Brain Fever
Tuesday, June 1, 1993
I went to the Blue Diner for coffee. Louise was there. She said that she had a good time yesterday. "Anne and Giovanni are perfect for each other. They even have the same laugh."
I said, "People have a way of becoming similar as they grow close." (I thought about the importance of asking oneself, "Do I want to be like that?" when choosing a mate.)
She said that Obadiah and Jane haven't got a chance. They've only known each other a couple of days and are already bickering. I said that I couldn't see what they have in common. Louise said, "They must like the way each other looks. Jane is a very pretty girl."
Louise told me that she's going to Memphis in a few days. Since she just returned from there a week ago, I asked if there was a problem with her family. She said, "No. I'm going to see a man. I don't know him very well."
I said, "I'm glad your trip is for whimsy rather than trouble."
She said, "I don't know. Spending two and a half days on a train so I can see him for two days seems a little scary. I hardly know him."
I said, "You'll be getting back to Boston around the time I go to New York."
She said, "No. I'll be back next Wednesday."
"That's the day I go to New York."
Louise said that she may be going to the city that weekend. I said, "I should give you a number to reach me there. I'll have time on my hands. We should go to the Museum of Natural History together." I would benefit from her knowledge of biology. She recommended some fiction with Darwinian themes. I asked if she'd seen Woman in the Dunes. Maybe we'll get together after our travels and watch it.
Louise said that she'd take Plagues and Peoples (which I'd given her) on the train to Memphis. It's a long ride.
Amy called. She moved from Central Square. She told me that Debbie is finally breaking up with John. I told her I planned to go to New York for the opening of Alan's show.
She said, "You've been a good friend to Alan."
"Not really."
I called Debbie in New York. She works in the garment industry (leather importing). She worked at Hubba Hubba when I first knew her. I wanted to arrange to stay at her place next week. We hadn't spoken for over a month. Debbie said that she'd been in the Orient for three weeks but had been back for a while. I said, "I've been waiting for you to call and let me know that you're back. Do you have a new boyfriend or something?"
"No. Nothing as exciting as that. How was your show at Barney's?"
"You mean Bendel's. It didn't happen."
"What happened?"
"We met in February and scheduled the show for late April. They sent me a letter of instructions about sending information to their main office and I didn't hear any more from them. Anyway, I was busy building the jewelry I'd need. About a week before the show, I called to confirm and settle final details. I had to leave a message on Debra's voice mail. She didn't call back. The next day I called and left another message - still no response. Eventually, I called and finally managed to speak to a human. She said that Debra was in New York and wouldn't be back until next week. If I'd leave my number, she'd call back. I told her that that was no good because I was supposed to have a trunk show before then. She said that she'd heard nothing about it but if I left my name and number, Debra's assistant, Karen, would call me right back. I did. She didn't."
"Of course I concluded that there was no show. On Friday (the first day of the scheduled show) I got a call at about noon. It was Karen wondering where the hell I was. I told her that I'd interpreted the silent response to my request for confirmation as negative. Karen said that she'd called me all day Wednesday and into the evening but that nobody had answered. I told her that I'd been home all day and that I have an answering machine anyway. She said, 'Maybe there was something wrong with the phone here.' Karen said that things were all arranged and could I come out now. I said that I'd made other plans. She asked if I could come tomorrow. I said that I'd made other plans. I told her that she should have Debra call me when she returned so we could try to reschedule. Karen said she would. Debra never called."
Debbie said that she was busy working and I said that I'd call her at home, later this week.
I called Bethany. She said she'd been thinking of calling me. Things have been pretty insane with her roommate but they are calming down. She said she's been working a lot at The Children's Museum and that she needs the money, but it's been cutting into her time to work on her sculpture. Bethany was firing up her kiln as we spoke and told me how good she felt to be getting to work. I asked her if the kiln made much of a difference in the room temperature. (I was wondering if this glasswork was a better activity for the winter than the summer.) She said, "not really."
We made some vague plans to get together Friday and I told her to have a good time melting glass.
Wednesday, June 2, 1993
Howard came over last night. He told me about his sister and her family visiting him over the weekend. We talked about the way having children seems to narrow the focus of people's minds. I told him about my idea that this may reveal the Darwinian function of homosexuality. I'd been wondering about the function of menopause, Why wouldn't a woman die when she passed the age where she could bear children. Presumably, grandmothers enhance the viability of their descendants. This isn't so hard to see. It's most obvious in the case of young orphans but the additional childcare and education also provide clear advantages. This is similar to the greater success enjoyed by children with two parents. (note 16) I suppose that we all benefit from the cultural advances made by people whose lives aren't circumscribed by caring for their offspring.
