Writings On The Wall

Opportunities have presented themselves. This past week, I was encouraged enough to apply to college, and the good news that now I can actually attend classes and stay in town. It is all very cost-effective and it looks like my financial aid will provide. It pays to be poor! And at this point, I have used all the poor-scholar points I have with my student loan lender.

I have subsequently decided that after this term of education is over, I will teach for three years to have my student loans permanently forgiven. Then I will travel abroad with the Peace Corps and aid educational programs. If for some strange reason that cannot happen, I will use my abilities to secure employment outside of the region and work for Americorps.

I was depressed and I didn’t even realize it: three weeks of an unbearable depression. No tears, just sleep, and lying about doing nothing, worrying, watching my Mother worry (she worries more than me). Mail came and went like clouds in the sky. Then came a starving week in late May when we had nothing in the house. My friend sent me a little money to assist. I gave it to Mother and we were able to buy abundant groceries, much to my consternation. This evening she yelled at me for not sweeping and mopping the floors in the house (which are my responsibility). I apologized profusely. Henry has left for a fine arts convention (or so he says) in Austin, whereupon he will stop by my house to drop off the first installment of three installments of $85.00 for the three masses I sang–minus the Pentecost mass I had been selected soloist for. The tenor section in which I sang was thrown into disarray, I am told. I am holding Henry to his word that he must pay every penny that was promised to me: even Fr. Vega, the anachronistically insipid parish priest, advised Henry to pay out of pocket, as the Diocese chose not to intervene in what essentially appeared to be a volunteer organization. I was somewhat concerned at the nature of Henry’s leadership abilities. In some respects, Henry knows what he is doing, but as to the effectiveness and the practicality of his leadership skills, I must confess that I do not believe that he is a very good administrator. In fact, Abe, one of the other tenors I sang with, told me that the main point of contention he has with Henry is that he makes preliminary telephone calls to ask members to come just as practice commences. Other times I myself was personally astonished at the level of animosity towards certain persons or organizations he has had experiences with in the past, to say nothing of his absolutely banal musical interests, which mainly lie in the fascism of Italian nuove stile Baroque oboe sonatas, face-à-claques choral music written by practically talentless composers of neo-folksy church ballads, so-called “Anglican” anthems born out of anathema and the bland loveliness of Vivaldi. I am still wanting to recieve payment. Henry also can’t seem to let go of an already weeks-old disconnection from Freddy, my Marine friend who introduced me to the Diocesan choir. The story goes that Henry was simply cut off from communiqués with Henry after he refused to meet him and another friend at a dingy Chinese restaurant. Débacle ensued. Text messages were sent, angry monosyllabic replies exchanged on voicemail; the reputations of two [reportedly] straight men degenerated into the squabbles of a bunch of drunken college sophomores at $1 margarita night. Freddy informed me that he had not wanted anything to do with Henry partially because of his atrocious leadership skills (which I suspect led to Freddy to balk at; the stickler for perfection), his insistence on character assassination, and his secret protestations concerning my habits, preferences and abilities (which is just plain laughable). Now, mind you–it’s indeed very funny and very entertaining to get caught up in what is essentially a very enjoyable bit of drama. I’m so used to getting hated on for all the things I do. It’s not because I’m conceited, it’s basically because I have little time to deal with un-professionalism. So with that hot mess out of the way, I’m still waiting on my $85.00 to come to pay for this computer, to buy groceries, to send off parcels, and to get my ass to school.

I have been careful not to intervene myself into Lennard’s affairs lately; phone calls after a particularly frightening start to the weekend made me more aware of just how generally busy the gentleman is. A certain detective Garcia with the Police Department arrived with her badly tanned partner–a much heavier, stockier and generally much more agreeable man–and quickly demanded that they be granted permission to enter into our house to look for the whereabouts of Paul’s ex-girlfriend, CJ. My mother who for some strange reason was not feeling well that day particularly, answered, let them search, whereof the gentleman detective searched closets and under our beds, and annoyingly enough, in my personal correspondences. I said to him, “You can’t fold a 16 year old girl and put her in there, can you?” “Just checking,” he tells me. After this I called Lennard (who had a particularly nasty bout with a throat infection) about what to do, and he informed me that it was best now to start writing threatening letters. I have learned much from this man; he has taught me a great deal of common sense. He has warmed up to me somewhat; our conversations are not so cold as they once were, nor waning too intellectual; when we dined together he was particularly charming and very agreeable, though a little on the forlorn side. He informed me of his Yaqui roots, his impeccable Spanish and ease with the Hispanic people. And yet upon seeing him, one would not immediately grant that to he is more Hispanic than Anglo, just as I am, despite my name, more Anglo than Hispanic. I am planning to take him out whenever I get the money to, to thank him.

Scott was kind enough to surprise me with The Naked Justice, volumes 1 & 2, which for some peculiar reason has been an obsession. I am not known to particularly enjoy erotic comic books (sive graphic novels, etc.), but for some strange reason, I identify with this character. They are well-written, witty, dirty, and The Naked Justice himself is very much like myself; not cocky but confident, honest, and very flirtatious. The entire comic book series is a sort of throwback to earlier “white-label” comics that understated the plotlines of the story rather than the bulging muscles of superheroes, which I think every gay boy had a thing for growing up. I dare not leave them out where prying eyes might find them.

This week fared a little better; I know it got off on the right foot, mainly because I had been listening to a lot of bossa nova beginning on Monday; I got two more Bossacucanova CDs: Ipanema Lounge, Vol. I and Brasilidade, which are good additions to my Latin Lounge mix, with all of their fruity retro stylings. Before that I had been listening to a great deal of Stars of The Lid, having downloaded their entire catalogue, and which now constitutes over 8 hours of blissful sleep music. Tonight I paid particular attention to listening to The Album Leaf again, now a practically essential addition to music. His music is everything that I would assume California, or in general the West, is: hilly, piney, with clouds, mountains, sun and broad vistas. I finished up an orchestration of a piece by the 18th century Bostonian hymnodist and composer William Billings, his Easter Anthem of 1787, and an ambient piece for a friend, Cameron.

It’s been an interesting week so far and an interesting start to this month. I hope things get better as time goes on.