C: 3/31/03

Work Diary, 3/31/03

Right now I'm in a hotel in Colorado Springs. I drove ninety miles per
hour to get here, only to wait for an hour while they got my room
ready. It's a non-smoking room, but the maitre d' snuck an ashtray in
for me, bless his nelly little heart.

The first thing I saw when I walked into the hotel was a very old lady
in metallic gold pants, wearing a huge tiara. We're talking rhinestones
from ear to ear and cresting the top of her huge hair. I watched her
promenade across the lobby to the musical version of the Lord's Prayer:
"Our Father, Who art in-n-n heaven?hallow-ed be Thy name?" It sounded
like Jefferson Airplane had been born again and hit the Jesus circuit.
The aging beauty queen disappeared into the lounge but somehow I expect
to see her again, either face down in the pool or roaming the hallway
after midnight. I've double-latched my door in anticipation.

The Native American girl who helped me at the front desk had two-inch
long blue fingernails, beautiful black hair, and a very, very bad cold.
"We donth hath yer room reathy," she wheezed, her fingers fluttering
nervously in the air. Then she promised to have it ready in one hour or
one year - I couldn't tell which. Obviously it was the former and here
I am, the patio door wide open and the heater blowing (I had to promise
the lovelorn maitre d' I'd keep the room aired out). The television's
tuned to some useless cable station, my facial products are lined up on
the bathroom counter, and I'm ready to write. That's why I'm here,
really, because I woke up this morning and discovered the only thing I
was able to use my laptop for was playing solitaire. I couldn't
concentrate, even that early, and I'm one of those annoying early birds
who's chipper and happy and effusive (i.e. the epitome of that person
you'd like to strangle when you ooze into your office each
morning).

I'm a little worried today, too, mostly about my partner but also about
my home. Or, rather, my perceptions about what a "home" should be. My
partner is in a funk and I don't like leaving him alone, but he assured
me he doesn't have enough time alone and I had no choice but to believe
him. I need to work, and I can't do it at home - or what feels like is
passing for home - and so I'm in a hotel, between a rock and a hard
place, worried about my partner and itching to write. I don't consider
myself a real writer yet but I'm beginning to believe it's a lonely
business, full of subtle sacrifices and lungs blackened by cigarettes.
It's a fantasy I enjoy even while I panic and wake up at night,
terrified I will forget that perfect line that's slip slip slipping
away.

I can't understand my frustration about home, and why it has become a
place I want to avoid. When I'm finished with work I am always glad
during the drive, glad to pull up, exit my car, greet the dog. Glad to
place my keys and wallet on the washing machine and hang up my jacket
on its peg, bend to pet the dog some more, maybe take off my shoes if I
have no plans.

And then I go upstairs and I'm not so glad anymore. With each step I
become a silly clich?, full of unmet needs and frustrated dreams. I
would most like somebody to blame, but if therapy - not to mention
Hollywood - has taught me anything, it's that blame is a dead end, more
harmful than the deed itself. At least, that's what I tell myself. I'm
pretty sure most therapists would agree.

What am I running from, that makes me leave home like this? Why is my
"home" not the oft-lauded refuge? You know, if I had my druthers, I'd
sell my house, buy one of those simple concrete lofts with tall
ceilings and without walls, preferably with a garbage chute and the
understanding that convenience requires certain sacrifices. I could
ignore the traffic noise (it sounds like the ocean) and the rickety old
elevator (gives you time to check voicemail on your cell phone) and the
lack of parking (further incentive to use mass transit).

But, because I'm not stupid, I know it wouldn't be long before I was
out looking for ancient bejeweled women, maitre d's with a penchant for
the Irish, the same old television made new by strange rooms. It's a
question of satisfaction, isn't it? You would think a boy come up from
the dregs (he says), a boy who's found all that he ever wanted (despite
his own carefully placed odds) would be more grateful. But he's not.
Instead, he wonders why there isn't more, more, more. Fortunately (or
perhaps not), he's able to answer: "Oh, but there is, is, is. Just keep
looking."

Besides, if it - whatever "it" is - doesn't work out, I've already left
my mark in countless hotel rooms across the United States, one pensione
in Florence, and a cabin in a catamaran that visits the Virgin Islands
bi-weekly, depending on the weather. In each of those rooms I've
removed whatever piece of mass-produced art was hanging on the wall,
placed it carefully and upside down on the mattress, and produced my
own work of art. Most are pastoral, though there are some nudes -
tasteful, demure, almost evocative.

And certainly suitable for framing.