The time has come to launch "a CLAY in THE LIFE". I've toyed with the idea of writing a blog for a few years and finally have convinced my inner self that it's okay, even if it's a little (okay, very) self-indulgent. Maybe I've just come across so much self-indulgence in the last few years on the part of others that I have decided to indulge myself. This blog will likely be one part bio, two parts musings, four parts ranting, and three parts nonsense until I find exactly what direction I want to take it . . . but here we go.
The one thing that this will NOT be is a 'Julie/Julia'-like rant filled with self-absorbed attempts to "therapize" myself. THAT is what a therapist is for and at the moment I don't think I have the need for one. YOU, reader (if there ever are any readers) may feel free to comment at any time if I am being delusional about this and I assure you - I am old enough and have enough insurance (to quote Kathy Bates character in "Fried Green Tomatoes") to get myself to a shrink.
Actually, I only recently glanced at the now infamous blog by the young woman, Julie, that was made into a movie by Nora Ephron starring, among others, Stanley Tucci and Meryl Streep. I loved the movie and especially loved the star performances. Meryl was, well, Meryl. She transformed herself once again into a person you couldn't imagine being believably portrayed by any living, working actor. And Stanley was, well, Stanley. He was flawless. You could feel the love shared between the two characters. It was a special pairing.
BUT I DIGRESS
So let this be my "Hi, how are you? I'm Clay" entry to "a CLAY in THE LIFE" (and I promise not to continue to use the title over and over in my postings, and certainly discontinue the use of the CAPS). A brief "this is who I am" now and more in later entries to fill in the blanks.
I am a single, admittedly gay man, working as an administrator (read – glorified secretary) to a notable (maybe even notorious) scientist, "α", in New York City. That alone says enough for now. So I clearly work at an university (is "an" correct?) and have worked for various institutions of higher education for about the last 16 years, except for an extended hiatus that may have ultimately been the beginning of the end of my then relationship.
A few years ago I started this job (more on that another time) and began to explore what options life would have for me. I decided to consider going back to school after an extended hiatus and applied to Columbia University's School for General Studies thinking, "Maybe it's time for me to leave Manhattan and consider a calmer life and leave the chaos of the city." So I decided things the way I usually do . . . if I do this and it happens I will go with it, and if not I will make a decision. So I applied to finish my bachelors - in a yet to be determined major - with the thought that I would never get accepted to Columbia so then I would have no reason to stay here and would have to decide where I wanted to live and what I could do for the rest of my life. My grandmother used to refer to those kinds of moments as "shit or get off the pot" moments. I threw my efforts into an application that I had little confidence in, wrote the requisite essay, applied to my "back up" school but didn't even finish that application. A little sabotage would force me to make a change when this all played out badly. Then I opened the envelope in my hand one day and low and behold the crazy admissions committee had accepted me. (fuck, now what?) A decision had been made for me and there was no reason to make any decisions. I was working for the university, accepted into a degree program, had a tuition waiver benefit, and a new chapter would soon begin. Oh, and I was fast approaching 50 years old. In fact, this blog will go up almost exactly 6 months before my 50th birthday. Okay, so maybe this is going to be somewhat therapeutic . . . we will see.
That letter arrived over two years ago and here I am today. I am working for α and taking classes part time a couple nights a week. I moved out of the apartment that I had shared with "C", my partner who I had been with for almost ten years. I was subletting a furnished apartment from a friend who was on tour with "The Jersey Boys" and hoping that there was reconciliation in our future. There was not. And now more than two years later I have moved into an apartment that I share with "Z" (more on that later) in Manhattan's East Village. It is a far cooler neighborhood than I admittedly should be living in . . . but if I tried to move to Brooklyn they would meet me as I exit the subway, confiscate my papers, and send me back across the river because I am certainly not cool enough to live there either. So I have slithered into the East Village unnoticed and am carving out my existence there, day by day. A Clay in the Life.
Cheers
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