough but when Shannon asked me to show her my jewelry and art, Mark (assisted by the wine) became rather belligerent. He was unwilling to discuss anything other than hand rubbed finishes. As he was the only person there with a serious interest in the subject, the conversation was limited. He complained to Shannon, "I sat politely while Arthur made us look at his jewelry and those stones. Why won't people let me talk about what I want to talk about?"
Shannon told him, "Arthur showed us those things because we asked him to." Nobody was going to convince Mark that we weren't treating him unfairly. He seemed to need to score points off me but his attitude was so sophomoric and his knowledge so superficial that he made himself look foolish. I wanted Bethany to like me and tried to be gracious. Mark made this difficult by interrupting any conversational exchange between us. When I responded to an interruption by pointing out that we were discussing something, Mark said, "I don't care. I want to talk about what I want to talk about."
Shannon kept rolling her eyes and saying things like, "Mark never listens." Of course he didn't notice remarks like that because they were true. I wondered about their relationship. This added an element of gloom to an otherwise irritating experience.
Whenever Bethany would try to talk with me, Mark would crudely obstruct our attempt to get to know each other. Bethany, who had removed her shoes, put her feet next to me on the arm of the couch. She asked. "Arthur, you don't mind my putting my feet in your face, do you?"
As I voiced a flirty response, Mark interrupted with, "If your feet smelled like rotten onions, I'm sure Arthur would tell you."
That broke the mood.
Ultimately, we all just let him say his say. It was pathetic. His remarks were the usual self righteous stuff about "the rape of the earth" and "Bush believes in manifest destiny, an idea from the forties that says that the world exists to be exploited". I wasn't surprised that these opinions were not accessible to reason.
Somehow, I found myself saying, "One of the differences between science and religion is that science is a method of invalidation while religion claims to reveal the truth through faith." Mark (who must have taken comparative religion 101) disagreed by saying that science and religion lead to the same conclusions. (note 12) He demonstrated this by pointing out that Saint Augustine defined God as the creator of the universe and that "The Cosmic Egg Theory" (questionable science at best) describes the big bang the same way.
I said, "It's silly to argue about things of which you are ignorant."
Mark said, "I am not a bigot. I am not stupid. I am not uneducated. Don't call me ignorant."
I said, "I just said that you were ignorant about a certain subject. I didn't call you a bigot or anything like that."
Mark said, "When you say somebody is ignorant it means that they are a bigot."
I said, "No, Mark. The word 'ignorant' means uninformed. Would it have been different if I'd said that you don't know what you are talking about?"
He said, "That would have been fine. But don't say I'm a bigot."
I said, "I'm sorry that you felt insulted by what I said. I didn't realize that word has a special meaning for you. I use it all the time to describe myself. For instance, I don't know the Spanish language so I would say I am ignorant of Spanish."
He said, "Ahah! I may not know the Spanish language but I am not ignorant of Hispanic people."
Satisfied with his forensic victory, he left.
I could imagine the conversation as the three of them walked home.
I've been finding it much harder to talk with people.
Twice, last week, I watched movies with friends and they responded in ways I thought bizarre. Margo and I watched Shall We Dance with Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers. When the movie ended she said, "Why couldn't they just leave her alone?" She perceived Fred's courtship of a reluctant Ginger as a kind of sexual harassment. Margo is an activist with personal reasons for being sensitive to these issues. She is also very intelligent. We had an extensive argument about changes in social standards of behavior. I admire the way she could debate her convictions without descending to personal attack and defense. Margo's intellectual integrity is remarkable.
One of the points she made was that "you never know" what the woman's experience has been. So what might be seen as an appropriate advance toward one person might be an attack upon another. I thought that this line of reasoning excluded the possibility of any man expressing any interest in any woman. I also thought that the same argument could be used to characterize a woman's rejection of a man as brutally destructive. "You never know" if my past experience makes your unwelcome rejection as distressing to me as you might find my unwelcome advance. I said that we'd all be better off if we took responsibility for our minds and dealt with our experiences instead of trying to impose a moral imperative upon others to treat us as if we are hopelessly frail. I almost said, "...be a man about it."
