Category: Malibu

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art Gay Hollywood Malibu

Storm Drain

What a frustrating night!

Of course, as time passes and I know that I have to see Jake again…I get more agitated, start protecting myself. Arm myself. Perhaps I am not myself? I just can’t bear the idea of being in the same room as that lying scum bag.

So, yesterday I waited for the storm but none came. It was so hot in Venice that I shed almost everything I was wearing. Robby and I drank coffee in Intelligentsia.

Chanced upon a great art show by an amazing young British artist Paul Insect. Strong graphics, good colours.

Apparently I was not alone…the previous show had been bought entirely by Damien Hirst.

I think I am frustrated because I met someone last week with whom I have a connection but do not trust myself to see again. Will not risk involvement.

So, I spent the day with Robby. He dropped me off in Beverly Hills. Met Matt ostensibly to go see Shame and Q&A with Steve McQueen. Didn’t go. Went, instead to see the Hedi Slimane installation at MOCA. Good crowd. HUGE crowd. Jonathon Brown, Miggy Hood, Gus Van Sant, Jeffrey Deitch..others.

Met cute, well dressed boys. Was not the only man with facial hair.

Boys wore Comme kilts. Girls wore red lispstick. Lots of black and velvet. NYC type crowd. Met ‘going to be huge’ photographer Aaron Stern and the kid who won the last survivor Judson Birza.

The show was hideously derivative. Reminded one of Larry Clark but without the compelling obsession. Black and white pictures of pretty, full lipped boys and girls, urban landscapes projected onto a huge cube whilst a shaggy haired band played discordant music.

Gagosian Gallery showing graphite work by Adam McEwan.

Particularly loved the ‘shutter’ that divided the main space but caused major anxiety for the gallery assistants who had to stop people mushing their heads into this low slung sculpture.

Loved all most all of the show except the work in the upper gallery which was very dull and badly conceived.

Off to shla to meet Nick Compton my South African cricketer friend.

He was co-opted by the most awful drunk in the room. We left.

Then…bad, bad mistake followed Matt to gay party in North Hollywood at some writers house where I bumped into Robby, Miles, Tom, Toby, Fielder and Bryan Singer.

I was the only man there with a beard. Most of them knew who I was and had an opinion.

God help me.

One particularly vile but pretty 21 year old started telling me how to dress.

This rancid, dreary waiter from Utah wearing a ubiquitous plaid shirt…ill fitting jeans telling ME how to dress. I was outraged.

He wouldn’t stop talking.

I said, “When I was your age I kept my mouth shut because I learned so much more.”

Adam Press looked on at me in horror, I know what he was thinking, “You blown your chances with that one.”

Which was true. Nothing he had to say for himself was either interesting or original.

Unlike Fielder Jewett (same age) who is a true original and worth listening to. We left, drove home up the 101 in the pouring rain.

The storm had arrived.

Categories
art Malibu

Convoy

There are pale, grey days by the Pacific that remind one of home.  Thunder clouds over Catalina.   A huge rain over the ocean,  blasting the surface, then fierce sunshine through the clouds like so many celestial arc lights.

There are more storms forecast for next week.   Just as the house fills with Thanksgiving guests and I prepare to leave for NYC.  Early December shopping and once again…him.

Usually, at this time of year, the mountain is parched and brown but last summer was unseasonably wet.   Everything is dark green, richly hued, sweet-smelling earth abundant with as much wildlife as I ever saw.

Last night at 2am I passed three young, regal bucks on Rambla Pacifico.  Their velvet antlers and fearlessness making them all the more beautiful.  There is a huge owl that now roosts in the palm tree on the drive.

I know why he’s here, to eat the squirrels and rats.  The Little Dog killed a rat yesterday.  It had a beautiful pale grey coat and a long black tail that squirmed like a snake minutes after he snapped its neck.

I have been going to events.  Small talk with strangers…boring.

AFM.  GLADD.  Etc.  Why would I ever want to leave my mountain?  I meet bumptious gay men with nothing original to say.  Invisible people, terrified of being seen, identified, different.  Straight acting.  God, that bores me.  I wore a Derby.  They couldn’t even identify a Derby.  That thought it was a Bowler hat.

Then a beautiful boy arrives and turns everything upside down.  I can feel him beside me now.

Last night I cooked dinner and, as it may be the last time before I sell it, I powered up the huge Sylvie Fleury neon piece that hangs in the parlor.

Doesn’t it look beautiful?  CURIOUS!