This morning I went to the Blue Diner to read and drink coffee. My book on ancient trade relationships is getting good. There are various maps showing patterns of colonization by the Greeks and Phoenicians. I was surprised at how easily I perceived strategy in them. I think it's because of that game, Civilization.
I bought the game a while ago and after playing it a bit, I decided that I didn't like it and returned it. The premise of Civilization is that in an unexplored world, you found cities, manage economies, wage war, trade, and pursue technological innovation while competing tribes (or empires) do the same. Although it is a great idea for a game, the execution was unfortunate. Not only was it full of bugs, but there was an unpleasant political slant (such as including alarmist environmentalist prophecies). I always had the feeling that I was dealing with a substitute high school history teacher whose understanding of historical theory lacked nuance and was a generation obsolete. There's something spooky about counter cultural values being applied in such a rigidly deterministic way. The program was annoying when it tended to interrupt play with various announcements, return to the map and then interrupt again. When it returns to the map the player starts to orient himself and then the map is gone. This gets frustrating when it happens repeatedly.
Anyway, the maps in my book were so transparent that I could read the strategic component of the waves of colonies almost as if by aesthetic intuition. As I mused over the way I'd learned something valuable from something I didn't like, Peter and Cynthia sat down next to me at the counter. They were going out to breakfast, taking advantage of their self-employed status. Cynthia said, "We had a good time the other night."
I said, "You should come again soon to see the other episodes of Jeeves and Wooster that I have." I told her that I have a Wodehouse collection of all the Jeeves and Wooster short stories that she's welcome to borrow.
The three of us discussed the huge amounts of information that the computer is making available and the new ways of thinking that this allows. I said that Greeks, Romans & Barbarians is a perfect example. It is by an archeologist who freely employs historical methods. He examines the interface of several cultures and is very biological in his thinking.
Cynthia asked me, "In what sense do you mean biological?"
I said, "Since the 1960s, a school of historians has evolved that looks at human history itself as a biological process. They use several models. Obviously, the historic importance of assorted plagues (and medical advances) can be analyzed by epidemiological tools. Less obviously, epidemiology provides models that can describe the spread of ideas and technology within and between societies. Ecology sheds light on everything from nutrition to agriculture as well as the many ways we alter our environment. There are excellent studies of the consequences of our bringing different plants and animals into new environments. Things like the population increase in the Old World that followed the discovery of some New World food sources."
Cynthia seemed to think it was good that people are not being viewed as separate from the life processes on our planet. I wondered where she'd been. Darwin lived a long time ago.
I said that I think that this is a more important advance in historical thinking than the ideas of Marx and Freud.
Thursday, June 3, 1993
I've been expecting Bethany to call. She hasn't. We're supposed to do something tomorrow, so I called for details. I got her machine.
Margo called. We had lunch at Tremont Ice Cream.
After lunch, I delivered some negatives to Howard. They were photos I'd taken for Paul of some shelves he built. He needed prints for his portfolio. Howard gave me a clipping from The Wall Street Journal about Vice President Gore's political manipulation of the scientific establishment. The article pointed out his view that legitimate scientific questions are counterproductive because they tend to confuse people who should be lining up in lockstep ranks to fight the impending holocaust. Sound familiar? American style inefficiency has contributed so much to our success.
Gore's interest in thought control reveals values he shares with his wife, Tipper, the crusader for decency. It is funny that people who have gained so much from our system of unregulated speech and inquiry are so distrustful of it. Why would we want the Gores to decide which information we need to be protected from?
Alan called. He is going to New York on Sunday. I thought it was a week later so I must juggle my plans so I can attend his opening.
Bethany called. She has to work and thinks that she may be too tired to see me tomorrow night. Maybe Saturday night. Probably not. Sunday, I'm going to New York. Maybe I'll see her after I get back next week.
Paul called. We might go to Chris and Crash's party Saturday. It depends on Bethany.