Margo said, "When a woman says 'no', why can't men understand that she means 'no'?"
I said, "Not all women mean the same thing. I've gotten in trouble when I've taken no for an answer." I was thinking about Paul's plan to print up a tee shirt that says, "What part of maybe don't you understand?"
Our conversation was interrupted by the doorbell. There was confusion on the intercom until I realized that it was Anne's friend, Joe. He is deaf. He was in Chinatown with his new girlfriend, Margo. They were looking for Chinese food and even though it was after 1:00 am, decided to drop in on Anne (who was out working at the club). As I expected her presently, I invited them in. Joe is a photographer. He brought the pictures that he took at the S & M fashion extravaganza where I'd seen him last. (note 13) Joe's portfolio contains pictures of transvestites, punks and others who pursue extreme lifestyles. I felt no small embarrassment about how many of his subjects I know personally. That kind of thing is tedious.
Joe's friend, Margo, lives in New York where she works in the garment industry. She hand paints fabric. I couldn't help wondering about the fact that this romance between people who live in different cities must depend a lot on the telephone. As they are both deaf, I suppose their phones must have some text capability. Still, a typing romance must be frustrating. I like Margo and hope that Joe brings her again.
Sunday, May 30, 1993
Last night, I read some articles in The Skeptical Inquirer about subliminal advertising and self help tapes. One of the subjects discussed was that the public accepts beliefs that are rejected by scientific study. Several writers cited an article by Carl Sagen in which he concluded that scientists fail to communicate their findings to the non-scientific community. I found irony in the lack of skepticism or inquiry about such an important subject. After all there are so many factors involved when a culture based on faith finds the scientific paradigm inadequate. Even the scientists express a faith in the validity of the scientific method that is epistemologically dubious. (note 14) They also forget their own method when they talk about the desirability of having the government spend more money on science education as a way to reduce superstition. (note 15) I suppose I should be shocked at the ease with which people who make a life's work of testing assumptions are willing to assume so much.
I went on a date with Bethany last Tuesday. We planned to take the boat to Provincetown so I picked her up at her studio around 8:15 in the morning. That gave us enough time to get some snacks for the trip and wander to the pier to catch the 9:00 boat. There was no Provincetown boat. The sign said that it starts after Memorial day. We decided to walk to North Station and take the train to Singing Beach. As we wandered through the North End, we talked about the difference between directing oneself toward a goal and drifting for pleasure. We took the train to Manchester and walked to the beach. The whole day was spent getting to know one another. I found Bethany playful and forthright. And a little flirtatious. That suited me fine. While we talked, she absently played with the sand.
Bethany said, "Look, I've made a breast."
I said, "Judging by the nipple, it appears quite aroused."
She teased it with her fingers.
On the train home she was amused by the embarrassment that we may have caused the other passengers by our talk of atheism and cleavage. We went up to her loft where she showed me some of her sculptures in progress and all her plants. Bethany was very tired and wanted to take a nap. We made plans to get together Friday night for a movie. We didn't kiss when I left and that was awkward. I thought that was better than kissing and feeling awkward.
I'd had a good time. I haven't had a good time on a first date in years. (I haven't had a second date in years.) As I walked home from her loft, I ran into Louise. She's a waitress at the Blue Diner I've tried to befriend. She said, "Arthur, you look great. I got your message on Sunday when I got back from Memphis." We chatted for a few minutes and she said that she'd give me a call in a few days. I thought "She can smell it. The minute a woman is interested in a man he becomes attractive to other women."
The next few days were spent working on Carolyn and Scott's wedding rings. This has been going on for about a year and their engagement party is in a few weeks. I'll be going to Detroit for their wedding in August.
Thursday night I called Bethany to arrange the details of our Friday plans. She said "I feel like a movie tonight. Just let me make myself something to eat and I'll call you and come right over."
I said, "That's fine with me."
About two hours later, she called and said that she was very upset and couldn't talk about it. She was sorry but she wasn't coming over and was in no state of mind to make plans or anything. I spoke sympathetically and let her know that if she wanted to talk, she could call any time. Bethany said, "Good-bye" and hung up.
