Tuesday, June 30, 2009

Unscheduled...

It's a quarter to four in the morning; I have awakened, as I seem to these days, well before dawn and unable to return to the sleep I so covet. It's long past late-at-night yet still before early morning; and the sky outside my aerie is pitch-black and clear, giving the lights from the buildings and bridges an acute sharpness as they wash my room with a faint glow that seems brighter in the silent dark.

It is hushed and quiet, outside; occasionally punctuated with the rumble and screech of a passing tram; sounds that are akin to those of the cable cars as they traverse the hills of San Francisco.

I rise from the bed, knowing sleep is done for the night, and slide open the door to the balcony; stepping out. In the distance, a lone traveler is driving the freeway that crosses the Yarra; and I can see the lights of the traffic on the distant bridge - mostly trucks, at this time of night. Their sound evokes that of a distant surf.

A brisk and restless wind buffets the building and, like a splash of cold water, gives me that final, bracing shock that puts me in today.

Rain is coming.

If life were as I'd like it; I'd be in bed, still, pulling closer to the warmth of S; wrapping my arms around him as he sleeps and breathing him in, deeply, my nose against his neck. This is more rejuvenating than any sleep shall ever be; and I so miss him.

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One day, last week, as I was walking along one of the High Streets, it occurred to me that I sometimes "forget" I am in Australia. I smiled to myself, thinking how good that is; that some of the jarring strangeness has softened and my comfort level has risen to this extent.

I began to muse on how well I was handling this, emotionally; noticing that I wasn't living in the pain of this separation and seem to have dealt with it - managed it in some way that it wasn't keeping me at the affect of the desolation and heartache I experienced for so many weeks, upon arrival here...and departure from there.

As I explored my interior, I became a little self-satisfied. Proud of myself for being so adult, for handling those powerful and profound emotions and keeping them at bay so that I can go about my work and my life, here, with some clarity and good humor. Smell me...!

Then, in my mind, I turned a corner and saw the door to the room in which this fundamental part of me resides, for now. Good, solid wood door and a hefty lock; secure. I thought I'd peek inside to see how these feelings were doing...

Unlocking the door, full of confidence, I eased that door open, just a fraction...just a tiny bit...

The winds howled and blew, and through the crack I experienced a massive, living black hole of anguish. Velvet tendrils of raw emotion reached out to me from the darkness, compelling... The energy was pulling me toward that crack in the doorway, the cacophonous wailing of Greek women filled the air as the wind tugged at me with gale force.

Shocked, I realized that my face was wet...as a fountain of tears met the daylight.

All this, in a microsecond of introspection...

I slammed the door, shut!

...a solid case for Temporary Compartmentalization, were there ever one.

Sunday, June 28, 2009

Week Twenty - Five / Day One

My First Memory is of My Second Circumcision...

Really.

No kidding.

I remember getting out of our car and holding my mother's hand as she walked me down the breezeway of the ranch-style office building (after all, this was Southern California in the '50's), past other offices toward our own doctor. There was much Brown; dusty dirt, tumbleweeds, dried-out cactus beds, and sun-bleached colors, outside...cocoa-colored and veneer-covered walls, inside, with brown trim; all set-off with brown shag carpeting.

It was quiet, and the skin on the back of my little, shorts-clad legs made that sticky sound as I fidgeted on the vinyl cushions while we waited for

I-didn't-know-what. Every few moments, the frosted-glass window in the Reception Wall would slide open and the nurse on the other side would say a name or issue some instruction and someone else in the waiting room would come to the window or disappear behind the (brown) door...

Such a cute and trusting kid...I was all curious when I heard my name and Mother and I walked through the door.

Another nurse escorted us into the Examining Room and, with a flourish worthy of a master magician, pulled a grand length of tissue from the roll at the top of the table, yanked it up, into the air then pulled it taut and secured it at the bottom of the platform...then patted the place where she wanted me to sit and wait for the doctor.

I climbed up.

Mother and I chatted about things until the doctor arrived and had me lie down. I remember the brittle crunching of the tissue paper as the doctor undid my pants and pulled them down. That was my first actual clue that something nasty was about to happen. (I already knew that anything that took place "down there," shouldn't.)

So, there I am, lying on my back with my pants down in front of my Mother. Somehow, I knew this was something with which I was definitely not comfortable.

The next thing I knew, he had my penis in his grip and was aiming this very shiny, very tiny, very sharp-looking pair of scissors at it. Did I mention that this tool was VERY sharp-looking? Looks did not deceive, and suddenly I felt an intense and searing pain.