Friday, June 4, 1993
Anne's mother gave her three complimentary tickets to Shaw's Arms and the Man. She wanted to take Giovanni and me, but Giovanni had a last minute trip to New York (something to do with his brothers' band.) So she invited Denise. I haven't seen Denise for months. I'm not complaining. We met her at the theater. She said, "I haven't read any Shaw in years. How about you, Arthur?"
"I think I read Pygmalion a month or two ago." She asked me if I'd read Backlash. I said I'd looked at it but that it appeared to be mere polemic. Still, so many people ask me my opinion of this book that I think I'd better read it. I said that I felt the same way about The Beauty Myth.
Denise said, "I'll stick with Camille Paglia."
I found this amusing because Denise is very conventional in her opinions. And very decided. (She claims that Europeans are more honest than Americans. That is why their films show "male full frontal nudity" and ours don't). Perhaps if she were European, she'd be honest enough to admit that she prefers their films because they show what she likes to see without making a moral issue of it. (Or honest enough to call it a penis instead of resorting to that clunky euphemism.)
Anne and Denise talked about Denise's Memorial Day party. I gather it wasn't well attended. It sounded like Anne saved the day when she brought Giovanni, Obadiah and Jane.
I enjoyed the play. As we walked toward Back Bay, we waded through the crowd leaving The Boston Pops. Apparently the concert had been attended by a package tour of older people. I commented to Denise on the high percentage of salmon colored blazers. "It looks like they buy their clothes in Palm Beach."
She said, "No, Miami. But people never dress that well in Miami."
That's why I said Palm Beach. Denise's family is in Florida. This has mutilated her sensibility, beyond hope of repair. Of course, I'm from Detroit.
We stopped for coffee at The Coffee Connection on Newbury Street. Denise told us how much she's been enjoying her job during the interregnum since her boss retired. She seemed inflamed by her unaccustomed opportunity to wield power. Anne and Denise chatted about their mutual friends. Denise asked me about Russell. I think that she was fishing for gossip but I've been feeling protective of him. So I told her about his radio suspension.
Bethany called. I picked her up at The Children's Museum and we walked to my place. She seemed distant. When I walked her home, she gave me an update on her domestic situation. "Do you know what it's like to wake up with somebody's face hovering over you? I asked, 'what is it?' and he started to cry."
I said, "That's a reason to sleep with a gun under your pillow."
She said, "This whole thing is starting to wear on me."
Bethany isn't as single as she thinks.
There was no awkwardness when we didn't kiss each other goodnight.
Saturday, June 5, 1993
Paul called and said he'd be getting out of work at 5:30. I hadn't expected Bethany to call. I wasn't disappointed. As I walked down Mass Ave, to meet Paul, I saw Russell talking to his brother, Andrew. I was running a little late and didn't have time to talk so I just smacked Russell on the rear end with the book I'm reading as I walked by. I don't think he saw me. He didn't even turn around. I stopped and spoke with them and Russell said, "I just thought it was some girl." For an insecure person, he is supremely self-confident. Russell asked me when I was getting back from New York. He wanted to set a meeting up with Christine for Thursday or Friday. "She's been away on a shoot."
Paul and I took the blue line to Maverick. We had a long walk in the rain to Chris and Crash's house. East Boston was a bit depressing even though it retains a neighborhood feeling.
Sonic Youth was on the stereo at the party. They sounded tired. There weren't many people I knew so I spent my time trying to calculate the proportion of men with pony tails or goatees. I was expecting to see Margo but I was dissapointed. A woman sat down to eat next to me and we started talking. Her name is Heidi. I noticed her when she arrived because she dressed more smartly than most of the others and she carried a bottle of Champagne. Heidi said that she's a bureaucrat. Environmental protection. She lives in Cambridge. She was very hungry because she'd just been a bicycle race. Heidi won some money. She said that there weren't many women competing, so it was easy to do well. She asked me what I do and I told her, "I'm a dilettante."
She said that she makes collages (Uh oh. Women's art.) and likes to write.
I asked Heidi "What kind of writing?"
She told me that she's been writing articles for the Phoenix about mountain biking. "Lately, for myself, (I don't mean to sound heavy) I've been writing about incest."
"Pro or con?" I asked. Her jaw dropped.
"Oops. I forgot that you were from Cambridge and may not know that there are different ways of looking at things." (note 17)
She continued to be civil, even pleasant, to me. I have to give her credit. She asked me about the book I was carrying. I described it to her. Heidi said, "The botanist in me is interested."
