Tea madness is upon me.

I find myself trawling YouTube for tea-related music videos, compiling tea party-appropriate iTunes music playlists with coordinated photo slideshows, and collecting tea menus, both traditional and nouveau, off the web. Last weekend, I purchased a vintage china dinner service for four because it was in the same pattern as my tea cups. Today, on the way to lunch, I spotted more glassware in my vintage stemware pattern to serve cordials or sparkling wine without unpacking my kitchen. For the last few weeks, I have been resisting acquiring antique Edwardian sterling sugar tongs, and polishing every piece of silver, copper, and brass in a half-mile radius of my house...

I feel the immoral imperative to coordinate a decadent tea event--call it 'Iron Tea'. Given a list of ingredients to use, and an even bigger list of ingredients not to use, several gastronomic mavericks create from scratch tea-time delicacies to serve to a panel of individuals with severe dietary restrictions, and for the rest of us who just don't want to go into a diabetic coma following a really good afternoon tea. And while all the mad food preparation is whirling about us, why not entertain us with badly dubbed commentary, and Euro-Asian culinary costumes inspired by Liberace and anime?

"Looks like he's sprinkling stevia on those caramelized quince tarts. Is that crust made from gluten-free barley meal?"

"I don't know about Chef X's taro-miso-salad sandwiches. The toasted heirloom grain bread was crispy and nutty, but the filling had a disturbing consistency."

"Will this 'guiltless clotted soy cream' with lingdonberry relish really be something you would want to put on your almond-flour and currant scone?"

Visions of assorted vegan scones, vintage tea trays strewn with organic table-safe flowers, swags fresh red currants and raspberries, rose and ivy topiary arrangements, and decorated Japanese tea canisters filled with herbal tisanes made from açaí, gogi berries, and echinacea dance through my head... if I see a sugarplum fairy, I don't know whether I'm going to kiss him, put him to work in the kitchen, or clog him over the head with a tea kettle and stick his stunned ethereal ass in the middle of a huge tea pot-shaped floral centerpiece.

And speaking of tea pots, I just found what I believe may be, if I am not hallucinating, Lord Elrond's silver tea service (look for yourself). Of course, I really don't have the $12,500 to buy it at the moment, so I think I'll just leave it in Rivendale for now. Maybe my sanity is lurking there, too, next to the silver trays of lembas biscuits and the glasses of Imladris cordial.

Please send help soon. Or at least some good scones.

A week ago I was bundled up and ill with a cold, and was celebrating Christmas with my family as best I could. With the current economic times things were simpler this year for everyone. It's not been easy since I moved back to California; at times I have seethed with frustration, while at others have been buoyed up by an almost unnatural sense of peace. Yet the last few weeks have left me disheartened by a succession of mistakes and hardships— from having to say good-bye to a wonderful man I had begun to date, to shattering the vessel of holy chrism at my church, and to being in an automobile accident.

Feeling under the weather, the holiday so far had been a fairly calm affair, as I had done a great deal of preparation before I became unwell. So much of my time lately has been spent in preparation. I guess I've tried to work on whatever I can in the present and try not to think about the past or future much. Yet opening one package from my aunt unsettled me— she had given me a subscription to Architectural Digest, and the first issue of the year was in my hands. "Brad Pitt Makes It Right in New Orleans," headlined the cover of the January issue, over a photo of actor in from one of many houses he is building there. There staring at me was all the promise and history and hope that drew me to the Crescent City in a single image.

I cried. Whatever I had pushed aside, the ambition, the regret, and the longing for a new life starting in New Orleans, welled up. As I quietly wiped my eyes, my aunt said softly that she hoped that I could finish my education someday, maybe even there.

Perhaps I will. Yet my family faces very real struggles, and I must deal with quite a few practical exigencies. I do not know when I may have the opportunity again. This year, we will simply have to see.