Can you believe that Rachel Maddow, of all people, gets hate mail?  Hateful, terrible things.  Everyone who has ever been on TV gets hate mail.  Anonymous fools sitting at their computers, steeped in resentment, conspiring against the world.

Regis Philbin gets hate mail.

The storm is coming, there is nothing we can do except bring in the cushions, clear the drains, avoid falling rocks loosened by the deluge when we drive.

Can I tell you something?  I haven’t been here, to this blog…very recently, because I had other things I needed to write.  A film to finish, the essays to map, the novel is done with.

I met friends for dinner and ate far too regularly at Gjelina.  Breakfast, lunch and dinner.  I had meaningful assignations with beautiful men.  I walked the new road with the dog and did not fall down.

I removed the bulk of my blog archive because it was no longer appropriate to keep it there.  I kept the essays that seem to give you most pleasure.  Instead of writing this…I concentrated on other things.  The trash was put out on time, the Caster Oil Trees that grow by the spring were chopped down.  The trees that died last year must be felled and cut up for fire wood.

I travelled in convoy from one event to another and blended as much as I am able.

We are not expecting anything so inclement that our lives maybe risked.  The worst that could happen, after the heavy rain, is another slide.  That, my friends, is life on and off the mountain.

Categories
Malibu

What A Treat

The storm passes over Malibu, leaving clear blue skies.  Catalina clearly visible on the horizon.

The garden dripping wet after the torrential rain.

The clouds were magnificent!

That’s all I can tell you.  Is that all I can say?

It has been a very busy month.  With more health issues on the horizon I retreat from normal living.  With art as my salvation I hunker down and do what I do best.

Day by bay, unfolding before me…life delivers one delightful treat after another.

I am glad I am not them.

Categories
Malibu

Rambla Pacifico Opens After 26 Years

Sadly, it’s a gated, private road…but it will make a heck of a difference to those of us who live up here on the mountain.

The new road cost nearly $5,000,000 for the 70 member association.

They worked tirelessly to make something wonderful happen.  It is now there.  It takes just a few moments to get to the PCH from my house.

Awesome feeling driving down it yesterday.

Categories
Malibu

Found Objects

I loathe art made of ‘found objects’ with the single exception of Kurt Schwitters.  If you don’t know who he is…look him up.

It is such a beautiful day here.  I am wandering around the garden in awe.

I have terrible pain in my body.  I know what it is.

I want to steal the chairs from next door.

I want the pain to end.  Have been plagued with memories of Jake.  Not least because I am writing the script about him.   The script is really good.  There’s a great deal of tension.

I know he has a boy friend he loves.  But I know he struggles with wanting sex with multiple partners.

I miss his beautiful face.

I am jealous that he is out there having a life.  I hope he is ok.  I miss him.  I want to cry.

I wish I were dead.

Robby came over this week and we almost had sex.  It was so erotic and sexy.

Categories
Gay Malibu

Two Tribes

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wzARC9XfsHQ]

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e7HJTCvzLXQ]

I still feel…incredible.

Categories
Malibu

Peaceful Nights.

There was a moment this afternoon when, yet again, I felt totally at peace with who and where I was.  Not only did I feel as if I was inhabiting my own skin but I wanted for nothing.  That is a wonderful feeling.

As in any full life there are problems…but nothing that seems to steer me away from this feeling of being settled, peaceful and at one with the world.

I walked to the new road…it was wonderful…it’s nearly finished…not that I will ever drive on it.

I want to cuddle up with someone.  To share my bonhomie.

75 pages into the script.  It’s fucking brilliant…even if I say so myself.

Categories
Malibu

Full Moon

Scintillating few weeks.  I am happy.  Even though I shouldn’t be.  I have no idea what is keeping me so buoyant…not smoking, not eating wheat, full moon, going to AA meetings?  I really have no idea.

So many little things are giving me a great deal of pleasure.

The ripe figs I picked yesterday morning, the aubergine and tomatoes, the trips into Beverly Hills with Robby.  The California sunshine, the hot nights, the pool lights that I managed to fix so the water glistens at midnight.

This too will pass.

The weather has been gorgeous, the company stimulating.  The future a glorious mystery…the past not jumping up at me like a badly trained dog.

A great deal is going on…but my energy is being used creatively.  Will let you know asap.

Anyway, just as you all seem to think I have vanished…

Here I am.

Categories
Malibu Rant

Mighty Mule 500

I spent the day with beautiful Robby… out and about.   Firstly in the garden spreadingcompost around the fruit trees and the grape vines.