I said, "In that case let me recommend a few books that you might like more." I wrote down some titles and authors. (note 18) After I described each of them she said, "You're quite a resource. There are still people out there who have the archaic view. 'It's my land and I can do whatever I want with it'.
" I said, "The romantic view of nature is also archaic. It just happens to be dominant now."
I wrote my phone number on the list of books and told Heidi that I have tons of books about this subject and I'd like it if she felt free to call me to check them out. I felt that I'd been so obnoxious that I owed her special courtesy.
As Paul and I walked to the subway we talked about Heidi. We both thought that she seems worth knowing. I wondered if she'd call me. Paul said, "I think she liked you." He'd made a date with a woman he knew at the party.
When I got home, there was a message on my machine. "HI Arthur. It's Bethany. Sorry I screwed up and didn't call you until now, I'm just getting back into town now. I hope you have a good time in New York and I'll talk to you Wednesday or Thursday and we'll get together and do something. I promise. Talk to you later, Bye."
Wednesday, June 9, 1993
I'm worried.
Something is wrong with my memory.
It's improving.
Yesterday, I spent a few hours walking through Central Park. I found myself thinking about twenty-five years ago. Then, I was walking through the park and somebody threw a baseball at me, hit me in the head, and put me in the hospital for a week or two.
On a brighter note, I remembered romantic episodes that occurred there (particularly one involving poison ivy). I thought about movie scenes from Sweet Charity and The Producers and so many others that had been filmed there.
Eventually, I went to the Met where I saw the Havemeyer collection. I walked downtown. The city was redolent with my past. Here is the spot where a friend turned, waved at me and fell off his bike. In front of Bloomingdale's, I prankishly had taken off my clothes one rush hour (anticipating streaking by several years).
There was a stratigraphic quality to my walk. The further downtown I was, the more recent the incidents intruding into my awareness. I passed different buildings where I had worked at horrible jobs. The places I'd eaten lunch. I tried to decide if the lunches were worse than the jobs. By the time I reached Washington Square, I felt positively haunted by the vividness of my past. I sat on a bench where I used to write poetry and fend off chickenhawks. The girls are prettier now. The homosexuals are not. I too am not. Nobody bothered me.
As I traveled through SoHo, I remembered Sasha. She went to Sarah Lawrence College when Jenni, Laura and my sister, Martha, were there. We became very close and collaborated on art projects together. I think that her interest in high technology art was a consequence of our friendship. Sasha worked at The Museum of Holography on Mercer Street. She invited me to a New Years party where they displayed all the pornographic holograms. I walked down Mercer Street. The museum was long gone. I saw a building that looked familiar. That is where her loft was. One night she had a party. I went with Laura. I think Sasha was tripping. She was beautiful. Her eyes glowed. I went home. The phone rang. It was Sasha. She wanted to see me.
"It's important."
She took a cab up to Thirtieth Street where I was living with a psychotic School of Visual Arts student. She came in, took off her clothes and got into my bed. (It wasn't the first time.) (note 19) She said that everything was clear and she was in love with me and only wanted to be with me.
I made a big mistake.
I was tormenting myself over Jenni's leaving me (that would continue for many years.) I told Sasha that she was ethically required to end things with her boyfriend before giving herself to me. I said that I was a bad risk and was afraid I would hurt her. Sasha said she knew me better and trusted me. I had to prove her wrong. I bumped into her about five years later in Central Square, Cambridge. She looked fabulous. She told me that she was going to be married and move to Arizona to study mathematics. She called me unreliable.
Not unrepentant.
I was becoming maudlin so I stepped into a cafe, The Cupping Room. When I sat down, I was flooded with memories. Sasha and I had gone there. Laura and I used to meet there when Laura was Jenni's best friend and I was going through that breakup. I ordered an iced coffee and tried to read my book but images from other times overpowered me. 1977 was as vivid as 1993.
I finished my drink and went to Synchronicity Gallery where Tim and Alan's show, American Wastelands was opening. They arrived with snacks designed to look like toxic waste. There was a cake decorated like a leaking oil drum and they'd baked brownies in a pan shaped like a map of America. They were unable to remove the brownies from the tin, so they were left in a mirror image of the map with Florida and Maine on the left. I asked if that was anti-American. The photographs on the wall were so vacuous that I couldn't help thinking that the exhibition title was unfortunate. I read Alan's artist's statement. He had cobbled it together from a grant proposal I'd helped him write some years ago and, despite a few felicitous phrases, it was obsolete and somewhat trite. I continued to examine the pictures while guests started arriving. Alan introduced me to a woman named Susan. She told me a lot about herself and said that she didn't ask me much because she felt that she already knew me from all the things that Alan had said about me.