I vividly remember watching those blades approach and hook into my tender skin, then sharply circumnavigate my little unit, very slowly, as I HOWLED in pain. I looked up at my protector, and Mother was looking on, "sympathetically..."

I'm sure that helped.

Apparently, there was a hygiene issue that mom had "overlooked," when bathing me; and the first circumcision had more-or-less healed and become infected, over time. Bummer.

In retrospect, this turns out to have been my first (remembered) experience of the manner and style with which my Mother would handle my life until I could finally wrest it from her. Not that she actually meant to create the misery and confusion she did; it's just that said misery is the side effect of the classic denial and avoidance with which she handled anything that made her uncomfortable.

This is more or less the way my family handled anything sexual; just look the other way... Wait'll I tell you about coming out to her!

All in all, I'm ambivalent as to whether it is best for men to be cut or uncut; but NO child ought to be cut, TWICE!

-Excerpted from Chapter One of my

AutoBiography-in-Progress:

"Don't Try This at Home"

Sunday, June 21, 2009

Week Twenty-Four / Day One

April 1987

Friday night arrived, and at 7:00 - so did Terry.

I remember going downstairs to meet him. Most clearly in my mind, from that moment, is the image of the sun shining on his hair and shoulders from just above the trees in the park across the street, behind him. I know that my memory is enhanced by these years of his absence and my love for him, but he had the clearest brown eyes I have ever seen. At that moment, there was a sort of golden aura around his frame as the sun shone off his mop of wavy brown hair and the pale, linen jacket he wore over his button-down, oxford cloth shirt and Levi's.

I don't think that, at the time, I fully appreciated the beauty of what I was seeing, but I did think he looked awfully good. He was as tall as I am (about 6'1"), slender (nearly to the point of skinny), with a gangly frame, size 13+ shoes and a manner of walking that made it seem as though he was traveling in several directions, at once. His skin was smooth and clear, with eyes set deep and a little close together, rendering his serious gaze quite piercing...when he WAS serious. When he smiled, though...when Terry smiled, his whole face lit-up. His mouth would open just a little bit to reveal a slightly uneven row of pretty, white teeth, and he would look as though he was about to laugh - which was usually the case.

He may not have been perfect; but, as it turned out, he was perfect for me.

For some reason, probably to guard against last-minute discomfort at the end of the evening, we each drove our own cars to dinner. I had made reservations at RAF, a very new, VERY trendy restaurant on the Little Italy side of Russian Hill. This was the sort of restaurant that was just hitting the high mark in the mid-80's; with galvanized steel dining tables and overstuffed pillows adorning stucco banquettes that delineated the three, odd-sized dining areas. The menu featured things like Fried Yucca Blossoms and Squid-Ink pasta served on huge plates by pretty waiters.

The place had attitude for days; and, of course, I knew everyone there...

I had selected this restaurant to impress Terry. (WHY do we always make these mistakes?)

It was a horrible date. The place was fairly empty, service was slow and the conversation was slower. I wasn't sure quite how much I liked this guy, but I did know that I wanted to find out. I learned a few things; he had bought his poultry business from his Italian grandparents and rebuilt it with his brother into a thriving concern over the past three years, capitalizing on the healthier end of the fowl-and-light-meats spectrum with rabbit, free-range chicken and the like. Business was booming at his two locations, and he was considering the opening of a third.

Do you find this conversation Romantic?

Neither did I.

Interesting, but not Romantic. As dinner dragged-on, I began to get that sinking (and accurate) feeling that I had made a mistake in bringing him here...

Terry left the table to use the restroom. Returning, he crossed the room with that gangly, multidirectional walk, tossed himself into his chair, looked at me, looked down at his plate and said, emphatically, "This is my last date, EVER! If this doesn't work out, I'm never going on a date, again!"

I said, "Do you wanna leave?"

"Let's go," he responded. We paid-up and left.

As I remember, our plans had been to go a fancy bar near my place for a drink. We drove up Broadway, side-by-side, and both found parking on my street; I asked him if he wanted to come inside for a glass of Champagne. Unhesitatingly, he agreed.

In my refrigerator were:

-a pound of coffee beans

-milk

-orange juice, and

-twelve bottles of Sharffenberger Champagne

(remaining from that year's Oscar Party; one of the perks of being Founder and Chair is the requisitioning of Key Leftovers...)

Classic, bachelor-esque inventory.

I poured us each a flute, brought the bottle, and we sat at my desk in the rear bay window to talk. And we talked and talked. We watched the stars outside the window, and talked. I have no idea what we discussed, but the conversation flowed, unobstructed and comfortably.