After lunch we headed into Venice for expensive Intelligentsia coffee.

We had tried returning a Mighty Mule 500 automatic gate opener at Home Depot but they refused our request claiming that I needed the ‘box it was sold in’.  Who keeps every box for everything they ever bought?  When I asked the manager this questions he said, “I keep all my shoe boxes.”  It was a lame reply.

I called the Mighty Mule people, the Southern man at the other end of the fractured cell phone line told me that my Mighty Mule 500 was still under warranty but I would have to pay the expensive postage to return it.

Frustrated with his reply I said, “Oh God!”

The man at the other end of the phone said, “Don’t swear at me.”

“I didn’t swear.”

“You used the G-O-D word.”  He spelled out the word God.

“Since when has the word God been a swear word?”

“If you don’t stop swearing at me I’ll terminate this call.”  His southern drawl smearing the words into a verbal paste.

“I’m not fucking swearing.”

“Sir!”

“You fucking cunt.”

Click.

The Home Depot security guard who had been listening to me speaking on the phone stepped tentatively toward me.  We left.  The defective, un-boxed Might Mule 500 gate opener in the back of the car.

Apparently today is blasphemy day.

Later that afternoon as the sun began to set we were in the car driving over the Santa Monica Mountains and I said, “Do you think it’s odd that I enjoy spending my time with a twenty-one year old than with almost anyone my own age.”  He said, “Do you think it’s weird that I enjoy spending time with a fifty year old more than people my own age?”

We laughed at how our perfection would always be denied.

He is perfection.

I spent another night at the house of the troubled child who had, earlier in the day, run away from home.  When he returned home late that night he was ashen, fried, wasted…what could his parents do?

Art Platform, Pacific Standard Time and most other LA art events start today.  I am attempting to get to most of them.  Will keep you in the loop.

The decorators started work repairing the huge mess left by the renters yesterday.  I will tell you more about that tomorrow.  It’s a story I have been keeping under my hat.  Now is maybe the time to reveal all.

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Categories
Auto Biography Malibu Rant

Troubled Child

My friend’s 13-year-old troubled child is here at the house.

To tell you the truth…I don’t find him very troubling.  Why?  Because I was just like him when I was his age.

Difficult, intransigent, argumentative, addict manque.

Though our home situations are very different I began feeling a deep regret for how I had treated my mother and brothers.  Without doubt the genesis of my anger toward them had some basis.

Seeing him treat his parents so appallingly, confound them, fight them…distresses me and everyone who witnesses it.  He demands money with menace, internet privileges and rides to see other equally troubled, weed smoking teens.

It has been a particularly hard week for my friends.  Interrupting a drug deal he was making with a pair of 16 year olds in a car, a deal funded by money he had stolen from his mother, he attacked his Cambridge educated father and literally ripped the shirt off his back.

Until that moment his father had been his great ally and protector.  Until he saw what the rest of us had seen for some time…that there was nothing his own child wouldn’t do to get what he wanted.

The violence toward his parents is shocking to witness but he tends to behave properly when I am around because, rightly, he is scared of me.  I refuse to co-sign his bullshit.  I am bigger and potentially twice as violent and, of course, he knows that I will not acquiesce.

He steals anything he can lay his hands on and lies about it.

The last time I was at the house he stole $20 from me.  I just demanded it back and he handed it over.  When caught he tends to walk into a weird cloud of denial.  Glazed, fearful.

After he attacked his father the police came and cuffed him.  They wanted to take him to juvenile hall but his parents balked at the last moment.

It is only a matter of time before he ends up in very serious trouble.

I was sent to boarding school so my parents could live a normal life.  It suited me to be away from the house.  It suited them to get on with their normal, family life.

The problem seems to be that this kid has no passion for anything other than money.  He isn’t, as I was, sketching imaginary couture collections, writing plays or poring over houses I would one day build.

His stated aim: the acquisition of money.  He will do anything he can to get hold of it.  He doesn’t have anything particular he wants to spend it on.  He just craves hard cash.

Ultimately he will leave home and make his own mistakes…in his own time, on his own dime…but for now he tortures his parents and sisters with tantrums, violence and vile words.

When things get really bad at the house his desperate mother calls me and I sleep over.

Calm is restored.  Last night we made tea and dipped strawberries in chocolate.

I know, of course, how things will end up for him: jails, institutions and death.

It is the way of the addict.  We are all similarly destined until we take those imperative steps toward sanity and abstinence.