Wednesday, November 25, 9:10 a.m.

My point of view comes from looking away from peoples' faces, staring at ground. My creativity is the result of not being able to give myself, the things I have, to anyone else. Would to God I could simply be bored by other people. It's rarely the case.

Saturday, October 17, 11:54 p.m.

Just deleted my YouTube account, and Facebook. Oh dear. [regrettable move]

Friday, October 16, 11:43 a.m.

Men give me erections; women fill me with emotion.

Friday, October 9, 4:45 p.m.

Today was that golden October day I have been waiting for. I'm a summer person, but I do look forward to this handful of warm, colorful days in October. But they're handed out like bonus checks.

Monday, September 14, 8:32 a.m.

Time to stop drinking again!

I hate not drinking. Not drinking is like taking a long car trip and forgetting to bring the music. Nothing is as rich, as soft, as warm, as funny, or as sad when you're sober. Life is boring enough ... who needs to be sober in it?

Ugh. Lord I hate this! Drinking is the last thing to go. I gave up smoking (I miss it every day), I gave up loving (it expired, really, like a costly antibiotic), and I've given up cooking and eating. I live on cracked wheat, brown rice, and green fucking vegetables. Now my beloved wine has to go. No more hearing the mermaids sing ...

Then, I suppose, follows death. Whatever.

Monday, September 7, 6:28 p.m.

It's a miserable feeling to be out-classed. Whenever possible, treat someone else with more class than they treat you. At some less obvious level, you'll have won the round, even if you "lost."

Monday, September 7, 11:12 a.m.

Lately, the emotion I experience most frequently is just embarrassment.

Tuesday, September 1, 9:36 a.m.

In high school you could always sit with a few people who had a bad attitude, performing a lurid and surprisingly talented mockery of the teacher, or making jokes about the content or purpose of the presentation.

God I miss that. When did grown-ups suddenly all start having such good attitudes about everything? Am I the only one left who doesn't buy the bullshit coming from the front of the class?

Wednesday, August 26, 10:21 a.m.

Cup after cup of black coffee every morning, and glasses of wine all evening long.

[The following entries are from a rather full and substantially less lonely era in my life; it was a good summer full of people, events, and reunions.]

Tuesday, August 25, 6:00 p.m.

It has taken me 50 years to understand anything about interpersonal relations. But one of the small things I figured out is that one gets remarkable results by treating another person as if he or she possessed all the subtlety, all the intelligence that you yourself have (or like to think that you have). This is especially important if you suspect the opposite to be true of the individual. Though it forms the very basis of artistic expression, sadly first impressions are quite often wrong.

Speak to the person across from you as if he were Ghandi, or Vladimir Horowitz, or Lillian Hellman.

Thursday, August 20, 5:49 p.m.

It would seem that in the presence of a really good idea, not something you think is merely artistic or nifty, but a truly strong idea with all its associated work and insight and genuine humility and care (and even perhaps prayer) ... that even accidents work in your favor. It gathers everything to it. Everything works with it, within it. The idea moves forward toward success on its own.

Friday, August 14, 11:39 a.m.

The 1920s stage actress Laurette Taylor took a long absence from working after her husband died:

The person who had the greatest influence on my life was Hartley Manners ... and when he died it completely threw me.  I lost my religion and went in for the longest wake in history ... I began drinking harder and harder, and it was only my success in "Outward Bound" that finally pulled me out of it.  Then along came this blessed "Glass Menagerie" and I knew I was all right—and that I would be forever.

Cruise the web as much as I might, I've never found anything that comes closer to describing my situation after my mother died in 2002. I think that loss might be one of those cases in which the cause and effect was obvious to an outsider, but not at all to me. It was made worse when, a year later, I learned the secret my mother had kept from me for 42 years - my father's suicide. The fact is my whole life opened up after she died, like an old police file or somebody's stashed-away collection of porn. Everything came to light just at the time when there was no longer anyone alive who could answer questions (or soften the blow of facts). The story was finally ending, and it felt like it was going to take me with it.

Wednesday, August 12, 3:16 p.m.