I'm sure that, under other circumstances, I would remember everything about those few hours. All I do remember is that moment when, as I was saying something - revealing some insight or sharing some feeling - Terry set his glass on the table with his left hand, resting his chin in his right, with his elbow on the table, and that wonderful smile unfolded on his face.

The way he looked at me as I finished my thought was a little bemused, a little amused... Then he said, slowly, directly, quietly...as though just discovering these feelings, "...I think you might be 'it'..."

Tender silence.

At that moment, I felt the enormity of the loving and vulnerable, valuable being sitting next to me. I realized how we - each of us - keep, deep inside, our private soul. I sensed that Terry and I were both on the same quest, armored with our chosen persona - seeking that which would fulfill and not desert; that other person willing to love and nurture and support.

How does a man know when he has found The Right One? In a world of no guarantees, what is the equation, the combination of traits and circumstances that leads one to take that leap of faith into another's arms and heart? What is it that plants the seeds of the purest trust?

I looked at Terry, quietly, drinking this in; then leaned over and gently kissed him for the first time, that evening.

"Would you like to stay, tonight?"

"Yes."

Standing up and setting down the glasses, we doused the lights and left the room.

It was a beautiful night. Unconditional love had entered my life...

-Excerpted from my AutoBiography-in-progress;

"Don't Try This at Home"

A few years later, and a few weeks after Terry's funeral, at dinner with Terry's mom, I was talking about the regrets I had - the times I'd been late for dinner because I felt I had to shake a few more hands, make a few more contacts, keep my profile visible... That I could have given Terry just a little more of what he wanted but never asked...time. Time that could never be given, now...

I said to her, "...if I ever fall in love again..."

She interrupted me with, "Oh, Terry will see to it that you do!"

And, if that is possible; he has.

I learned from Terry what it felt like to be loved, unconditionally. He accepted and loved me, in his own way, for the man that I was. I think that lesson has finally sunk-in.

Nearly twenty years later, I am now becoming enlightened to the comfort and fulfillment of loving another without seeking to change anything about him; without expectation or parameter, looking only to give what is needed or desired, and to welcome another into my heart and a room built just for him...not for some unreal person based in fantasy. Rather, a real man, a real person whom I find I do love, without condition.

Sunday June 14, 2009

Week Twenty-Three / Day One

Though Melbourne seems to me to have more of a San Francisco vibe than any other city with which I am familiar; similar to Chicago, it has installations of outdoor art virtually everywhere. A freeway isn't built without some sort of Abstract Something that offends some and engages others (isn't that one of the purposes of art?) but definitely breaks up any monotony of concrete and steel, billboards and the backsides of apartment and office buildings.

More than that, though; throughout the public spaces in the city, one regularly encounters the expressions of artists from impressionistic to surrealistic and from fantastic to whatthefick!

Within a block of my building are a raft of examples of accessible, touchable sometimes interactive public art... Simply looking down from my balcony...

Stepping out the door of my building, immediately across Waterview Walk (from which, actually, one cannot quite see any water) is this little guy. "Little" being relative to the neighboring art installations and towering buildings, mind you...

Strolling past this dog/rabbit just a few metres, I am at the base of that sculpture I showed you from my balcony. "Continuum," per the artist (Michael Snape), is about the climb of life and the value of aspiration. He goes on to say that we can afford to aspire, and that reaching up is not inevitably flawed...and that "community" supports this.

I embrace what I believe he is attempting to articulate or espouse, here. What makes it stand out, to me, is that such philosophy runs counter to a powerful subtext in the culture of this country...often articulated as the "tall poppy" culture.

Ergo, the perspective of this artist on aspiration and community is refreshing and just a tad subversive, imho...
Across the street is "Aurora," celebrating the history of Docklands as the site of Victoria Dock, once the industrial transport hub of Victoria. The sweeping curves and net-like upper form refer to cargo nets from the early days, and the piece is named for the Roman goddess of the dawn.

At night, this sculpture is lit internally in homage to the Aurora Australis.

Now, THIS one is titled, "Shoal" and according to the artist sprung from a mental image of a "shoal" of fish, swimming past him in the air as he walked down LaTrobe Street. It certainly conveys movement...
From here, can you tell what this is?

Why, it's "Cow up a Tree" - what else!?

I'm tellin' ya; I live in a VERY interesting neighborhood...

This building is pretty cool; the facade on the right is a great geometric expression, while that on the left (you can see all the narrow light fixtures embedded therein) flashes and glows in multicolored visual cacophony, at night...