This last Sunday my parish church observed All Saints Day, to remember the faithful departed from all ages of the church, and during the service I assisted. The experience of standing near the altar and serving always humbles me, but this service was as meaningful as challenging, remembering those who have passed away, and those who face an uncertain future, even in my own family. During the prayers, my mind also went out to those who face persecution within the church for their sexual orientation, and experience separation from their communities.

Afterward, I recounted to an online friend about the service,

To be honest, I struggle with having peace the midst of so much uncertainty and change. I struggle with living with my family as their health deteriorates. I struggle with rebuilding my professional and personal life in San Diego now that am away from graduate school. I struggle with understanding and discerning what my calling is within the church. I struggle with trying not to feel vulnerable and helpless as people rally to strip away civil marriage rights from same-sex couples in California; as my family argues about the various candidates in the Presidential election tomorrow; and as the horrifying financial tumult rips across the nation and in my own life.

In the face of all this, I just have to pray--and to cling to hope, faith, and love.

As I write this, I am in staying in Chicago. As hurricane Gustav approached the gulf coast, I decided to leave prior to the mandatory evacuation notice for New Orleans. I am well and relaxing on a long overdue visit to the windy city to visit friends. When life gives you lemons, why not make lemonade or even lemon chiffon pie?

Yet my leaving the crescent city was merely hastened by a cyclone that over the last week slowly brought dread and memories for some of hurricane Katrina. As terrifying as the possibility of a direct hit by such a storm system on New Orleans, I was already preparing to leave. After a successful summer session at Tulane University, I am taking a leave of absence for the next year.

In short, I have chosen to honor relationships over my ambitions, at least in the short term. Serious health issues with several family members arose in the last year. Upon reflection I've realized I would rather be in California near them instead of remaining in Louisiana. It was a difficult decision.

Over the summer, I came to appreciate the humid days with afternoon rain showers, the lazy rides on the street car under green canopies of live oaks, the streets of racuously painted shotgun houses dripping with fancy woodwork, the easy laughter and revelry of the french quarter. Or commiserating with my peers after critiques in the grand parlors of the Columns Hotel, a southern comfort manhattan in hand. Or the amazing food at even unpreposessing places. Or curling up with Alex while a thunderstorm beats against the windows in the Marigny, with his dark as night kittens Midnight and Mischief.

I know I'll miss these things. It was hard to be away from home, but I came to enjoy my adopted city. Perhaps I will be able to return in a year's time as I hope. We shall see.

Over the last two months I have tried to write this entry, but each time I fumbled in trying to express myself satisfactorily. So here I go:

I have driven half-way across the continent to a far-off city, and have embraced my dream of studying architecture. I have moved to a gorgeous city of history and culture, where I know very few people. I have left behind family, friends, and church to pursue the best education within my reach.

I arrived in New Orleans on May 26th, my birthday, to start a new chapter in my life. The first five weeks of classes at Tulane University have been the most demanding and exhausting, engaging and through-provoking time I have experienced since college, with 12-18 hour days being common all week. I have cried privately on several occasions, I think as much from stress as from the tremendous changes from my hometown and familiar environment.

Yet I have come to appreciate that this is truly the school at which I need to study, with a program that balances design, theory, history, and context in a way that most West Coast schools do not.  Nor do I doubt my abilities in the way I did before, having demonstrated a thoroughness of thought and technical skill that bodes well for further study. My finals for the first few weeks went very well; this week I start the second half of the summer semester, and I feel both weariness and excitement.

I miss all whom I knew in San Diego and Southern California very much-- I know my family misses me dearly Yet I am not completely alone here. I have gotten to know a few people casually; I have visited churches; and I have fained the respect of my peers and instructors here. And perhaps I have found one special man to become close to-- we'll see.

I cannot say enough for the generosity of time and effort that my friends provided in assisting my relocation and encouraging me to follow my dream. I have been a most reluctant adventurer!

It has taken my so long to write these words, as I have tried to avoid making these huge decisions any more permanent than they are by declaring them. My course of study lasts more than three years; who knows whether I will return to southern California afterward, or go elsewhere? I can barely conceive of being away from San Diego so long; not to return seems unthinkable. I celebrate this opportunity, but I mourn the separation from what I have known.