A few awkward exchanges on Facebook and, in general, a tendency lately to say too much have caused me to seriously re-evaluate this, my "black blog." Am I jeopardizing friendships by maintaining this page of reckless honesty?

I began this in the summer of 2007, when both my much-loved uncle and another good friend had suddenly died. I believed only Internet strangers or, more likely, no one, would read it. It was my private chalkboard, upon which I could write the terrible (and, occasionally, delightful) things I feel. Anyone who glances at me knows at once that life has been awful for me. Yet my writing here says, Worse than you know ...

For years I've wanted either an easygoing therapist or an open-minded priest; neither was ever at hand. I have never felt the motivation of suicide; very ironic, if you know my family history. Yet, with humor and grace - and a certain quality of myopic but elegant subjectivity - I continue to live among others. The computer has brought new friends and old acquaintances.

For a confession to have any function it must be heard. Like a great fuck, the more anonymous the correspondent, the better. That is basically the theory of art behind this writing, this page. In my twenties, my life took place at night. It suited me, I think, more than I understood at the time, when what I thought I wanted was supportive monogamy ... that illusion of "love."

What I really want is to learn how to be happy. And I haven't figured it out yet. The process itself, like a demonstration in chemistry or the refining of metal, produces waste - byproducts of another, more catalytic activity. Occasionally I've got to say something that condenses my honest confusion and resentment about life. I need to call myself a loser and risk having someone hear me. I'm not sure why.

I may, at some point in my life, almost believe that other people are not unlike me, similar in their fear and longing. That's the secret of being with others, isn't it? An attitude of generosity. And even if I am never able to perceive the extent of my own weaknesses in others, perhaps I can forgive them for having lived so richly, easily, and well.

Or, I can just continue to invent some alternative narrative of satisfaction for myself. The creativity of it suits me.

Saturday, August 8, 12:13 p.m.

Does anybody get "chills" anymore? I was just watching something on YouTube and it gave me a chill ... down my back, or at my sides or something.

That's what I've always wanted to do with my life: once or twice, I want to write or paint, or maybe just say, something so consummately, with such power and sincerity of emotion, that I give someone chills. And if I missed the big ticket items in life - the summer-long vacations and loving friendships and real estate - well ... I was never tall enough for that role anyway. I didn't have the shoulders for those shirts.

Saturday, July 25, 11:27 p.m.

[deleted]

Friday, July 10, 11:23 a.m.

I'm at my best when I take all this nervous energy, all this glorious junk inside, and apply it to something objective, something completely outside of myself. That's the winning combination. That starts the camp fire up every time. Stand back!

Wednesday, July 8, 6:02 p.m.

It's humiliating - it's pathetic - to be the sister or daughter or brother of a celebrity. Think of Lee Radziwill, or Lorna Luft. It's better to just deny it, or keep it a secret. [Pretty much my plan for the rest of my life.]

Thursday, June 25, 9:33 a.m.

I'll live with a serial killer before I live by myself. That's also my philosophy about marriage.

Sunday, June 21, 10:19 a.m.

For many years my heroine was Garbo. It is now Madonna.

Monday, June 15, 10:58 a.m.

All the Internet-based communication, delightful as it is, simply reinforces hierarchical, personality-based socializing. It doesn't matter what you say, foolish or brilliant. And, we get it that you're talented. You're not [Steve].

That's the take-home message of the web.

Tuesday, June 9, 8:33 a.m.

I'm obsessed with filmmaking. I can't believe that in my late forties I discovered something "new" to do. Now, I can't watch a movie without oohing and awwing at the technical display. As I watch the parade of images on screen, mentally I'm studying the effects and groupings. I'm learning without any conscious effort to do so. And somehow no one (outside of L.A.) has come along to ruin it for me. My secret isn't out, although I observe my influence on YouTube among those who have watched my videos. I raised the bar, and I smile to observe the effects now and then.

And to those who read this page from time to time, my dark diary of bitterness and confusion, you have no idea of my joy when these ideas strike, when I am hard at work, under the influence of a powerful idea. I wouldn't trade my head for anyone's, then.

