Tag Archives: love

They Came to the Castle and They Saw

Last night I performed at a ‘private’ show, courtesy of Erika Larson. As it turns out the guest of honor was Darren Lynn Bousman, his lovely wife Lauren, and their guests. Darren is the director of Saw 2-4 and Repo! The Genetic Opera. They were gracious and spectacular.

Just as the show started, the back lights in the room went out. It created a very focused element to the performance, and i believe I’d like that to be a thing all the time. Happy accidents, right?

Today I went in for a physical, and then to lunch with Sarah. Clean bill of health: all the vitals are well within normal, even the BP and blood sugar. Full check for STD came up negative, because of course it did. The doc did a bit of fat-shaming, but nothing horrible. We talked about sex and he readily agrees with my therapist … I check out on all the levels. Nothing to be afraid of.

My harem will be so pleased. (In case you missed this bit of sarcasm, check out the last post. Or some of the rumors that got passed around about me …)

I suppose I can laugh about it. Yeah? Right now the majority of my intimacy is expressed in my stories and my growing art. And some of the poetry I send to a special person.
The rest? Well … all is well. Okay?

I’m meditating and writing and not focusing on next week. If anything, my patience is getting a great workout. I’ve got love, I’ve got art … and I’m finally getting some balance.

More soon as the story unfolds.

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Christmas Day 2018

Very quiet and almost alone.

But when a lady who is interesting and interested calls …

So I had lunch with a captivating and deep young woman who has eyes like sunshine through honey. Those eyes see a lot, and I think they like what they see in me.

Worked on new magic and read a new book (gift from the same lady) and kept breathing. I’m listening to the closing of the year carols and thinking about art. New Year’s Eve will find me at the Magic Castle, doing my dance behind the bar.

Who knows tomorrow? Right now, in this moment … there’s peace for this earth-man.

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Christmas Eve, 2018

It’s on this night that I take stock of my year. I’ve been doing this since my life changed in 1988 … so thirty years. Raise a glass to thirty years.

In 1988 I met the one. Married the one. Had a child with the one. Christmas Eve found me in the downstairs of a wee two bedroom apartment, playing Santa for the two new females in my world. I scrimped and hustled and saved to make it nice … and I sat up late afterward, drinking eggnog and nibbling cookies and thinking it all over. Big changes, new adventures. A twisting unknown road ahead. And i raised my head and silently asked for strength. Not so much help … as strength.

“Let me be a good partner. Please let me be a good father … grant me strength to walk this road ahead.”

Thirty years and thousands of miles away and … an entirely new life … here i am again. Grateful.

But asking for strength.

New Year. Resolution.

Something simply stated, but with determination and a specific goal.
I want to improve on my basic skill set. I want to tell better stories, create better scripts, live out loud more loudly, and polish up the heart on my sleeve.

I’m going to write one fictional story each week.  Maybe based on people I know, maybe woven from thin air. Most will suck, especially in the beginning. I hope that gems will uncover themselves in the process.

I’m going to be more open about my views and life events in this public blog.
Not daily writing (maybe) but several times a week, providing whoever wants to read it an in-depth story of what’s going on in my head. Dangerous? Scary? Yep.

There will continue to be my semi-monthly column in Genii magazine. I will write for the podcast. I will create new magic and share more video.

It’s a big undertaking, and i’m doing it in order to not become lethargic or mediocre.

Some of it may hurt. Me. You. Them.
I’m sorry … I’ll do my best to be cruelty free, but I’m going to be honest. Art demands it.

Life is criminally short and one time around is all you get. Let the art do the talking.

My New Year’s Resolution is this:

Just Write.

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Silver

Silver coins from fingers to fingers … a trick of the hands I learned before I could understand.

Reflections of my self, unbroken from a surface I knew in shards.
Arrows piercing, cutting like words thrown from bitter tongues.
You saw me, and the mirror in your eyes became the truth I allowed myself to see.

Slick surface payout that revealed lines (yes), scars (yes), and age (yes?)

Also kindness … silverblue mirror and silverbrown frame around a face … of mine … that I had not loved until You.

My hands are bare, no longer shackled by the rings that declared me property and shameful.

My hands are my own to weave or build with. No reminders of ‘owned by’ or ‘ego slave’.
The rings that adorn me in the future will declare me loved and admired.

My unbound hands and my mouth grow stronger and more sure. Silver truth flows … look at these words as witness.