Palm Sunday has become a joyous day for me, not merely for the religious observances and for the pleasure of carrying palm fronds in public, but for it’s relationship to what has become meaningful for me over the years.

Thirteen years ago I came out to my parents on Palm Sunday, and so I consider this the anniversary of being truly honest about myself as a gay man. Nine years ago on Easter, a week after Palm Sunday, I was baptized into the Lutheran church. These might seem unrelated, but they were both statements of truth about my experience. Each time I hear the readings appointed for this day, from Isaiah 50, I feel that much more confidence, in these words:

…
The Lord God helps me;
   therefore I have not been disgraced;
therefore I have set my face like flint,
   and I know that I shall not be put to shame;
   he who vindicates me is near.
Who will contend with me?
   Let us stand up together.
Who are my adversaries?
   Let them confront me.
It is the Lord GOD who helps me;
   Who will declare me guilty?

As I focus on Holy Week and the preparations leading to Easter, my work with my church as a committed lay volunteer makes my beliefs tangible to me, and adds a physical dimension to the spiritual journey. As I carried the processional cross leading the congregation into the sanctuary, amid a festive moment of waved palms, hosannas, and wind-carried incense, I felt wordless joy. I wish my friends could see me in that moment, not because of the ceremony and the robes, but for the simplicity and directness of what I am in that moment—a believer and carrier of the cross—acting out of humility, gratitude, and love toward God, just as I am.

Yet Palm Sunday was the first of four major services for which I will help prepare in the next week, so my spirits are still high—Maundy Thursday, Good Friday, and Easter Sunday have yet to come. I know that more opportunities to share my life and experience with the people around me will present themselves. I know that I can now share about my spirituality, my affectional orientation, and my heart for service with earnest confidence. I know these things because I have come to know not only who I am, but Whose I am.

Last night I passed in and out of sleep several times with strange dreams.

In the first, I watched in horror as the neighborhood at night was in an uproar--i couldn't tell if people were trying to lynch some people accused of hideous abusive crimes, or whether other criminals were trying to kill them to silence them. Very unsettling.

Another dream involved my pet dog Lucky, whom I dreamed had just passed away. We had no idea where and how to lay him to rest, because we expected that we would be leaving the house soon, and I couldn't bear with leaving his remains buried there, in what would be someone else's backyard soon. Just having his remains disposed by a veterinarian office was unthinkable. As I woke up I remembered that we buried years ago in a wooded area outside San Diego.

The third one I remember was more strange than disturbing. I was at this night club in a fancy art deco building that had two wings, connected by a glassed-in lobby. One half has the theater and lounge, which I think had a drag show and primarily gay clientele. The other either was a restaurant or service space. I sat to wait in the lobby admiring the architecture and idly wondering if the people who worked there used a lower level or second floor hallway from one half to the other, so as not to be seen. I stood out, as over my suit I was wearing white liturgical robes. People were wondering why I was there dressed like that, and I don't think the person whom I was supposed to meet there ever arrived.

The latter seems the most interesting to me, now that I am awake, though least powerful emotionally. It combines so many of my concerns at the moment--studying architecture, liturgical practice and service, and waiting without knowing what's going to happen. I also could not have made up a more evocative situation for how I wonder other gay and lesbian people take my spiritual life and commitment to service in the church. To say the least, it would be a bit unexpected to find me running around in ecclesiastical robes in the lobby of art deco drag club!

Just caprine couldn't resist this cultural meme makings way across LiveJournal, nor could I:

Rules are as follows:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Special:Random
The first article title on the page is the name of your band.

http://www.quotationspage.com/random.php3
The last four words of the very last quote is the title of your album.

http://www.flickr.com/explore/interesting/7days/
The third picture, no matter what it is, will be your album cover.

Using your favorite graphics program combine these three elements to design your album cover and post the result.

Voila! Here is my album, which I sense would be a debut. I can't help but feel that the young members were weaned during the Great Era of Angst, also known as the 1990s.