Saturday, June 6, 11:15 a.m.

For everything I've written, I've suppressed or deleted twice the amount. I want so much to give myself to others, to say everything. I have such a talent for explanation. But experience has taught me to stay scarce. Like an awkward Garbo, I keep my distance in the hope it will lend value to me in others' eyes.

Only in the last handful of years have I learned to like myself independantly of the C minuses I always seem to get from others. What is it that makes some people so loved and admired? Who gives a shit, really? What I want to know is, How are the rest of us supposed to live? The ones who really want your attention.

Later that day, 6:33 p.m.

I thought I could live without my body, but I was wrong. I must try to repair the damage I've done.

Friday, May 29, 10:36 a.m.

Sometimes I feel so angry, so bitter, that I never had a career in the arts.

At other times, I am so glad I never had a career in the arts. [It's true. I would have flopped at a career as a writer or artist.]

Sunday, May 24, 10:26 a.m.

Finally, I may be ready to concede that I am not "better" at 50 than I was at 35. Just as at 20 we are desperate to be adult, to be taken seriously, so in maturity we are desperate to believe that life has enriched us, deepened us -- like wine. Yet I will say that I do feel more level-headed, that I am kinder to myself, more respectful. I feel more profound as an artist.

But, at the piano, I take in new pieces less instantly. My capacity for being transported, infatuated, by ideas and images is dissolving, and I cannot move myself into great changes, now.

No, in aging I have only adjusted to a new landscape, to the unresponsive equipment at hand. Just like I did 25 years ago, I am simply defining myself against the circumstances that prevail.

Life is accommodation.

Wednesday, May 20, 10:28 a.m.

Always find new things to occupy your attention, however briefly the intellectual infatuation may last. This, really, is living. I recall my obsessions as happy times, busy little breaks from my memories.

Thursday, May 14, 10:18 a.m.

Thought about doing some major writing ... autobiographical sketches, the personalities, the angle of the light, the sound of the glove compartment door closing on my mother's 1967 Mustang, etc. Sadly, I realize I only remember those odd moments that fed my fears. I can't recall what was really happening around me, only what made me feel more scared, more insecure, more isolated, etc.

You only get my attention if you hurt me. Swell.

Wednesday, May 6, 6:21 p.m.

I've said the last, I think, about my family. [wrong!]

It wasn't all sentimentality. I can easily recall the unkindnesses. Indifference is the opposite of love, and I got a lot of that as a boy. But at a certain point in my life, after they were gone, I was able to see the drama, the personalities, with a beautiful and sad clarity. They are such a part of me.

But my life is my "art," nothing else. My childhood, my twenties, filled with people who were better than me: stronger, more beautiful ... and so young. It was a wonderful time, better than today.

I'm at my best when I simply describe what I saw, nothing more (or less) than the truth. Artful only by being sincere.

Friday, May 1, 4:12 p.m.

I know how alcoholics die.

They cry themselves to death. [Two of the best sentences I ever wrote.]

Tuesday, April 14, 1:30 p.m.

There are few states of anxiety that cannot be calmed substantially by the slow simmering, stretched across an entire afternoon, of homemade chicken broth.

Tuesday, April 14, 9:06 a.m.

Old songs and old pictures can make me sad, but looking at a map of a once familiar terrain - a park in which I walked for hours one afternoon just a few short years ago - is devastating. Unexpectedly, it is the terrain that holds all the sweet, sensual regret of memory.

Friday, April 3, 6:45 p.m.

Don't bother asking for less, thinking that by doing so you will be granted it. If you are denied, it is never because you asked for too much. That has nothing to do with it.

Ask for the moon. You deserve it. [This entry prompted a terrible response, from an enemy.]

Thursday, March 25, 9:35 a.m.

I need some inspiration. I need someone to convince me (all over again) how chic it is to eat very little, to avoid being drunk, to hold on to my looks and stretch them across another decade. I think I can do it. I think I have another couple of lives inside me. I may flirt yet once more (God, I miss flirting!).

It's my heart that can never again be refitted.

Thursday, March 19, 5:37 p.m.