Disappointed, I speculated that something was going on with Joe. He's Bethany's ex. They are roommates and she says that he still loves her. Maybe she found out that she still loves him. Maybe he's upset about her interest in me. Maybe not. Yesterday, I called and left her a message. Her answering machine said, "Don't hang up. Please leave a message." I did.
Bethany hasn't called back.
On Friday, I called Russell. He came over and told me he'd been suspended from his radio show, Satyricon FM, for using certain forbidden words. He thought it had to do with issues of political orthodoxy. I wondered how much he wanted to relieve himself of the burden of putting on the show. There was some discussion about the FCC. I said, "You ain't seen nothing yet. Tipper Gore hasn't settled in, but when she does..."
He mentioned that he'd picked up the picture Mark framed. "Mark said, 'That Arthur sure likes to debate things.'"
Paul called and came over. Toto called and came over. We all found it odd to be hanging out in a group of men. We decided to get together with Anne and Giovanni for Memorial Day.
Monday, May 31, 1993
I spoke with Alan last night. Last week I got a message on my machine. He wanted to know my mailing address (which hasn't changed in four years) and Jane's address. He's having a show of his photographs in New York and wants to send us invitations. I called him back, left my address and told his machine, "I wouldn't know Jane's address. I think she's in Indonesia, but I'm not sure."
When we spoke, he said he thought he'd sent me an invitation. I asked him for a ride to the city so I could attend his opening. I have other business in New York. He told me that he's still printing for his show. He told me about a new textbook by William H. McNeill that I'll have to read. He told me about his plan to buy a computer for image processing. He told me about his job. Alan's boss, Mike, is our old landlord. He sang in a band with us. Toto, Debbie and Russell's sister, Susan were also in the various incarnations of Change of Life Orchestra 1984.
I told him that critical thought is like an immune system of the mind. It defends us from infectious errors. I said that our society has mental aids. Alan said, "Maybe you can tell me more about it on our drive to New York."
I said, "It's a long drive. I'll need some defense against despair."
He said, "How about some psilocybin?"
"I don't think that would help." (Besides, I don't eat mushrooms. I'm not Claudius.)
Alan reminisced about a conversation we had many years ago when we explored the implications of the growing global communications network. I think he misses the stimulation that our friendship provided him.
I've started reading Greeks, Romans & Barbarians Spheres of Interaction by Barry Cunliffe. It is an examination of the trade between these groups and, appropriately, interdisciplinary. He combines classical historical method with archaeology.
Anyway, Paul, Toto, Louise, Michael, Obadiah (Giovanni's brother) and Jane (Obadiah's friend) came over this afternoon. Toto and Obadiah knew each other from being musicians on the reggae scene. Anne and Giovanni spent much of the time in her room watching the game on TV. They went out to have a squirt gun fight before everybody arrived. The rest ate and drank and talked about pop culture. Michael rather morbidly told stories about injuring himself. I'm too squeamish to enjoy that. Then Obadiah and Michael exchanged "boasting" stories about street fighting. When Michael talked about being beat up a lot, Obadiah said, "If I got beat up, I'd never admit it."
I said, "Michael is just bragging about his street smarts."
Obadiah said that he'd won every fight that he's ever been in. Jane asked, "How do you expect us to believe that when you told us you wouldn't admit it if you'd lost?"
I pictured them all in twenty years swapping stories about lawsuits and slick tax dodges.
We watched a Mystery Science Theater 3000 version of a Godzilla movie. Jane had kicked off her shoes and asked, "Arthur, do you mind if I put my feet on the table?"
"It all depends on how pretty your feet are."
Some conversation about fetishism ensued. Louise asked me in a rather gooey drawl, "So what's your fetish, Arthur?"
"I'm too scatterbrained to settle on any one fetish."
I gave some silver rings that I made to Jane, Louise and Obadiah. Then some of them went to Denise's party in the South End.
Russell called me a couple hours after everybody had left to ask if things were getting going yet. I told him that they had gotten going and were gone. He suggested that we get together for lunch next week. He knows a woman he wants me to meet. I think that she's an artist's rep. He asked if I'd heard from Bethany.
Bethany hasn't returned my call.