The last three weeks have been trying, both personally and professionally. In a way, I have been knocked out of my comfort zone, which to be honest has been rather unpleasant. I don't relish uncertainty, but in way, it's a good thing. I wrote to a friend earlier today:

Difficulty and dissatisfaction are necessary ingredients to finding out and fighting for what you really, truly want. I've come to believe that, even though I often do not enjoy the process.

Do I believe that utterly and completely? I'm not so sure. But it is making more and more sense, if I am making any sense off things recently, and if I look back at the past when I have truly accomplished things. I hope to take that focus, and that motivating dissatisfaction, and do something with it. Such as? Here's a short-list:

Face down some inner demons. Build my own business. Get into architecture school.

How's that for a start?

Since moving in, my friends have declared my apartment something of a sanctuary of comfort, even with a degree of astonishment I would not have expected. In fact, some have expressed outright shock it that it does not look like a bachelor pad with miscellaneous mismatched furnishings or a monastic cell. So imagine my surprise when my friend billifer pronounces that he has found my fictional representation in that magnum opus beyond even my patience to read, Infinite Jest, page 744:

Mrs. Incandenza (‘Please do call me Avril, Joelle’) had been gracious and warm and attentive without obtruding and worked unobtrusively hard to put everyone at ease and to facilitate communication, and to make Joelle feel like a welcomed and esteemed part of the family gathering — and something about the woman made every follicle on Joelle’s body pucker and distend. It wasn’t that Avril Incandenza was one of the tallest women Joelle had ever seen, and definitely the tallest pretty older woman with immaculate posture…. It wasn’t that her syntax was so artless and fluid and imposing. Nor the near-sterile cleanliness of the home’s downstairs (the bathroom’s toilet seemed not only scrubbed but waxed to a high shine). And it wasn’t that Avril’s graciousness was in any conventional way fake. It took a long time for Joelle even to start to put a finger on what gave her the howling fantods about Orin’s mother. The dinner itself — no turkey; some politico-familial in-joke about no turkey on Thanksgiving — was delicious without being grandiose…. Avril directed every fourth comment to Joelle, to include her... Joelle noticed Avril also directed every fourth comment to Orin, Hal, and Mario, like a cycle of inclusion... Avril and Hal had a brief good-natured argument about whether the term circa could modify an interval or only a specific year... Hal and Avril hashed out whether misspoke was a bona fide word... In a fake Southern-belle accent that was clearly no jab at Joelle, more like a Scarlett O’Hara accent, Avril said she did declare that Albertan champagne always gave her ‘the vapors.’

Alright, so I'm joking with my friends that perhaps they need the services of a "house otter", to help them take care of things, but what am I supposed to make of this? Granted, in the same pronouncement billifer compares himself to Avril's son, "the insufferable Hal kid" on the same page, who seems fixated on the "freezing-temperature of platinum", but do I merit being called a character from a David Foster Wallace novel?

Over three months ago, I found and rented my place by the sea. Spacious, affordable, and comfortable for me and my things, I was pleased to move in and make it my own. There is a place for books and glasses, art and bed, desk and dining table, and all else I have brought with me. I can simply be.

My neighbors joking refer to the building, just a few hundred yards from the sea, as "Utopia". In a way, I believe them, with the tall tropical plants and vintage kidney pool, the cool breezes, and the beach and cliffs within walking distance.

So I served tea. Grateful to my wonderful friends, I held as a housewarming a "Mad Hatter Tea Party". No one was admitted without a hat--the more fancy or silly, the better! billifer, roysd, and others were there, as was the fabulous caprine, who won the silly hat award of an embroidered and beaded Captain Jack Sparrow pillow. (She also kindly arranged photos of whimsical headgear, which you may view online.) With assorted teas, and various cups and silver, desserts and finger sandwiches, and even tipple or two of sherry, everyone seemed to warm up to good company and conversation. I was truly happy to have each one there, as my friends mean so very much to me.