Tea is the only thing that comes close to wine. I drink a lot of tea, my pots always prepared from the loose leaves (of course). My favorite tea is Formosa Oolong, the traditional taste of which is really no longer produced, despite the name used for the available blends today. But I love the fishy, warm taste of Japanese tea and the spicy cigar flavour of Chinese Gunpowder. I love Keemun and Darjeeling teas.

I had explored tobacco in the same way, but it has been many years since I smoked and I've forgotten what I knew.

Sunday, March 15, 11:32 a.m.

The blackest moods, the most suffocating and difficult moments, come when I am faced with how little an impression I have made on others. How forgettable I was. Pitiable, sometimes. Always appearing in a crowd with a thousand unanswered questions and intimate difficulties painted across my face. Too busy wrestling with my own pain to join the game. This status alone is enough to make me want to stop living. But I must be myself, I must finish this life. And anyway I have been happy, "highly diverted" as they'd say in a Jane Austen movie, as long as I have avoided thinking about other people. Like the Auden poem, my suffering has always taken place against the background of their light laughter and easy socializing. [This has to be balanced with brief periods in my life, with special relationships, in which I have been regarded as an artistic hero, as someone extraordinary.]

Friday, February 27, 9:37 a.m.

In love and friendship, I have always been a passenger; I have never driven. I have been chosen, and I have had some wonderful rides, but it was another person's fantasy. The few occasions when I chose and acted, my authority, my bravado, didn't stretch.

I have always wanted someone "smaller" than me to love, to be stronger than. But invariably it is me who is the child, who lives within a world provided for me by another. My personality has adopted the role, finally, comprehensively, and I never allow shape to my own desires.

Wednesday, February 25, 7:56 p.m.

A sentence, of course, is like a musical phrase, each of the words having a different meaning for each passing year, each new singer who takes the stage.

Those alcoholics that always say, "I am [so many years] sober ..." Now I see, within a phrase popping with utilitarian shorthand, the word sober. It is just that: not so much not drinking as being, all through the hours, entirely sober.

That's what odd.

Friday, February 13, 11:56 p.m.

(Withdrawn.)

Friday, January 30, 5:21 p.m.

I see every beautiful woman I've ever known in Greta Garbo's face. She's like a kaleidoscope of femininity.

Friday, January 23, 3:51 p.m.

"You're difficult ... but you're worth the effort." My beloved Uncle Deale's assessment of me. [How I miss him.]

Wednesday, January 14, 5:42 p.m.

Nothing ever happens. You dream, fantasize about the ones you care for, the situations you hope for, but all remains out of reach, deaf to your heart. Fortunately, things happen that seem trivial at first, persistent faces turn up, that in a few years' time become your life.

If there is a God, and if he does care about individuals, these unexpected situations, these strangers, are his calling card. [Josh]

Saturday, January 10, 11:05 a.m.

Unable to use my computer for three weeks, I realized what an indispensable tool it has become these past few years. Since 2003 I have written a published memoir, written a handful of poems and a published essay, launched a website that now incorporates 29 image-rich html pages, and written and edited over 15 ambitious videos. That's a space of little over five years, beginning when I was 44.

My forties were hell. After a series of violent (and rather thrilling) physical transformations I lost my battle against overweight. As an intellectual and epicurean adventure, at 40 I bought my first bottles of good red wine. Today I face alcoholism, with its chronic hepatotoxicity and diabetes. And I lost the person who, oddly, perversely, turns out to have been my true partner in life.

Like the band on the deck of the Titanic, such sweet music came out of it all. Not since my twenties, when I was turning out canvases, had I felt myself as talented. For all the effort, the pleasure of doing good work, I received little attention. But in each case, it was of the right kind. From a songwriter in New Jersey to a portrait artist in Spain, I have been paid a handful of educated compliments, which I breathed in like smoke from expensive tobacco.

Perhaps what I missed most in the last three weeks has been writing on this page. I have no other opportunty to be so entirely myself, for my life as I must live it is not true to my feelings: not true to my hatred, nor true to the depth of my love. Is anyone's?

Maybe my fifties will change that.