I said, "I won't try to defend myself."
She laughed and said, "He always speaks very highly of you. Would you like a glass of wine?"
"At least one. I need to be anesthetized."
She asked if I'd heard about David Byrne.
I hadn't.
Susan told me that the night before, Alan saw Byrne (note 20) and gave him an invitation to the opening. Susan brought her camera and some compact discs to autograph. "Just in case."
Susan told me that she used to go out with Alan for about a year and that he often repeated conversations we'd had. She said that he had told her how excited he was when I introduced him to my friends Becky and Cindy.
I said, "Neither of those friendships survived that introduction." Susan talked about why their relationship (which I'd never heard of) ended. I understood. I'd heard it before. I told her that I'd come to New York for the opening partly out of concern that nobody cared enough about Alan to make it. Susan thought it sad that his parents hadn't cared to come.
Mike walked in. I haven't seen him since Alan's wedding. He flew down from Boston to be at the opening even though he'd flown from New York to Boston the night before. Mike had addressed a board meeting about how he was going to spend twenty-four million dollars acquiring high tech companies. We joked about making sure that they were in desirable vacation spots. He told me how much the company has changed since I helped him reorganize it. I miss the excitement of those days (not enough to wish to return). Mike told me about his new daughter. He told me about his therapy. He said that I am the most brilliant person that he has ever met and that everybody who knows me says the same thing. (note 21) I would have been flattered had I been unaware of the purpose of the remark. Mike thinks he is a failure with his two marriages, corporate presidency, lovely home and daughter. I think he views my lack of achievement as a mark of talent. Somehow, this excuses him. I told him a little about what I've been up to and asked to borrow his sampling keyboard. He knew about my computer music project and said that it was good that I set things up so I don't have to depend on the talent of others.
I said, "Quality assurance."
Cindy came over and told Mike that she hadn't seen me since she came by with a swollen hand needing a ring cut off.
"Arthur was a real trooper."
I complimented her on her taste in jewelry. She was wearing my work. She looked good. Less like a gangster. I asked her if the show of my photographs was still on the schedule at the Middle East. She said, "yes" and asked me which room would I like to use. I asked her to call me when we get back to Boston so we could discuss the details.(note 22)
Mike told Cindy about David Byrne and said, "He's very intelligent."
I said, "So he has less excuse."
Alan joined us. He talked shop with Mike. I was still experiencing the surging memories of my day in the city and stood there with three people who had been very close friends. It wasn't easy to enjoy.
Later, Mike asked me if I was part of the group going out to dinner afterwards.
"I wasn't invited."
He and I talked about relationships. The last time we'd done that was seven years ago. Mike had said, "A bad relationship is better than none."
I had disagreed.
Now, Mike was telling me that I am certainly smart enough to reconstruct a woman's reality into a form convenient to me. I tried to explain that I am not looking for that kind of love. Maybe my wanting affection rather than just an echo means I'm smarter than he thinks.
The opening was ending and as we were thrown out I asked Susan to call me. She is interested in my jewelry. She said she'd get my number from Alan.
We walked to Tim's nearby loft. While Alan and Tim were putting things away, Mike, Susan and I continued talking. Somebody said something about pictures of flowers. I told Susan I'd been taking pictures of exotic flowers and young women. I made a joke about photographing dried flowers and elderly women.
Tim looked up and said, "That sounds pretty trite, Arthur."
I started to say, "I bow to your superior expertise in that area", but I realized that if I started to tell these people what I thought of them it might lead to bloodshed. Especially considering the mood I was in.
We left and I walked with them the few blocks to the restaurant. They went in. I went on.
I walked up Broadway. I thought about City of Eros. SoHo is where the first sex district in New York was. I looked at buildings, trying to see which ones might have been brothels. Broadway has been hooker territory since it was first paved. At Fourteenth Street I could see the shells of Vaudeville theaters. As I moved uptown, I tried to follow the progression of the theater/sex district from the past into the present. The sense of enhanced memory slowly dissolved. Eroded by fatigue. When I reached the Upper West Side, I was empty of any thought or feeling.
Silent.
