Subtly standing.

So...

The interwebs has decided to give the webmaster a hard time. There is some clearing out to do and some formatting issues to figure out with WP aka 'the platform of evil, version 2.0'. Plus, she is a pretty busy lady herself and personal blog maintenance comes fairly low on her priority list.

Determined to publish my idosyncracy come hell or high water, I have come up with 'Pentemporary'. Clever aint' I?

There's been a lot going on the last couple of weeks, but now that my stage managing gig is up, I finally have some free time. To just...chill. (so this is where my long ass entry was about actors and ego, but that's just wrong. I'll save that for another way)

So here's what I was thinking today; what is the nature of guilt? I mean, does guilt actually exist if we don't create it?

For example, there is a birthday party over the pond (and I mean, the Bay) that I'm currently not attending. It's for a guy in the cast, Hob, that has been very sweet to all of us. He commuted to SF from Vallejo for the show for Christ's sake. He came to see ST in the Mission...in the rain...at 10pm...with flowers. He's a great actor, amazing graphic artist (you should see the kick ass posters he made) and all around great person.

and I'm being a douche and not at his b-day party. Even though I told him last night I would be there. And I was an even bigger douche, and called him at 6pm...when his party was starting...to tell him I wouldn't be there...but happy birthday. It's not even a good reason for not being there. It's the fact that today's Sunday. And work is tomorrow.

Vallejo to SF: 1hr 15 min. + traffic (x25)
SF to Berkeley: 30 min. + traffic (x1)

After hanging up the phone, I felt this intense wash of guilt sort of just take over. Clenching in the gut, tightening the back of the neck. A cold creep. The need for some sort of absolution. To confess in a little booth to a guy wearing a white collar. See, I'm a big believer in karma. That what I do today will affect what happens to me tomorrow. Three fold.

But here is what it true; I would have stayed for roughly 45 minutes before wanting to get the hell home and jump into a pair of jammies. I would have stayed about 1-1/2 hrs. to be 'polite'. I would have used 1/8 tank of gas. The 'social intercourse' face would have had to stay on for that time. (and she uses approximately 3x the amount of energy that 'crankypants' face or 'lazyass' face does) and most of my store of 'outgoing' had been used up earlier in the day.

These are all excuses of course. What else is true is that JammyPenny was so much more attractive than PartyPenny. But JammyPenny also has to accept her serving of guilt. The attempt at feeling not guilty was tried for roughly 1/2 an hour before the need to blog crept in.

So I'm not asking for absolution from you kind reader. But whether or not guilt exists because we make it so. Paris Hilton wouldn't care about missing a birthday party. But I'm not Paris Hilton. Is guilt then created by who we want ourselves to be and what standards we hold ourselves to? Or is is socially wired into our bodies in order to not fall into a chasm of chaos?

Hmmm...

**********
I saw him yesterday. On the loveliest day in a while. Bright, breezy, warm. At the entrance to Trader Joe's of all things. A flash of green track jacket catches my eye and suddenly, he is there. We hug, but I try to be brief. The body remembers all too well, the feeling of another solid underneath. He is still sweet and I still lose all time when I am with him. Mr. Jones has filled his cart by the time he finds us, my basket still swinging freely on my arm-free of any item. I am so determined that my father and his parents will connect in some way. Mr. Jones is busy shopping to the point of bemused detachment(I literally roll my eyes cause I think he's being rude) and his parents are on the lookout for tapenade.
They leave, and it is all over too soon. I want to grab him and talk to him for three hours. Want to leave with him, hand in hand and find his mother the perfect olive mushy spread to eat with baguette. (He of course has no idea what it is) But we hug; he is off to Arizona next week for a competition. And I ask myself, do you still feel the same way about this man? The guy who is shopping aimlessly with his parents and wants to show you the back of his throat and tell you his digestive stories?
I can only tell you, I take another 15 minutes frantically pacing the aisles, endorphin levels racing, looking for an appropriate appetizer and end up with nothing.

My father and I walk back to the car in the bright sunshine,
and everything is alright.