Sunday, February 20, 2005

I have fucked myself with one finger before but never two, and a new boundary has been crossed as of an hour ago, and maybe I'll do it with a dildo or even the real thing. Driving straight and fast through roadblock after roadblock, the scraps of wood and roadside signage flying over the hood of my car, me, laughing that way psychos do in movies, pressing harder and harder on the gas, in love with not so much the speed of it all, but the lack of care, the not holding back, farting in public because you are on a busy street, and no one will know, no one will hear it or smell it, and even so, no one will be able to trace the smell, so farting and speeding and stoned, this morning, naked in bed, putting a condom on my fingers, lubing it up, and soon having two fingers up my ass. Because there is that pedal there, and so once you press on the gas pedal, you are not sure that it is you driving yourself forward because you feel the lurch of the engine and feel that forwardness, will trace its source in the car and not yourself, that something else, something outside of yourself is the thing pushing you forward. It is okay to be reckless, someone else is pushing you fast into this moment. You are in the moment and it took no thought, no preparation, no pro con charts to get there, and so then when you are there, are in that moment, you have no footsteps to retrace (perhaps even in diary format), nothing to recall, no a plus b equals c, and suddenly you are on the c side of the equation and you don't know what a was or what b was, and so it was something else, the engine that pushed you forward, not your foot on the gas, but always, something else, otherwise, what would explain why you decide to fuck yourself at one in the afternoon on Sunday, or why you make out with five people at a bar. How do you, or how do I, end up in them? Even how do I end up eating a can of chickpeas as a meal? What spell are we under in boredom; whose control?

I was thinking somewhere along these lines last week when I was getting out of the York Street subway stop to go shoot some porn photos at some man's studio in Dumbo. Their is a tunnel you have to walk through from the subway tracks to the actual street exit. And it is so narrow, sci-fi spaceship like, birth canal like, and long - it is on a slight incline so that when you exit the station, you are ascending to something or away from something, and walking through this tunnel, a group of policeman, all in cinematic swagger were walking toward me, into the station, and they were all in step, so casual, and so looming, elevated as they were from my position in the tunnel. I walked past them, and walking along realized that I was walking to go do jack off photos and I didn't realize when it was that I so easily was able to decide this or to do these things without giving much, giving any thought to them, wondered if there was not some other thing propelling me, if there always isn't this thing. I think to a Cake chorus and it goes "Satan is my motor" and that is not what I am suggesting, but perhaps suggesting that I am a zombie lurching and lurching and never sure why. I wish I could claim it was for anything as noble as the hunger for human brains.

Peter left New York yesterday. I went over to his house in the afternoon, and got some things from him and we said good-bye in front of his apartment on S. 1st Street. We hugged and then he went west to meet his sister in Manhattan and I went east on the street toward my house. I thought of the symbolism of this as soon as we parted, how he is walking west toward California where he is moving. I looked back a couple of times, knowing that I was saying good-bye to a friendship, and though, I will still talk to Peter and will hopefully see him, this part of my life was leaving and I would never be as close to him again. I stood and watched him walk away in his orange coat, his winter cap that used to be mine, tote bag over his shoulder and thought about this same idea of human actions and how we propel ourselves or what it is that propels us, what was the force taking him to California, what was it that made me hop up and down in a bar at the sight of my crush, what was it that makes me stick fingers up my ass, you know? What is the thing? Erotic desire seems to play a part in some of these things, but that is too easy to say, too mid-twentieth century.

I sometimes wonder if it is something else driving us. I think this especially when I am in the middle of an action and don't know what led to it, how I got there.

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