And here we are, at the other end of the quay, with "Shoal on the Fly," evoking for the artist the wake of a ship or boat as it passes through the harbour; and the shoals now hidden from view by the ongoing development that is taking place in this neighborhood.
Finally, a simple, pleasant shot of the marina, a few metres down the street from me; this is where I await the tram, in the mornings...

My interactions with the people here just keep getting better and better. I was at Victoria Market, yesterday, buying chicken and meat for the week (Nine steaks and a big chicken to roast for a grand total of AU$31.00 - that's just over US$25, today). I passed by Vicky's Italian deli, of whom I've written, previously, and she called out to me by name, again. Most cool.

I was in and out of the market in about 20 minutes; now that I know where to go to get what. A big part of the market does have "tourist" stuff; but the locals go there for food, sauces and oils, meat and poultry and fish - and it is a blast, no matter when one goes...at least it has been, whenever I have hit the place.

-----------------------------

As to the language barrier; by George, I do believe I may be Getting It... I have discovered that I am perhaps more acclimated to Oz than I had previously thought.

Yesterday, in the midst of a killer Chiropractic session, my Chiro was talking about cooking, and mentioned that he had a "...killer recipe for Spag Bog..." which made me burst into laughter; as I immediately realized he was talking about Spaghetti Bolognese!

-----------------------------

After my ruminative meanderings through the past, last week; I received a number of wonderful emails from many with whom I have worked, in the past. These communications, I have to share with y'all, were exquisitely well-timed and bore an accumulation of funny, loving, supportive anecdotes and commentary that proved to be a profoundly effective virtual shot in the proverbial arm for me.

The effect on my psyche and demeanor was immediate, cleansing, enlightening and inspirational. I often say that I have been lucky to work with the best people; who care deeply about what we do and are committed to the work, the experiences we create, the missions we endeavor to fulfill and to one another of us, doing it. These notes and letters from you, these past few days, have been revitalizing and have refreshed some long-held memories.

Thanks, y'all...

---------------------------

And, for those of you who've asked or wondered; though the pain of separation never really ceases, all's well...

(at 50...a few years back)

Sunday, June 7, 2009

Week Twenty - Two / Day One

I've been through some pretty tough times, creating some of my best work.

I say, "my," but it was never solely me. I've been fortunate to find, as I have moved forward through the past few decades of my life, passionate and committed professionals who embrace challenge. I would say that coming to know many of these men and women has been one of the greatest rewards of my life. Building teams of leaders who have taken my vision as their own and have focused on contributing to and supporting the full realization of that vision such that we have often far exceeded my original expectation has been both lesson and reward, again and again.

There are few who have worked for or with me only once. Most of the creative, technical or production professionals who have joined me in creating an experience jump at the chance to again join a team, together. They know they'll be challenged and held accountable, they know they will be respected for knowledge, experience and intuition, and they know they will be depended-on to do their best work...that my philosophy is to focus on what is possible, what is most fantastically conceivable, and work hard to get as close to full realization of that as can be accomplished (being that we are, when all is said and done, human).

One of the first times I was presented with my own experience of being professionally respected was as the CandleLight Vigil for the AIDS Memorial Quilt at the Lincoln Memorial was coming together, in Washington, DC. That was the year and the experience that became, for me, the transition from having a reputation in San Francisco for the unique and compelling to attempting something on what was, essentially, a World Stage.

I had been beaten-up, pretty badly, by Los Angeles; and was contacted while still in my LA hospital bed by the NAMES Project and asked if I would re-create the CandleLight Ceremony for the following October...effectively relinquishing my assault on the film business and returning to what I do and was known for doing best; the Live Stuff.

Physically and professionally, I was starting over. The vision was there, my network of Thugs (friends of mine who were lawyers, accountants, realtors, Ad men and women, Marketers, manufacturers - all professionals in other areas who would come together as my Stage Management Team whenever I needed them for some fantastic and fantastically-complex production at City Hall in San Francisco) were all willing to come to DC to help, and the network of overqualified production talent accessible through the network of quilt supporters was there to support the work and production.

So, I took it on. Some of those whom I met in pulling that production together remain friends to this day; some are virtually famous in their own professional oeuvres, now, and most have worked on many teams with me, since that time.

One of the most empowering moments of that project came, for me, at Sound Check the day before the Ceremony. Talent for the Ceremony was Michael Callen, Melissa Errico, Patti Austin, Liza Minnelli and Joel Grey. I was, in that context, just a guy from San Francisco Directing this show. When Joel Grey arrived for his walk-through, I fully expected to pretty-much defer to anything he wanted to do; I was just grateful he'd be participating. His number, his moment, was the most important part of the ceremony; he was to sing the Final piece ("Jonathan Wesley Oliver Junior" - one of the most moving songs ever written about AIDS, the Quilt and the loss of a Friend).