This summer was a time of moving and settling in, with much help and encouragement from my friends and family. I can honestly say, whether splashing around in the pool, selecting and arranging decor, or enjoying a quiet cup of tea with a friend, that I have been content.

Yet as my neighbors said, "Utopia" tongue-in-cheek, not all is well after summering on the Point. Change at work and other opportunities presented themselves, and now I am seriously considering whether I would want to have my own business. I would be doing what I have done for more than the last seven years, designing, just under different circumstances. That I would consider this pleases me, as once I would not have had the confidence to do this, especially during a time of change. I can only hope that I don't get sick of my new apartment! We will have to see.

And soon it will be time to have another fancy tea, just in time for Halloween. I hope to invite more of my friends this time--the dress code has yet to be announced!

In the tenth century, Lady Murasaki wrote her long tale of the Japanese court, with exquisite detail and sophistication--from parties held to observe the flowering of wisteria or plum trees, the subtle hand of a lady in her brush calligraphy of the still recent hiragana, the layering of silks and the arrangement of all things pleasing. Sei Shonagon in her pillow book wrote of some things that were just as pleasing, and some some less so, but she revealed to us an Heian aristocracy that was indeed as concerned with poetry and ideals as Lady Murasaki would lead us to believe. She illustrates for us a world not merely of manners and style, but of delicate, varied emotions. The contemplation of trees in foliage or bloom was often an opportunity not merely for aesthetic rapture, but melancholy.

The elegant chapters of the Tale of Genji are rife with quotations of and illusions to the ubiquitous tanka, poetry created or recited for just about anything. Memory linked moments to commonly known poems, drawing from a pool of aesthetic references, cultural nuances that might express what the speaker otherwise may be reluctant to express directly. Sorrow, joy, and desire are among things that Murasaki reveals in her characters, through careful details that shade human experience. Her long scroll was about more than delight over fine Chinese paper or cherry boughs. The pathos and awareness of the complexity of life surprised me for a text a thousand years old.

As I write this, I can see the silhouette of trees outside the windows of my room. The image of their green spring leaves is at the moment a memory of just an few hours. I have gazed at these trees over many seasons, and have composed poetry, both good and bad, while considering them. The view has become very familiar to me.

Several years ago I returned to my parent's house, and occupied an almost tree-house-like room surrounded by branches. What was to be a temporary arrangement stretched into four years. Now the opportunity to venture back into the wider world has become appealing to me and, happily, also quite feasible.

Yet I hazard to suggest that I understood some of the sorrows and hesitation, the longing and rapture felt the fictional ladies and men in Murasaki's long tale, and all their hours near or in gardens, passed in delight or somber memory. I can't help but think of these things as I make preparations to leave, to relate the poetic to the actual. One character became known as "handsome pillar" in the tale after she clung to a great post in her childhood home, as she was leaving for the last time; other ladies mourned leaving where they had lived, whether to go to court, to marry, or to retire.

It is not easy to leave the familiar; it is not easy to let go of your garden.

For your musical delectation, please view the following Bach performances. The first is by a Russian performer on an instrument for which my friend Ricardo holds special affection, the accordion:

Vitaly Dmitriev performing Fuga in d-moll BWV 565

Besides the generally frightful nature of experiencing a grand Bach organ piece rendered on an accordion, you have to realize he's actually correctly playing all four parts with just his right hand for the keyboards, and his left hand for the pedals! (And for full camp effect, you can off course also view the accompanying Toccata in d-moll, if you dare).