The goddess spoke Your name and it exploded into stars. Metaphoric meteors I cast my wishes upon.
I  see them behind my eyelids while our lips exchange words and passion.  Your mouth on mine alights the heavens and I am adrift in a sea of  silver lights. Myriad and distant. Endless depths of silver coins  spilled from the pockets of the eternal beggar: god itself. An endless  ocean with bits of bright chalk here and there … and one perfect blue  star.
(Not Venus … no, my love; the she-planet runs her circle and  spins her own tales. She is magnificent, certainly, but just a planet.)  I mean the star. The Star! The silver-blue tip of Orion’s garment. The  one whom I implore to send you messages of adoration, comfort, and  loyalty.

There were glittering stars under our feet  that night. Crushed remnants of past tragedies that sparkled like  Christmas nonetheless. There are glittering glitters of memories in my  soul, too. Unlike the nickles in my pocket, we do not reflect: we shine.

We shine silver and create memories of our own. Perfect in love and dancing under the pale blue eye of Rigel.

On silver trenchers I offer you my splintered green heart.
It is not perfect, but it creates pure silver … and it is Yours if You will have it.

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Center

Trying to find mine.

I got home tonight and stood … as I do … and searched the sky. Orion was on the horizon, with Betelgeuse and Rigel shining steadfast.

Someone asked me during the Q&A today if I had found a peaceful place like my back porch was at home, and I had to say no. I don’t have that meditative spot like I used to. Someone else asked if I have romantic love in my life, and I can’t answer that very simply. There’s a woman who cares about me very deeply (I don’t use names without permission, and we haven’t had that talk yet.) and there’s affection and caring … but (cliche incoming) it’s complicated. There are issues she needs to settle in her own world before she can comfortably explore mine. So we are separate.

I fill up my time with art and work and vital things. I try to not think of romance or physical affection. Self doubt in these areas grows. Am I worthy of that kind of love? Am I deserving?

I don’t know.

So I work, and that is taking a special kind of patience. I’m not complaining, I’m good at what I do and I greatly enjoy it. My art is very satisfying, and I lift hearts. The obstacles are few (though mighty) and I am building good faith and reputation among my community and future clients. Life is Magic.

But now it’s 2AM and I wish I had someone to tell about my day. Someone who would be interested and even eager to hear about it. Oh, of course I’ll tell you … and I really should attack these keys more often, but I mean a partner. A Lover. Someone to pour my heart and dreams into. I have someone in mind … and she loves me back, of this I have no doubts. But she needs to overcome obstacles for us to be even remotely together, so I’m giving her time and space to figure things out.

I’m breathing. I’ll keep doing that.

Looking for my center. Longing for my love.

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Fishing

I found the older man sitting at his usual spot at the end of the long, long pier.

“Gramma says dinner will be ready at 7 … and could you bring home some milk?”

He slowly shifted his pipe in his mouth. “Hello, Buzzard. I love you. Wait for a minute and walk with me.” He began to reel in his line from the sea. Slowly, without concern. The sea shone diamonds and rolled thickly.

“Did you catch anything?”

“No … not today.” As these words were spoken, the line cleared the water and … I saw that there was no hook. Just the tackle. He turned a bemused face to me.

“Grandpa … where’s the hook?”

“See … here’s the thing: I’m fishing. Not trying to catch fish, just fishing. Being very still and quiet and looking at the ocean. Letting my mind be patient with doing nothing. The pole gives me an excuse. As long as i’m holding it, people leave me alone. If i just sat here staring, they want to talk. Ask what i’m up to, am I okay?

People don’t like to see you just sitting still and letting your thoughts travel. It makes them uncomfortable. But we need it, sometimes. We need to get still and listen … to the sea, to our thoughts, to our hearts … to each other, even.

It’s holy and healthy to sometimes just … be.

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June 10, 2018

The Magic Castle, Hollywood, CA

I looked all over for some small sign of my friend. He was nowhere to be found. The places were still there, but there was no trace of him. Not his laughter. Not his spirit. Not his magic.
I sat on the bench where we talked about performance and art. I spent time at the table where we shared favorite books.
He’s just gone. I, selfishly, would have liked more time with him.
I visited Irma to get some perspective: maybe add some music to lift my heart. At the request of another guest, she played “Suicide is Painless”.

I fled.

Later a stranger, who earlier in the evening had watched my show, gave me food. “I ordered this to go on impulse. I think I’m supposed to give it to you.” Chicken and veggies, quite delightful.

As I went to pay my parking, I was called back inside. A friend requested that I do a small show for his sister, who was celebrating her birthday. We found a private table and … it was good. I told my stories and did my magic for the two of them. I made a boot for her … and she cried, just a little.

It took everything I had. It was worth it. I gave them a bit of me. That’s art, right?
For you, Leeman. For your smile. For your spirit. I found a bit of it, and I gave it to someone. As it should be.

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