On that crisp, sunny, October day as he walked up to me on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial, above the Reflecting Pool, I was prepared to hear How Mr. Grey Does Things. He looked me right in the eye as I introduced myself and asked, "What would you like me to do?" 

I was struck nearly dumb by the fact that a performer of his calibre would be so respectful of one who would have been - in his context - essentially an inexperienced Director. But, he treated me as the Director... I shared with him my vision, "...well, I'd like for you to start here, step here, walk here, sing from here, (et cetera, et cetera)...but if you have a way you'd prefer to do this, I'm sure that'll work..." 

He paid close attention to my very brief description, again looked me in the eye and said, "...then, that's what I'll do. It's your show." Gave me a big smile, walked through the blocking and sound check perfectly, and that was that.

That night, he brought 250,000 to absolute silence with his performance; and, at the end, when he sang, "...tell me Jonathan, up in heaven, are there shooting stars.....?" and George Zambelli's huge, brilliant white skyrocket flew straight up from behind the Memorial and exploded in an eye-filling and completely silent, white supernova, the only sound one could hear was the simultaneous intake of 250,000 breaths...

That experience, mirrored in the demeanor of Liza, Patti and the others, was a powerful lesson in the respect for hierarchy that is imperative for the realization of creative, artistic vision. These artists didn't know me, but they knew that second-guessing the Director is a recipe for failure. The creative "buck" has to stop in one place; for creativity by consensus rarely changes the world.

I have been fortunate, since that time, to have some exceedingly talented and accomplished (and opinionated) Creatives on my Teams. Production meetings large and small have often been difficult and wrought with challenge and heat; but the understanding has always been that the final call was that of one person. That's why there is only one steering wheel in a car, no matter how many opinionated, talented and skilled passengers may be in the cab.

When producing and directing the Opening and Closing Ceremonies for the Gay Games in New York City; the creative team was built of very well known and visibly accomplished men and women, many of whom have since won Tony Awards, toured the world under their own banners, founded orchestras and experienced all sorts of tremendous success. These were people, solidly reputed in and around NYC and the Broadway and Artistic communities. 

I had two marks against me, coming in: nobody knew me and I was from Los Angeles. Needless to say, our weekly production meetings were, at times, contentious. I could see in the eyes of some that I was being assessed and challenged to see if I even knew what I was doing. It was TOUGH, at times...most of the time. But, while I knew that I was being evaluated and judged, I was never threatened and my position as Director and Producer was never challenged. My job was always respected, even by those who thought I might fail.

I was very alone, that year in New York; knowing no one other than my staff and the team at the Games office. Working from 7am (Games Production Staff Meeting) to late at night, six days a week, for months on end. Being out on a limb with my concept for the Ceremonies - knowing if I compromised and they failed to connect and deliver, that I would be known for that failure, worldwide...deciding that to hold fast to my vision so that should that vision fail to resonate, I would at least know that I had been wrong in my concept; but that if I were to compromise and fail, I'd have nothing.

The Music Director for the Games, Jonathan Sheffer was famously accomplished at the time and has only grown more so in the years since. He is a scrupulous, committed, focused artist who holds extremely high standards and does not suffer fools. He challenged me at every turn; assuming nothing, asking everything, making me at times miserable with his relentless scrutiny. It wasn't personal; he just wanted to be sure I knew what I wanted and knew what I was doing. He made part of my life Hell. (I think he enjoyed that, just a little bit, as well...)

A few weeks out, as we were walking through Yankee Stadium with the entire Production Team for the first time, he was at my side throughout the tour, asking, "what if this happens...what if that happens...what will you do if this...what will you do if that?" Each time, I answered him with my contingencies...

At the end of the tour, he looked at me and said, "I think you just might know what you're doing..." To which I replied, "That is the sweetest thing you have ever said to me, Jonathan!"

Weeks later, after a spectacularly successful Opening Ceremony, as the fireworks were exploding on the field (and we were hiding from the Fire Marshal, given that our fireworks permit had expired 15 minutes beforehand), Jonathan entered the room with a huge smile on his face, walked over to me, threw his arms around me and said "Congratulations, Kile! We have a saying for times like this; 'Next Year in Jerusalem!'" 

No harder an approval has ever been won. Rarely has respect felt so sweet.

No job or project is too hard when one knows one can depend on one's team to accept, embrace, commit, respect and deliver.