Perhaps you've suffered enough chamber music you want to scream, or want to chuck that bust of a constipated Bach out of the window after one too many PBS/KPBS/ExcellencyOne membership drives. So I was somewhat surprised to find a student at my alma mater, University of California, San Diego, recording some Bach relief—a one-person performance of a four-part Bach piece, frightful for its own sake:

"Baaaaaaaaaaach," William Zauscher

Though separated by continents and very different styles, both performers seem to have similar stage mannerisms and facial expressions, though I'd say Dmitriev has a touch more composure. (Yes, Zauscher goes to UCSD, as evidenced by his website www.wzauscher.com)

In Loving Memory of

Maude Myrtle McGregor

Born: August 12, 1925
Protem, Missouri

Entered into Rest: October 24, 2006
San Diego, California

"May the road rise to meet you.
May the wind be always
at your back.
May the sun shine
warm upon your face.
The rains fall soft
upon your fields and,
until we meet again
may God hold you
in the palm of his hand."
-- Traditional Irish Blessing

Today I attended the services for my great aunt, Maud Myrtle Hackett McGregor at El Camino Memorial Park, San Diego, California.

Sometimes you wake up in a dream. And sometimes, you wake up and get ready for your day in a dream. So that’s what I did, and went to work for my former employer, without realizing that I no longer worked there.

The company offices were transformed from a non-descript building in an office park into the estate of a Japanese feudal lord. My boss and his family looked surprisingly good in period kimonos, and seemed pleased to see me. I sat down to work at my desk, looking out at a gorgeous water garden with lilies, reeds, and stones. It wasn’t until mid-afternoon that I remembered that I wasn’t supposed to be there anymore.

I have been inspired by caprine 's “Weird Dream Channel” thread, and I so chose to remember the following dream:

I used to live by the sea, but somehow get thrown into prison. A large Scottish/Celtic family with mops of thick curly red and blond hair conspire to use magic to rescue me. Another friend, a young woman with dark eyes and long dark hair, finds an enchanted cauldron. One night, a water-born spell transports me through the whirling waters of the cauldron, which seem as powerful as the sea, bringing me back to thestown. Dark black night, rushing water.

I briefly hide at my parent’s house. Instead of being freaked out, my father gives me magic honey to spread on my hands to hide any traces that I might leave behind. I’m relieved but know I need to hide somewhere else.

Next the dream segues into a series of confrontations with either disguised demons or dark elves (who have a heck of a lot of magic—I’ve read one too many Mercedes Lackey books). Locations include: a surreal giant version of my bedroom that terminates in the beach; a public broadcasting station; and at a town-hall meeting in an alpine village. My allies include more than the Celtic family, some people that run a public television station but who also magically protect the city’s water supple. All together they look like a mix of attendees from a highland games and Burning Man.

The Celtic family disguise me as one of their sons, and plan a music festival in the mountains as a cover for safely relocating the Allies. The father of these erstwhile Scottish Van Trapps keeps running around shirtless, showing off his furry, hunky chest and beard. Even though my cover includes being engaged to the young woman with dark hair, she and I have a big crush on the Celtic daddy.

The unfriendly beings disguise themselves as human conservatives hell-bent on the public “good”— which of course means getting the way of those who actually do good. At town hall meeting, they try to wrench control of the festival away from my allies. They’re a persuasive lot—better funded, better organized, and, most importantly, more respectable looking. (Apparently the devil wears Brooks Brothers, not Prada.) We win by passing magic-spiked eggnog amongst the council members. Works better than hot spiced rum! Alas, I have forgotten all the campy dialog when the dark elf Republicans bitch and moan about Things Not Going As Planned.

A wind from an unexpected direction brings warm
and fragrant air. What flowers bloom up the coast?

I wrote the above couplet a year ago, musing on the pleasant possibilities unfolding after meeting a man from Northern California. He's a wonderful and delightful man, and I'm glad to still know him. The flowers, however, were a bit too far up the coast. 

I wrote it in a style inspired by couplets in the eleventh-century Japanese novel, The Tale of Genji. Reading that novel by Murasaki Shikibu or the Pillow Book of Sei Shonagon, you would think that Japanese aristocracy was virtually poetry-crazed, down from the Emperor and Empress to the servants of the middle-class. Such couplets were written not only for lovers, but for any occasion the writer wished to comment on. They also quoted or referenced songs and poems to convey emotion or relate a moment to a larger cultural pattern

That sentiment seems appropriate for our age of blogging, to start this live journal, in a time when the wind is bringing a lot new possibilities into my life.