There is a black cat sitting in the kitchen, looking through the fan and then back at me, this new person in its home. I don’t remember this cat’s name and so whenever there is the urge to call it, to make it move from where I need to drop something, I say kitty. I am the interloper in its space, a new addition it is developing comfort with, looking at mildly suspiciously.
I came here because it is quiet, because there are wood floors, because there is a block party on Grand Street in which salsa music is being blared from gigantic speakers, being blared so loud that it fills every corner of my house with noise, which, though pleasant at first, prevents any type of thinking, particularly the type of thought that necessitates quiet, the type I want to be doing, from happening. And so here I sit, on this nice wooden floor, watching this cat watch me, attempting to think through these things, doing that and writing and looking for employment.
The changes of the past month, planning a move from one apartment to another, drama with friends created by that move, and the end of my short stint at one job and back into the world of being unemployed, have provoked questions about these changes and the broader framework of my life that these are only a small part of, making me wonder about exactly what various things mean to me, the ideas of home and friendship specifically, but following from that the ideas of happiness, security, and a sense of comfort, and how I had been achieving these things in the past and how I would like to achieve these things in the future. Throw into that mix a general anxiety about my future with respect to employment and making money each month to pay rent, thinking of how this is a worry that will occupy me until I die and how I should at this point in my life take more seriously this concern and come up with a long-term solution to it that would satisfy both my needs for money and my desire to feel utilized in a fashion that I enjoy. Circling that, and actually of even more concern to me, is how I am to live a life of meaning and creativity, of how I am going to (finally, yes, finally) take seriously my desire to be a writer, to live a life in which writing plays the central role, where it will become the thing to which I am most committed – that in this I will now pin my happiness, security, and sense of comfort on, that it is far more stable, and something for which only I can be responsible for.
There is so much to be had in this life, so many things possible, and all it takes is both an enthusiasm toward these things and the actual will and self-discipline to pursue them. There are so many pleasures and - a pleasure in itself - there are hardwood floors to sit on as you contemplate them.
Friday night, I got fairly drunk, went to some bar by the Williamsburg Bridge, a bar terribly named, and followed that by attending the Metropolitan. There, I asked Daniel if he wanted to come back to my house to play Scrabble. Daniel is a boy I have had a crush on for a couple years now. He came back to my house and we did not play Scrabble. Such a thing at near four in the morning and fairly drunk would have been a pretty terrible idea, and I had assumed that Daniel knew I had no intention of actually playing the game. Lying next to each other in my bed, still dressed, we talked about various things. At some point, a point before slight touches and advances had been made, Daniel said that a couple of years ago when he knew I had a crush on him, he had read my diary, this thing, looking for references to himself. He said he found none. I knew then that I would have to make some mention of this boy here, tell how thrilled I was to have this cute boy in my house, in my bedroom, in my bed. And so, I was thrilled to have this cute boy, Daniel, in my house, in my bedroom, in my bed.
Eventually touches were made, became more blatant, articles of clothing came off, and I kissed him and we rubbed bodies together. Typing rubbed, I think of rubbing, I think of lamps and genies, wonder if the rubbing of a lamp till a genie emerges is a sexual metaphor, can see very well how it could be, can also see how rubbing a dick until semen emerges can produce, and often times does for me, a genie of sorts.
The cat is now half asleep in the windowsill, its tail moving in circles, pleasant seeming.
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